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"I^^-M.
^9 f^eJ., /U4'
^
BLACKWOOD'S
MAGAZINE.
VOL. LXXXVI.
JULY— DECEMBER, 1859.
AMERICAN EDITION— VOLUME XLIX.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY LEONARD SCOTT & CO.,
BO. 79 rULTOK sniBBT, OOBKZR OF SOLD.
1869.
BLACKWOOD'S
MAGAZINE.
VOL. LXXXVI.
JULY— DECEMBER, 1859.
AMERICAN EDITION— VOLUME XLIX.
NEW YOEK:
PUBUSHED BY LEONARD SCOTT & CO.,
Ha 79 FTTLTOH STREET, CORITEB OF GOLD.
1869.
^9 f^^J., /U4'
2
Lord Maoavlay and the Mauacre of Glencoe.
[July,
that dark transaction. The mind is
insensibly drawn away from the
issue; indignation is aroosed, to be
directed saccessiyely at one subordi-
nate agent after another, until the
great and principal offender Las time
to escape, and the full torrent of in-
yective bursts on the guilty and
miserable head of one accomplice.
The brilliancy of the narrative
reminds us of the startling effects of
those scenic representations which
have given a distinctive character
to tbe Adelphi Theatre. At the end
of the piece the Demon stands con-
fessed in tJie person of the Master of
Stair; a thunderbolt whizzes across
the stage, and the Monster falls in a
blaze of red fire; Lord Macaulav, in
the garb of the Muse of History, leads
King William to the foot-ligbts to
receive absolution at the hands of the
pit, and we experience a confused
sensation mixed up of Bishop Bur-
nett and the Flying Dutchman, Lord
Haoaulay^s brilliant periods, Madame
Oeleste^s more brilliant eyea, her sil-
very ringing voice, and her graceful
figure most bewitchingly arrayed in
the Knickerbockers of Vanderdecken,
It is essential to a correct Judg-
ment upon tlie case to understand
distinctly the relation in which the
Glencoe men stood to tbe govern-
ment of William. The terms rebels,
marauders, thieves, banditti, mur-
derers, have been so freely and so
fraudulently used by hisU)rians and
political partisans, from the close of
the seventeenth century down even
to our own day, and such is the
effect of positive, reckless, and often-
repeated assertion, that some of our
readers may be disposed to smile in-
credulously when we state, as we do
most positively, that none of these
terms are justly applicable to the
Hacdonolds of Glenooe at the time of
the massacre.
In tbe summer of 1691, the war
which was being vigorously carried
on in Ireland was smouldering bat
not extinguished in Scotland. The
clans remained faithful to James,
but a year had elapsed since they hod
made any overt demonstration in his
favour. Colonel Hill, who com-
manded William^s garrison at Inver-
lochy, writing on tbe 12th of May
1691, says, ''The people hereabouts
have robbed none all this winter, bat
have been very peaceable and civil.^*^
On the 8d of June he writes to the Earl
of Melville, ''We are at present as
peaceable hereabouts as ever." t On
the 29th of July the Privy Oouocil
report that "the Highland rebels
have of late been very peaceable,
acting no hostilities."! On the
22d of August, Oolonel Hill writes
from Fort- William to Lord Raith,
*'This acquaints your Lordship that
we are here still in the same peace-
able condition that we have been
for more than a year pa8t."§ The
chiefs, indeed, only awaited the arri-
val of permission from St. Germains
to enable them to lay down their arms
without blemish to their honour or
taint upon their fidelity.
On tne 80th of June, a suspension of
arms was agreed upon, and a truce was
entered into in the following terms,
between the commander of the forces
of James, and the Earl of Breadalbane
on behalf of William ;—
" We, MAJor-General Buohan, Briga-
dier, and Sir Geo. Barclay, general offi-
cers of King James the Seventh his
forces within the kingdom of Scotland,
to testifie our aversion of shedding Chris-
tian blood, and y' we design to appear
good Scotsmen, and to wish y^ this no-
tion may be restored to its wonted and
happy peace, doe agree and consent
to a forebearance of all acts of Lostilitie
and depreda" to be committed upon the
subjects of this nation or England, un-
til the first day of October next ; pro-
Tiding that there be no acts of hostility
or depreda" committed upon any of the
Kings subjects, who have been or are
ingaffed in his service, under our com-
mand, either by sea or land ; we having
given all necessary orders to such as are
under our command to forbear acts of
hostility, by sea or land, until! the
afors^ tyme. — Subscribed at Aehallader
y 80th June 1691.
" Whereas the chieftains of dans have
given bonds not to eommit acts of hoi*
Ulity or depreda<> before the first day of
October next, upon the conditions con-
tained in the au' bonds ; and in regard
that the officers sent by King James to
command the s' chieftams have by one
* Hill to Tabbat, Highland Pt^tert, Maitland Club.
f Lewen and MtlvUU Papin, p. 617.
X Ibid.
§ Ibid., p. 648.
1859.]
Lard Ma/oaula/y and the Mauaere of Olmeoe.
unanimous conMnt in, their oonncil of
var agreed to the s' forbearance : There-
fore I, aa haTiDg warrant from King
William and Queen Hary to treat with
the foresaid Highlanders eoneeming the
peace of the kingdom, doe hereby cer-
tify y* the 8' officers and chieftains
hare signed a forbearance of acts of
hostilitie and depreda" till the first of
October next. Wherefore ifs most ne-
cessary, just« and reasonable, y* noe acts
of hostility by sea or land or depreda"
be committed upon the s' officers, or
any of their party whom they doe com*
mand, or upon the chieftains, or their
kinsmen, friends, tenneoto^ or followers^
till the for* first day of October.— 8ab-
Mftbed at Acballader the 80th day of
June 1691.— Bkaidalbins.'**
This docament is ooQclosive that
those who were in arms for James
in Scotland were legitimate belli-
gerentfi, enemies who might lawfUly
be shot down in battle, but who
might treat and be treated wit^, and
who were entitled to all those riffhts
which the laws of nations award to
an enemy.
Tbe treaty of Limerick was signed
on the 8d of October in the same
year. It will be admitted by every
one, that to have shot or hanged
Sarsfield as a rebel, would have been
an outrage as mnoh on the laws of
war as on those of homanity. It
served tbe interests of those who
desired to shield the perpetrators of
an infamous crime from opprobrium,
to call Maodonald of Qlenooe a rebel
He was as mncb a rebel as Sars-
field was, and no more ; in both cases
the distinction is broad and clear
broad and clear, that we should
have supposed it impossible for any
one honestly to be blind to it Nei-
ther Sarsfield nor Glencoe had ever
owned the authority of William.
Aa k>ng as James was in arms to
defend bis crown, as lonx as subjects
'Who had never owned anv other
aHegiiEtnce flocked round his stan-
dard, so long were those subjects
entitled to all the rights which the
laws of war concede to enemies.
Cotemporaneously with the signa-
ture of the treaty we have referred
to, negotiations for a permanent pa-
cification were going on. Colonel
Hill, in one of the' letters we have
already quoted, says, *^Tbe Appin
and Qlencoe men have desired they
may go in to my Lord Argyle, be-
cause he is their superior, and I have
set them a short day to do it in.''t
The Privy Oonncil in the next mouth
report that tbe Highlands had of
late been very peaceable, that many
had accepted the oath from Colonel
Hill, *' never to rise in arms against
their Kigesties dr the Qovemment,'^)
and that others were living quietly
and peaceably.
We have been thus precise in onr
statement of the position of the High*
land adherents oSf James during the
summer and autumn of 1691 for the
pur(X)se of siiowing, by the best pos-
sible testimony — that of the civil and
military servants of William— that
there was nothing to provoke or ex-
cuse any measure of severity; that
the war, though not extinguished, was
suspended, and that the conduct of
the Highlanders^ considering the un-
settled state of the oountrv, was sin-
gularly peaceful and orderly.
Immediately after the signature
of the treaty, the Eari of Breadal-
bane invited the heads of the clans
to a meeting at Acballader, with
the view of arranging a final cessa-
tion of hostilittes.§ Amongst others,
Glencoe was invited, and obeyed the
summons. Iiord Macaulay attempts
with great ingenuity to depreciate
the position held by Glencoe amongst
his brother chiefs. It is true that
the fighting men who owned his com-
mand did not exceed one-fourth of
the number of those who, at the
summons of the fiery cross, flocked
together to obey the behests of
Loohiel or Glengarry; but he com-
manded half as many as Keppoch,
and a number equal to the haughty
chief of Barra^ who boasted that he
was the fourteenth Roderick McNeill
• OuUoden Paper*, p. 18.
4 Xetwn and MeivilU Papen, p. 607, June 1691. t ^><^* ^^^7 29, 1691.
g Acballader was a house of the Earl of Breadalbane, situate near the north-
eastern end of Ix>oh Tallich, in the neighbourhood of the shooting-Mge of the
present Marquis, and of the famous deer forest of tbe Black HonnU It was on the
opposite side of the lake to the present Inn of In?«roran, a place probably well
known to many of our readers^
Lord Maetmlaff and the Mdmacre ^ OUtuoe.
[July,
who bad reigned in nninterrapted
snocession from father to Bon over
his island kingdom, and who handed
down that patriarohal sway to onr
own time.*
Mnch of the inflnenoe oi Gleneoe
was doe to his personal character.
^^ He was a person of great integrity,
honour, good nature, and oonrage.
He was strong, actire, and of the
laiigest size; much loved by his
neighbour*, and blameless in his oon-
dact.*'t Snob is the character of
Gleneoe, drawn by the biographer of
Loohiel.
It is by no means improbable, how-
ever, that amongst the tribe of which
he was the head, there were some
who felt little somple in possessing
themselves of the nocks and herds
of hostile clans, and who, as Lord
Macanlay remarks, as little thonght
themselves thieves for doing so as
^* the Raleighs and Drakes considered
themselves thieves when they divided
the cargoes of Spanish galleons. ''|
Fends had been of frequent occur-
rence between' tiie Glenooe men and
the neighbouring clansmen of Bread-
albane. An ancient antipathy, deep-
ened by political differences, ezbted
between the Maodonalds and that
branch of the Campbells. Bread-
albane, either forgetful for the mo-
ment of the important business he
had in hand, or, which appears more
probable, desirous to pick a quarrel
and prevent an amicable settlement
with one whom he hoped to be able
to crush, if he could nnd a plausible
excuse for doing so, reproached
Gleneoe *^ about some cows that the
Earl alleged were stolen from his
men by Glencoe's men."§ Gleneoe
left Acballader in anger, as Bread-
albone probably intended he should,
and returned with his two sons to his
patriarchal home. He knew the
malice of Breadalbane; but the truce
was not to expire until October, and
till then, at least, he and those for
whose safety he was responsible were
secure.
Lord Kacauk^, with some philo-
logical assumption, introduces his
description of the glen by telling his
readers that "in 2ie Gaelic tongue
^Gleneoe* signifies the Glen of Weep-
ing." It signifies no such thing.
According to the simplest and most
apparent derivation, it signifies the
Glen of the Dogs, " con " being the
genitive plural of " cti,'^ a dog. Had
Lord Haoaulay's knowledge of Gaelic
been sufficient to tell him this, he
would probably have urged it as con-
clusive proof of the estimation in
which the inhabitants were held.
But in fact the name signifies no
more than the Valley of the Conn or
* The following dooumeat shows the proportionate Btrength of the clans at this
time : —
" We, Lord James Murray, Pat Stewart of Ballechan, Sir John M'Lean, Sir
Donald M'Donald, Sir Ewen Cameron,Glengarrie, Benbecula, Sir Alexander M'Leaa
Appin, Enveray, Keppoeh,G]encoe,Strowan, Calochele, Lieut-Col. M*Greffor, Bara,
Larg, M'NaughtoD, do hereby bind and oblige oarseLves^ for his Majesty\B service,
and oar own safeties to meet at the day of Sept next,
and brinff along with ua fencible men, that_ia to say-
Lord James Murray and ^
BalleohaD,
Sir John M'Lean,
Sir Donald McDonald,
Sir Ewen Cameron,
Glengarrie,
Benbeeala,
Sir Alex. M'Lean,
Appin,
But in ease any of the rebels shall assault or attack any of the above-named persons
betwixt the date hereof and the first day of rendezvous, we do all solemnly promise
to assist one another to the utmost of our power, — as witness these presents signed
by us, at the Castle of Blair, the dith Aug. leSd." (Here follow the signatures.)—
BBOWini*8 StMimy of th$ Ghm^ vol il p. 188.
jr Mtmoi9B of Loekiel, 82L X Vol. iii. p. 807.
g See the very plain and simple acoount ffiven in the depositions of John and
Alexander M'laa, 18 JSUaU JHaU, p. 897 ; and Lord Maeaulay's pieturesqus para-
phrase, vol iv. p. 193.
and
Euveray,
100
Keppoch,
100
200
Lieut-Col M'Gregor, .
100
C '
200
Calochele,
. . 50
200
Strowan,
60
200
Bara,
60
200
Gleneoe,
60
100
M'Naughton,
60
100
Larg. .
60
1869.]
Lord MaeatUajf and the Masaaore of GUmob,
OoQft,* that being the name which
the stream flowing throagh it bears
in ooimnon with many other rirers in
Scotland, derived either from the
Scotch fir, or from the common moss
which covers tbe valley, both of which
bear the name of ** cona." The word
which signifies lamentation or weep-
ing, is the unmanageable oomponnd
of letters " caoidh," which probably
wonld be qnlte as great an enigma to
Lord Macaalay as the mystical M.O.
A.I. was to Malvolio.
His pictnre of Qlencoe is painted
Willi the historian^s usual brilliancy^
and his osnal fidelity. It bears the
same relation to tbe place itself as Mr.
Obarles Kean^s scenery at the Prin-
ceases Theatre does to Harflenr, Agin-
conrt, orEastcheap. We have seen
the glen in the extremes of weather;
we have been drenched and scorched
in it. We have wmnff rivers out of
our plaid, and we have knelt down to
suck up through parched lips the tiny
rivulets that trickled over the rocks.
We therefore consider ourselves enti-
tled to criticise Lord Macaulay's de-
scription.
Lord Macaulay says: **In truth,
that pass is the most dreary and
melancholy of all Scottish passes —
the very valley of the shadow of
death Mile after mile
tbe traveller looks in vain for the
smoke of one hut, for one human
form wrapp.ed in a plaid, and listens
in vain for the bark of a shepherd's
dog or the bleat of a lamb : the only
sound that indicates life is the feint
cry of a bird of prey from some storm-
beaten pinnacle of rock.'*t The reader
must not 8np{)ose that this (exag-
gerated description of the desolation
of Glencoe is without an object, or
that it is due only to the pleasure
which Lord Macaulay feels In soaring
on the powerful wings of his imagi-
nation. We shall presently see that
in the most studied and ingenious
manner be seeks to diminish the feel-
ing of sympathy for the Macdonalds,
by showing tliat they were ^^ ban-
ditti," "thieves," "robbers," "free-
booters," " ruffians," " marauders who
in any well-governed country would
have been hanged Uiirty years be-
fore,"t and by this means gradually to
lead to the oondndon that i^ was the
cruelty and treachery which accom-
panied the execution of the order for
their " extirpation" whi<^ constitutes
the crime, and not the giving of tilie
order itself.
The Macdonalds, he infers, muH
have been thieves-4ione6t men could
not have existed in such a wilder-
ness ; and accordingly in the next
page he says that "the wilderness
itself was valued on account of the
shelter which itf afforded to the
plunderer and his plunder." Now,
from the entrance to the glen down
to its termination at the village of
Inveroo is about ax miles, and in
this distance there is at least one
farmhouse— if our memory serves
us correctly, there are two, and
several cottages ; so that if Lord
Macaulay looked in vain for the
smoke of a hut, it must have been
because at that moment the fires
were not lighted. As to not hearing
the bark of a dog or the bleat of a
lamb, at our last visit we were almost
deafened by both, for Glencoe is a
sheep-walk occupied by that well-
known sportsman and agricoltnrist,
Mr. Campbell of Monzie, one of whose
deer-forests it immediately adjoins,
and who, on the occasion we refer to,
was superintending in person the
gathering of ,his flocks Irom the
mountains, preparatory to starting
for Falkirk. At the lower end (the
scene of the massacre) tbe glen ex-
pands, and forms a considerable plain
of arable and pasture land, where tbe
reapers were busy gathering in the
harvest in the fields round the vil-
lage, which still stands surrounded
by flourishing trees on the same spot
where it stood in 1692, and where
it is marked under the name of In-
nerooan upon Yisscher^s map of Scot-
land, publisbed at Amsterdam in
1700, — pretty good proof that it was
not then a very inooDsiderable place.
A mile or two farther on, Looh Leven
glittere^ in the setting sun, round
the island buriid-place of the M^Ians,
where the murdered chieftain sleeps
with his Others. The chink of ham-
mers sounded from the busy slate-
* See Sir John Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, vol i p. 486.
t VoL iv. p. 191. t Vol iv. p. 203.
Lofrd Maemulaf and the Manoere ^ GUnwe,
[jQjr
qaarries of Mr. Stewart of Ballaeh-
nlish, and in the distance the wood
of Lettermore (the Bceoe of another
fool ontrage,) stretched forward to-
ward the hroad waters of the Linnhe
Loch.
If Lord Macanlay had taid that
the Paas of Gleocoe excels all others
in Scotland in stern beauty, he wotdd,
as far as onr knowledge goes, hare
Baid what was perfectly correct ; bat
we know many passes far more ^^ de-
solate and melancholy," none grander,
hot many ^^ sadder" and ^ more
awful." The pass from Loch Eishorn
to Applecross is more awftd and more
desolate ; the head of Loch Torridon
is more dreary ; and even Glen Rosa
in Arran is more destltnte of the
signs of haman habitation. Many
others will occar to the mind of any
one whose steps have wandered oat
of the beaten track of cockney tour-
ists. Sach is Glenooe at the present
day. It was described not long after
the massacre by the author of the
Memairi of Sir Evan Cameron of
Lochid in the following words : —
*'The eonnftry of Glenooe is, as it
were, the mouth or inlet iuto Lochaber
from the souih, and the inhabitants are
the first we meet with that appeared
unanimously for Kinff James. They are
separated from Breadalbaae on thesouth
by a large desert^ and from Lochaber
by an arm of the sea on tUe north ; on
the east and west it is covered by
high, rugged, and rocky mountains, al-
most perpendicular, rising like a wall on
each side of a beautiful valley ^ where the
inhoHtante rmd#/**
Jost midway between the time of
tho massacre and the present day,
we have the testimony of another
perfectly competent witness to its
state. Mrs. Grant of Laggan, at that
time a girl of piueteen, was residing
with her father, who was barrack-
master at Fort-Angustus. She was
distantly connected with tlie family
of Glencoe, and the granddaughters
of the chief himself of that day, who
had been carried off to the hills by
hiB nnrae on the night of the mas-
sacre, when he was an infant of two
years old, had been her schoolfellows.
She writes in May 1778, ftom Fort-
William, speaks of an inyitation she
bad reoeiyed from her schoolfellow to
visit her at Glencoe, and then pro-
ceeds as follows:—
'* Gleneoe she has often described to
me as rery singular in its appearanee and
situation ; — a glen so narrow, so warm^
so fertile, so OTerhung by mountains
which seem to meet i»>ove you — vith
sides so shrubby and wooilyl — the
haunt of roes and numberless small birds.
" They told me it was unequalled for
the chorus of 'wood-notes wild* that
resounded from every side. The sea is
so near that its roar is heard and its
productions abound ; it was alwajw ao-
oounted (for its narrow bounds) a place
of great pUniy and eeeurityJ* f
Lord Macanlay mast have seen this
description, for he alludes to the letter
in a contemptaotts note.^ in which
be sars that Mrs. Grant's account of
the massacre is ^^ grossly incorrect,^'S
and that she makes a mistake of
two yean as to the date. Mrs.
Grant's acoonnt of the massacre is
just what we might expect from a
girl deeply imbued with the OsBianio
furor, writing from tradition withoat
eyen the pretence of historical acca-
racy. It is curious, boweyer, that
Lord Macanlay imports into his
History the must improbable incident
that she relates — ^namely, that ^' the
hereditary bard of the tribe took his
seat on a rook which overhung the
place of slaughter, and ponred forth
a long lament oyer his murdere<l
brethren and his desolate home."
Mrs. Grant^s bard bears too evident
a likeness to the gentleman of the
same profession who sat
" On a rook, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming
flood,"
and committed suicide in its ^ roar-
ing tide," to be acknowledged as an
historical personage. Her mistake
as to time, which Lord Maoaulay
•condemns so harshly, is a mistake of
six weeks — ^not, as he asserts, of two
years. She says the massacre took
place during the festivities of Ohrist^
mas : it occurred, in fact^ on the
* Memoirs ofZochiel, Maitiand Club, p. 816.
\ Letierefiom the Mountaine, vol. L p. GO.
X Vol ly. p. 218.
g YoL iv. p. 218.
1859.]
Lord Maoautoff and the MatM&rs of Gleneoe.
18th of Febrnary. Kotwithstanding
these inaocDracies, Mrs. Grant is a
perfectly good witness as to what the
state of the glen was in her time;
and any one who visits it now, pn-
1q88 he is a coekney boxed up ioside
the '' Rob Roy,'* eomnolent from the
effieot of the eoaoh dinner at Tyn-
dmm, or nnaoeostomed potations of
toddy at King's House, will see much
to confirm the correctness of her de-
scription. Two mistakes we must
guard him against. The site of the
house of Acbtriaten, abont half-way
down the glen, is pointed ont by
some as the f^oene of the massacre.
Achtriaten himself was murdered —
not, however, in his own houiie, bat
in that of Ills brother at Auchnaion.*
Others, better informed as to the
localities, state that a mined gable,
still standing, formed part of Gleneoe's
house : it very possibly occupies the
same site as the house of the chief,
which was burned on the night of
the massacre ; but the date and mo-
nogram, upon a stone inserted under
one of the windows, show that it was
probably the house of John Macdon-
ald, the eldest son and successor of
the chief^ rebuilt on his return to the
glen after his father's murder.
We copied the inscription faithfully,
as it appeared in 1857.
We must now leave Glencoe for the
present in his mountain home, and
Breadalbane proceeding with his ne-
gotiations with the other chiefs. An-
other actor comes upon the stage —
the Master of Stair — according to
Lord Hacaulay, ^Uhe most politic,
the most eloquent, the most power-
ful of Scottish statesmen," »* the ori-
ginal author of the massacre^'' Uie
"single mind" from whom all the
" numerous instruments employed in
the work of death," " directly or indi-
rectly, received their impulse," the
^^ one offender who towered high above
the crowd of offenders, pre-eminent in
parts, knowledge, rank, and power;"
the ^^ one victim demanded by justice
in return for many victims immolated
by treachery,"t Such is Lord Ma-
caulay^s Jndgn>ent. We are not
about to dispute the Justice of the
sentence which consigns the Master
of Stair to eternal execration ; but
it is the duty of the historian to mete
out with an unsparing hand the
judgment of posterity to all ; and it
IS not by heaping upon one head the
punishment due to many that the
claims of justice are satisfied.
It is difficult, in dealing with the
memory of a man whose crimes eiz-
cite such just indignation as do those
committed bv the Master of Stair, to
gird one's-self up to the duty of say-
ing, that of part of that which he has
been charged with he was not guilty.
Black as he was, he was not so
black as he has been painted. Lord
Macaulay dooms him frem the first
to be the Demon of the piece. He
is the lago of the tragedy, ^^more
deep damned than Prince Lucifer,"
no " fiend in hell so ugly ;" and ac-
cordingly Lord Macaulay suppresses
every particle of evidence whidi
tends In the slightest degree to light-
en the load of guilt It is not plea-
sant to discharge the duty of deviPs
advocate, but we shall lay this evi-
dence before the reader : when all is
done, the Master of Stair will remain
quite black enough to satisfy any
moderate amateur of villains.
Lord Macaulay introduces him to
the reader in the following passage : —
"The Master of Stair was one of the
first men of his time, a jurist, a states-
man, a fine scholar, an eloquent orator.
His polished manners ana lively con-
versation were the delight of aristocrati-
oal societies ; and none who met him in
such societies would have thoaght it pos-
sible that he could bear the chief part in
any atrocious crime. His political prin-
ciples were lax, yet not more lax than
those of most Scotch politicians of that
age. Cruelty had never been imputed
• JJeport, p. 21.
f Maoaulat, voL iv. p. 198, 6'3f8, 680.
8
Lord MaeauUuy and the Mauacre 0/ GUneot,
[July,
to him. Thoee who most disliked him did
him the jnstice to own that, where his
schemes of policy were not concerned,
he was a very good-natared man. There
is not the slightest reason to believe that
he gained a single pound Scots by the
act which has covered his name with in-
famy. He had no personal reason to wish
the Glencoe men rlL There had been
no fend between them and his &mi]y.
His property lay in a district where their
tartan was never seen. Tet he hated
them with a hatred as fierce and implno-
able as if they had laid waste his fields,
bnmed his mansion, murdered his child
in the cradle.'* . . .—{Vol. iv. p. 198.J
"He was well read in history, ana
doubtless knew how great rulers had, ia
his own and other countries, dealt with
such banditti. He doubtless knew with
what energy and what severity James
the Fifth had pat down the moss-troop-
en of the Border ; how the chief of Hen-
derlaad had been hang over the gate of
the coatle in whieh he had prepared a
banquet for the king : how John Arm-
strong and his thirty-six horsemen, when
they came forth to welcome their sove-
reign, had scarcely been allowed time to
say a single prayer before they were all
tied up ana turned off. Nor probably
was the Secretary ignorant of the means
by which Sixtus the Fifth had cleared
the ecclesiastical state of outlaws. Hie
eulogists of that great pontiff tell us that
there was one formidable gang which
could not be dislodged from a strong-
hold among the Apennines. Beasts of
burden were therefore loaded with poi-
soned food and wine, and sent by a road
which ran close to the fastness. The
robbers sallied forth, seized the prey,
feasted and died ; and the pious old pope
exulted greatly when he heard that tne
corpses of thirty ruffians, who had been
the terror of many peaceful villages, had
been found lying among the mules and
packages. Ihe plans of the Master of
Stair were conceived in the spirit of
James and of Sixtus ; and the rebellion
of the mountaineers furnished what
seemed to be an excellent opportunity
for oarryinff those plans into effect.
Mere rebellion, indeed, he could have
easily pardoned. On Jacobites, as Ja-
cobites, he never showed any inclination
to bear hard. He hated the Highlanders,
not as enemies of this or that dynasty,
but as enemies of law, of industry, and
of trade. In his private correspondence
he applied to them the short ana terrible
form of words in which the implacable
Roman pronounced the doom of Car-
thage. Uis project was no less than this,
that the whole hiU-ooontry from sea to
sea^ and the neighbouring islands, ahonld
be wasted with fire and sword ; that the
Cameronsy the Macleans^ and all the
branches of the race 'of Macdonalds^
should be rooted out. He tlierefore
looked with no friendly eye on schemes
of reconciliation, and, while others were
hoping that a little money would set
everything right, hinted very intelligibly
his opinion that whatever money was to
belaid out on the clans would be best laid
out in the form of bullets and bayonets.
To the last moment he continued to
flatter himself that the rebels would
be obstinate, and would thus furnish
him with a plea for accomplishing that
great social revolution on which his
heart was set. The letter is still extant
in which he directed the commander of
the forces in Scotland how to act, if the
Jacobite chiefs should not come in
before tlje end of December. There is
something strangely terrible in the
calmness and conciseness with which
the instructions were given. *Your
troops will destroy entirely the country
of Lochaber, Looheil's lands, Eeppoch's,
Glengarry's, and Glencoe's. Your power
shall be large enough. I hope the sol-
diers will not trouble the Government
with prisoners."* — (VoL iv. p. 202.)
*' His design was to butcher the whole
race of thieves — the whole damnable
race. Such was the languase in which
his hatred vented itself. He studied
the geography of the wild country which
surrounded Glencoe, and made his
arrangements with infernal skilL If
possible, the blow must be quick, and
crushing, and altogether unexpected.
But if Maclan should apprehend oanger,
and should attempt to take refuge in
the territories of his neighbours, he
must find every road barred. The pass
of Rannoch must be secured. The
Laird of Weems, who was powerful in
Strath Tay, must be told that, if he
* That the plan originally framed by the Master of Stair was such as I have
represented it^ is clear from parts of his letters which are quoted in the report of
16 V5 ; and from his letters to Breadalbane of October 27, December 2, and Decem-
ber 8, 1691. Of these letters to Breadalbane, the last two are in Dalrymple's
Appendix. The first is in the appendix to the first volume of Mr. Burton's valu-
able Hiitvry of Scotland " It appeared," says Burnett (iL 167), ^ that a black
design was laid, not only to cut off the men of Glencoe, but a great many more
dans, reckoned id be in all above six thousand persona." — Note hy Lord Macaulay^
I860.]
Lord Mtuauiap and th0 Mamacre of Gleneoe.
lurboiiTS the ontUws, he does m «t his
periL Breedalbene promised to oat off
the retreat of the fagitires on one side,
HaoCellum More on another. It was
forttmate, the Secretary wrote, that it
was winter. TUs was the time to maid
the wretehea. The nights were so long,
the monntaiu-tops so eold and stormy,
that eren the hardiest men could not
long bear exposure to the open air with-
out a roof or a spark of fire. That the
women and the children oonld find
shelter in the desert was quite impos-
sible. While he wrote thus, no thought
that he was committing a great wicked-
ness crossed his mind, lie was happy
in the approbation of his own conscience.
Duty, justice, nay, charity and mercy,
were the names under which he dis-
guised his cruelty; nor is it by any
means improbable that the disguise im-
posed upon himself*
Much of this brilliftnt passage is
true. But we distinctly deny that
the Master of Stair " looked with no
friendly eye on schemes of reconcilia-
tion." On the contrary, the cor-
respondence which Lord Macaulay
suppresses shows distinctly that for
months tlie Master of ^tair was
most aoti?e and argent in promoting
schemes of reconciliation, by negotia-
tion, by threats, by money; and it
was not until all these means had
fidled that be gave in to Breadal-
bane's " scheme fdt mauling them,"
— ^a scheme, which Lord Macaulay
most unjustifiably attributes not to
the Earl, to whom it belongs of right,
bnt to the Master of Stair,f who has
quite enough to answer for without
bearing any share of other men's
crimes.
It was upon the failure of the
negotiation that all the tiger broke
out in the disposition of the Master
of Stair; it was then, and not till
then, that be joined in the determina-
tion to " extirpate*' (for such was the
terrible word selected for the order
which William signed and coonter-
signed with his own hand) the whole
dan of M^Ian of Glencoe.
In June 1691 the Master of Stair
was with William in the Nether-
lands ; from thence he sent the follow-
ing ktter to theEari of Breadalbane:—
Staib to Loan Bbkadalbank.
*^From Uu Camp otApproboitL
" My Lord, — I can say nothing to you.
All things are as you wish, but I do
long to hear from you. By the King's
letter to the Council you will see he has
stopped all Hoatilitiea againti the High-
landers till he may hear from you, and
that your time be elapsed without
coming to some issue, which I do not
apprehend, for there will come nothing
to theuL .... But if they will be
mad, before Lammas, they will repent
it ; for the army will be allowed to go
into the Ilighlands, which some thirst
so much for, and the frigates will attack
them ; but / have so mneh confidence in
your conduct and capacity to let them see
the ground they stand on, that I think
these suppositions are vain. I have sent
your instmetaons. — My dear Lord,
adiea»'t
On the 24th of August he writes
again : —
*<KTXcons, Aug. 9i. O.S.^ 1C91.
'* The more I do consider our affairs,
I think it the more necessary that your
lordship do with all diligence post from
thenee.g and that you write to the
elans to meet you at £dinburg, to sare
vour trouble of going further. They
nave been for some time excluded from
that place, so they are fein, and will be
fond to come there.")
Stair to Bread alb ane.
** DsBsuf, Sept 80 [M], 1691.
" Mt Lord, — I had yours from Lon-
don signifying that you had not been
then despatched, for which I nm very
uneasy. I spoke immediately to the
King, that without money the High-
landers would never do ; and there have
been so many difficulties in the matter,
that a resolution to do, especially in
money matters^ would not satisfy. The
Ein^ said they were not presently to
receive it, which is true, but that he
had ordered it to be delivered out of
his treasury, so they need not fear in
the least performance; besides, the
paper being signed by his majesty s h^ind
for such sums so to be employed, or
their equivalent There wants
no endeavours to render you suspicious
to the King, but he asked what* proof
there was for the information f ana bid
him tell you to go on in your busi-
ness ; the best evidence of sincerity was
the bringing that matter quickly to a
eonelusum. . . . I hope yowr lord-
♦ Vol.iv.p20e. + Ibid.
§ i. tf . from London.
Bal Ap., Pt. iL p. 210.
DaL Ap., Pt 11 p. 2ia
10
Lord Maeaulajf and the Ma$mwt» qf GlmeoA,
[Wy,
ship will not <mfy kmp them from giving
«My ii^9nct^ hmi bring them to take ike
alUgtance, vkieh they ought to do very
cheerfully ; for their lives andfariunea
they have from their majestiea.^
StAIK to BnSADALBAinL
" London, Koo. S4, 1891.
" Mr LoBP, — .... I must say joor
cousin Locheil hath not been so wise as
I thought hira, not to roenUon grati-
tude ; for truly, to gratify your rela-
tive, / (^ comply to let hie share be
more than was reasonabU. There were
no pleas betvixt him %nd ^rgyle to be
bought in, and I well know Ac, nor Kep-
pochy nor Appin, cannot lie one night
safe in winter from the garrison ot Fort-
JVilliam^ I doubt not Glengarry* s hoiuse
will be a better mid-garrison betwixt In-
verness and Inoerlochy, than ever he will
be a good subject to this govemsnenL . .
"P.Sw — ^Though Locheil were as he
should have been, yet he mwtt to the
bargain dispone that tnoss that lies near-
est to Fort- Williatm for a place eon"
stantly to provide fewel to that garrison.*\
It 18 impossible to read these let-
ters witfaoat perceiving the strong
desire, on the part of the Master of
8tair, that the Highlands should be
pacified, if possible, by means of
negotiation. This desire comes ont
even more strongly in the next letter.
Leveo and Argyle*s rcgimeais, with two
more, would have been gone to Flan-
ders. Now, all stopsi, and no more
money from England to entertain them.
God knows whether the £12,000 eter-
ling had been better mployed to settle
the Highlands, or to ravage ihem ; bat
since we will make them desperate, I
think we should root them oat before
they can get that help they depend
upon.''§
Even then the Master of Statr did
not give np an hope. The following
letter, written the very next day,
contains so carions and valuable a
picture of bis state of mind that we
give it entire : —
StAOL to BaBADALB.UC&
*'Lovwm, Deosmber S, ISSl.
"Mt LonD,~The la«t post brought
datal letters from Glengarry, or from
his lady and Rorry, upon a message
Glengarry had sent to hmi to Edinbuig:
T^is halh fwmiahed him opportunity to
discourse t%e King on all these matters.
He tells me he hath vindicated you ;
only the share that the Mncdonalds get
18 too liule, and unequal to your good
eousinV | (really that's true) ; and he
would have the money given to Glen-
garrr, and leave Argyjeand him to deal
for the nlea. He thought his ahara had
been only £ 1 000 sterling. / Aara settia-
if
mingled with feelings of bitter vexa- ^ <*« ^'«"^ »* '***« points, that his
tion at the appro«5hing failure of the "^^"^ w /1 5oO st^rUng. yd that he nor
plans, and tlireatenings of the slonn no°«/f them can get the money if
which was about to burst in conse- W^ ^^^-'''iV ""l^^ ^^V^!^
qnence of his disappointment ^'^^^^ ^/"^ITT^^^
dTAim to BaaanALaASS. *.«,...«..
** Lovnoii, Doa % .lit 1.
** Mr LQiti>, — ^I shall not repeat m;
thoughts of your doited eousin.|
perceive halfnteiMe will f^ay a doable
earner but it requires solidity to en»-
brace an opportunity, which to him
will be lost for ever ; and the
'?
of Inveriochy is little worth, if he ^
either sleep m his own boonda, or if he
ever be master there^ / repent nothing
of the plan. .... Liemtenmnt-Colonel
Memilton^ Deputy Oovemor of Jnoer-
loeky, is m diatrset wmn ; yam mmy mats
Mse of Aon. I should be ^ad to iind,
before you get anY poative order, that
yov business is done, for shortly we
will eonelnde a resolution for the winter
campaign. ... I think the elan Don^
must be rooted out, and Locheil. Leave
the McLean's to AigylcL But [for] this,
feuds. To be brief, FU assure you that
I shall never consent anybody's med-
dling shall be so much regarded as to
get any of your terms altend. By the
next I expect to hear either that' these
people are come to your hand^ or else your
scheme for mamlin^ them ; for it will not
delay. On the next week the officers
wiU be despatched from this, with in-
structions to garrison lovergarvy, and
Bochaa^s regiment will join Leven,
which will be force enough ; they will
have petards and some cannon. lean
not changed as to the expediency of doing
things by the easiest means a»dat leisure,
but the madness of these people, and
th«ir ungratefulnees to you. makes me
plainly see there is no reckoning on
them: but detenda set Carthago. Yet
who haveaeeepted^and do take thsnathst
will be safe, out deserve no kindness;
« DaL Api, Pt iL p. 212. f I>^ ^^» ^^ "•> *»*.
% hodsml § DaL Api, Pt iL p. 214. _ | LoeheiL
1859.]
Lori Macaulay tmd ihs Mattaor^ ttf Qlmico$.
n
and even in that ease there must be
hostages of their nearest relations, for
there is no regarding raen*s words when
their interest cannot oblige. Menzies,
Glengarry, and all of them have written
letters and taken pains to make it be-
lieved that all you did was for the inte-
rest of King James. Therefore look on,
tmdyou »hall be eatUiUd of your revenae,
— Adieu;'»
Two tbiogs are dear from this cor*
respondence, —
Ist, That up to December tbe
Matter of Stair did everything in his
power to promote a peaoeable and
bloodless eettlemeat with the High-
land chieftains.
2d, That every step was comma-
nioated to William, and that so far
from having been, as Burnett and
Lord Macanlay repnisent hiti^t indif-
ferent and ignorant, be attended to
all the minutifld of the affair, down
even to the distribntion of a small
snm of money.
Strangely enough, the only two
passages in these letters to which
Lord Macaulay refers, are the scheme
for ^^ mauling,"' which he attribntes
to Stair instead of to Breadalbane^
and tbe ^* words in which the implaca-
ble Roman pronounced the doom of
Cartbage/'§ which he refers to without
quoting the sentence in which they
oocnr, and exactly reversing the
meaning of the passage. The Master
of Stair ezprss^ea regret that this
must occur, because other means had
fiiiled ; and on aooount of the madness
and inmtitttde of the Highlanders.
Lord Macaulay cites it as a proof of
hia implacable determination to de-
stroy tnem. A reference to the letter
shows at once the sense in which it
is used. We know nothing even in
Lord Macanlay ^6 History more unfair
than the suppression of these letters.
Lord Macaulay^s knowledge of which
is proved by the two instances in
which he misquotes them.
We left MUan at Glencoe protected
from the vindictiveness of Breadal-
bane by the treaty of tbe 80th of June.
In August a proclamation was issued
by the Qovemiuent, offering a free
indemnity and pardon to all High-
landers who had been in arms, upon
their coming in and taking the oath
of allegiance before the Istof January
following.l Breadalbane^s negotiation
failed, and he returned to court " to
give an account of his diligence and
to bring back the money. ^'T Such is
Burnett's account, and this b a point
upon which, from his connection with
William, he was likely to be well in-
formed, and (which is of quite equal
importance) it is one as to which he
does not appear to have hal any in-
terest in misstating tbe facts.
About the end of December, such
are the words of the Report, M'laii**
presented himself before Oolonel Hill
at Inverlochy, and desired that the
oath of allegiance should be admi-
nistered to him. Hill appears to
have considered that, as a milltarr
officer, he had no power to admi-
nister the oath. He, however, urged
his going without delay to Sir Oulin
Campbell of Ardkinlns, the sheriff-de-
Eute of Argyle, at Inverary, to whom
e gave him a letter urging Ardkin-
las to receive him ^^ as a lost sheep.^'tt
M^Ian hastened to Inverary with all
the speed that a country rough and
destitute of roads and a tempestuous
season would permit ; he crossed Loch
Leven within half a mile of his own
house, but did not even turn aside
to visit it As he passed Barcaldine,
which appears then to have been in
the possession of Breadslbane, he tt
was seized upon by Oantain Drum-
mond (of whom we shall hear more
presently), and detained twenty-four
hours. He arrived at Inverary on the
2d or 3d of January ; but here sgain
luck was against him, for Ardkinlas
(detained by the bad weather) did not
arrive until three days afterwards.
On the 6th of January, Arilkinlas,
after some scruple, and upon the
earnest solicitation of M'lan, admi-
nistered the oath.§§
M'lan returned to Glencoe, ^* called
'Dal App.,Pt.iip. 217.
+ BURMITT, 4, 164.
.... . . MAa, vol iv. p. 204.
t' The passage in tne letter leaves no doubt that the ''scheme for mauling
them** was Breadalbane's ; whether the brutal ezpresaioQ was his or Stair's is <S
little consequence.
8 Vol iv. p. 201. I Report, p. 14 T Buinctt, vol iv. p. 163.
*• Jiqwrt, p. 14. tt Ji^X"^^ tt R^P^^* P- 26- §§ Report, p. 16.
12
Lord Maeaulay and the Mauaere of Glencoe.
[July,
his people together, told them that
he had taken the oath of allegiance
and made his peace, and therefore
desired and engaged them to live
peaceably under King William's go-
vernment."* He considered that he
and his people were now safe. Ard-
kinlas forwarded a certificate that ^
Glencoe had taken the oath to Edin-
burgh, written on the same paper
with some certificates relating to
other persons. When the paper was
afterwards produced by the clerk of
the Council, Sir Gilbert Elliot, upon
the occasion of the inquiry which
took place some years afterwards,
the part relating to Glencoe was found
scored through and obliterated, but
so nevertheless that it was still legi-
ble. Lord Maeaulay attributes this,
as he attributes everything foul, to
the Master of Stair. " By a dark
intrigue," he says, "of which the
history is but imperfectly known,
but which was in all probability
directed by the Master of Stair, the
evidence of M'lan's tardy submission
was suppressed."t The circumstances
are set forth in the Report, and do
not appear to us to be shrouded in
much mystery. Ardkinlas forwarded
to his namesake, Oolin Campbell, the
sheriff- clerk of Argyle, who was in
Edinburgh at the time, along with
the certificates. Hill's letter to him-
self, urging that he should receive
"the lost sheep," and at the same
time wrote how earnest Glencoe was
to take the oath of allegiance — that
be had taken it on the 6th of January,
but that he (Ardkinlas) was doubtful
if the Council would receive it.J The
sherifiT-clerk took the certificate to
the clerks of the Council, Sir Gilbert
Elliot and Mr. David Moncrieff, who
refVised to receive it because the oath
WAS taken after the time had expired.
The sheriflT- clerk and a writer to
the Signet, another Campbell, then
applied to Lord Abeiruchill, also a
Campbell, who was a member of
the Privy Council, who, after ad-
vising with some otJier privy coun-
cillors, of whom, according to one ac-
count, Lord Stair,§ the* father of
the Master, was one, gave it as
their opinion that the certificate
could not be received with safety to
Ardkinlas or advantage to Glenooe,
without a warrant from the King. It
was therefore obliterated, ami in that
condition given in to the clerk of the
Council. But it did not appear that
the matter was brought before the
Council, "that their pleasure might
be known upon it, though it seemed
to have been intended by Ardkinlas,
who both wrote himself and sent
Colonel Hill's letter for to make
Glenooe's excuse, and desired ex-
pressly to know the Conncil's plea-
sure.''! There appears to be nothing
to connect the master of Stair, who
was in London at the time, with this
transaction ; indeed, bis letter of the
9th of January, in which he aays
"that they have bad an account that
Glencoe had taken the oaths at Inver-
aray,''T and regrets his being safef;
and that of the' 11th, in which he
says " that Argyle told him Glenooe
had not taken the oathe,"^ Eeem
conclusively to negative his having
had any correct knowledge of what
had taken place.
In the mean time, Breadalbane,
eager to satisfy old grudges, and the
Master of Stair, in whose mind dis-
appointment for the failure of his
scheme seems to have awakened a
feeling of ferocity, the intenseness of
which appears hardly compatible
with sanity, had determined upon
the destruction of the Glenooe men.
Burnett states that the proposal
for a military execution upon the
Glencoe men emanated from Bread&l-
bane; that he had the double view
of gratifying his own revenge, and
rendering the King hatefnl.ft If this
were so, he certainly attained both
objects. Here, however, we find no
• RtpoH, p. 18. t ^®L ^^- V- 208. t Report, p. 17.
§ Mr. Burton, in bis Etstory of Scotland, falls into a not UDnamral but rather
important mistake, which he will no doubt be glad to correct, between the father
and son, and states that the Maiier of Stair was consulted, Ac.
I Seport, p. 18. f Oal, Red, pp. 101, 104. •» Ibid
f f Bnunrrr, vol iv. p. 168.
1869.]
Lord Maeaulay and th& Masiocre of Oleneae.
13
gaide whom we oaQ safaly follow,
for Baniett'3 narrative, written long
after, and .with the manifest design
of ezcnsing William^ is full of in-
accnraoies and false statements. We
have, however, the fact as to which
there can he no douht whatever,
that the following order was signed
hy William on the 16th of Janoary
1692 :—
" IwsTBUOnONS FHOM THE ElNG 10
COLOMXL HILU'
\UkJam»ary,lWL
*• William R.— 1. The copy of that
paper given hy Maodonald of Aughtera
to yon hath heen shown ua. W« did
formerly grant pastes to Buohan and
CaoBOD, and we do aathorise and sllow
yon to grant passes to them^ and ten
servants to each of them, to come freely
and safely to Leith ; and from that to he
transported to the Netherlands before
the 16th of March next; to go from
thence when they please, without any
stop or trouble.
" 2. We do allow jou to receive the
submissions of Glengarry and those
with him, upon their taking the oath of
allegiance and delivering up the house
of Invergarry; to be safe as to their lives,
but as to their estates to depend. upon
our mersy.
** In case you find the boose of Inver-
garry cannot probably be taken in this
season of the year, with the artillery
and provisions you can bring there ; in
that case we leave it to your discretion
to give Oleogarry the assurance of entire
indemnity for nfe and fortune, upon
delivering of the house and arms, and
taking the oath of allegiance. In this
you are to act as yon find the circum-
stances of the amiir to require ; but it
were much better that those who have
not taken the benefit of our indemnity,
ia the terms within the diet prefizt by
oar proclamation, should be obliged to
render upon mercy* The taking the oath
of allegiance is indispensable, others
having already taken it.
" 4. If M'Ean of Glenco and that trybe
can be well separated from the rest, it
will be a proper vindication of the pub-
lic justice to extirpate that sect of
thieves. The double of these instruc-
tions 18 only communicated to Sir
Thomas Livingston.— W. Bkz.***
The advocates of William have
framed various defences for this act
Bomett saya he signed the order
without inqniry.t Lord Macanlay
sees, as every one mast, that it is
impossible to support this in the
face of the facts ; he therefore takes
the bolder course, and justifies the
order. He says that, " even on the
supposition that he read the order
to which he affixed his name, there
seems to be no reason for blaming
him^^ that the words of the order —
" Naturally bear a sense j>erfwtly tn-
fio«««i,'and would, but for the horrible
event which followed, have been univer-
sally understood in that sense. It is
undoubtedly one of the first duties of
every gov.ernment to extirpate gangs of
thieves. This does not mean that every
thief ought to be treacherously assassi-
nated in his sleep, or even 'that every
thief ought to be publicly executed
after a fair trial, but that everv gang,
as a gang, ought to be completely oroken
up, and that whatever severity is indis*
pensably neoessary for that end ought
to housed.
" If William had read and weighed
the words which were submitted to him
by his secretary, he would probably
have understood them to mean that
Glencoe was to be occupied by troops;
that resistance, if resistance were at-
tempted, was to be put down with a
strong hand ; that severe punishment
was to be inflicted on those leading mem-
bers of the clan who could be proved to
have been guilty of great crimes ; that
some aetiveyoung f^ebooters, who were
more used to handle the broadsword
than the plough, and who did not seem
likely to settle down into quiet labour-
ers, were to be sent to the army in the
Low Countries ; that others were to be
transported to the American plantations ;
and that those Macdonalds who were
suffered to remain in their native val-
ley were to be disarmed, and required
to give hostages for good behaviour."^
We can hardly suppose that Lord
Maoaulay intended his readers to
accept these transparent sophisms
as his deliberate opinion. We sus*
peot he is laughing in his sleeve at
the credulity of the public The only
charge against the Macdonalds was
that they had been in arms against
the Government, and had omitted
to take the oaths of allegiance be-
fore a specified day. There was no
question before William of any sup-
greasion of a ^* gang of freebooters."
There was no accusation even of
offences committed against life or
OuUod$n Papen, p. 19. f Buehmt, vol iv. p. 164. X Vol. iv. p. 205.
14
Lord Macdulay and the Matsaare of QU.ieoe.
{July,
property. Bat supposing there had
been snob a charge — supposing that
Breadalbane bad aoonsed certain in-
dividuals of the tribe of stealing
his cows, or even of firing his
house, does Lord Maoaulay mean
gravely to assert that such an aoca-
sation would have justified William,
without inquiry or trial, in tssuinff an
Qrder for the *^ extirpation " of three
hundred men, women, and oHildren,
simply for bearing the name and
owning the blood of the offenders.
Hardly a month passes without
worse offences than any the Glencoe
men had ever been accused of, be-
ing committed at the present time
in Ireland. What would Lord Mao-
aulay think of a government that
proceeded to ^^ extirpate *' by military
ezeontiou, without trial and without
warning, all the inhabitants of the
parish where a murder had been com-
mili^d, with particular instructions
^at the squire of the parish and his
sons should by no means be allowed
to escape?
If the . order is to be justified, as
Lord Hacanlay here attempts to jus-
tify it, as an act of the civil power
done in execution of ^^one of the
first duties of every government,^'
it should have been preceded by
the trial and conviction of the offen-
ders. It should have been addressed
not to the military governor of In-
▼erloohy, but to the Lord Advocate
or the sheriff-depute of the county.
The attempt to juntify the order
on the ground of its being a civil act
is therefore clearly untenable; and
Lord Macaalay himself subsequently
abandons it when he attempts to
justify William for not inflicting
punishment on the perpetrators of
the act^ on the grouna that they
were compelled to do it by the mili-
tary duty of obedience to their sn-
perior officers. If the subject was
less horrible, if the dnties of an his-
torian were less solemn, Lord Mac-
aulay^s attempt to introduce a new
meaning for the word "extirpate"
would be simply amusing. We are
anite satisfied to abide by the au-
lority of Johnson and of old Bailey
the v^xoguiyo^, who agree that it
means to ** root out," ** to destroy ;"
and we have no doubt WiDiam knew
enough of English to attach the
same meaning to the word.
This order, it will be observed, is
dated on the 16th of January. Few
&ot3 in history are proved by better
evidence than the fact (denied both -
by Burnett and Lord Maoanlay^) that
William, at the time he signed it,
knew that M^Ian had taken the
oath.
A reference to the Master of Stair^s
letters of the 25th of June, 2Pth of
September, and 8d of December, will
show, how minute an attention was
paid by the King to all that was
goang on in Scotumd with relatloa
to the clans. On the 9th of January,
the Master of Stair wrote from Lon-
don, where he was in constant ooin*
munication with William, — *• We
have an account that Lockart and
Macnaughten, Appin and Glenco,
took the benefit of the indemnity at
Inveraray ;" and, he adds, " I have
been with the King; he says your
instructions shall be despatched oa
Monday."! When we couple these
facts with the subsequent impunity
which William granted to all, and
the rewards he bestowed upon some
of those whb executed the order, we
think no reasonable doubt can be
entertained that he knew both the
fact that Glencoe had taken the oath
and the nature of the warrant he
gftve, though we do not think that
e contemplated (indeed it was hard-
ly possible he should) the peculiar
circumstances of treachery and bat^
barity which attended tJie execntion
of the order.
Most of the aoooonts of these
transactions give only the eondnd-
{ng paragraph of the order. The
whole of the document is materiaL
It contains internal evidence which
phices it beyond doubt that William
bad considered and approved of its
contents. The parUcular directions
as to the passes to be granted to
Buchaii and Oonnon, the instrno-
tions as to the line to be pursued
with regard to Glengarry, bear the
marks of having b^n under his
consideration ; and it is partioakurly
deserving of observation that it is
assumed that Glengarry and the
• BuRHnr, vol iv. p. 164 ; Mac, vol iv. pi 204. f ^^ JW, p. 101-104.
1669.] Lord Mceaulay and the Mamacn ^ GUneoe,
16
Maodonaldfl bad not taken the oath,
jet they were to be safe as to their
liyes, and in certain oircmnstanoes
as to their property also, whilst
Glenooe and the M'lane were to be
♦'extirpated." The only circam-
stance to distingnish Macdonald of
Glengarry from Maodonald of Glenooe
was, t)iat the former was at this
moment holding his castle in open
and avowed defiance to the (Govern-
ment, whilst the latter had taken the
oath of allegiance, and had brought
his people into a state of peaceful
sobmission to the Government. Yet
Lord Macaulay thinks that there is
*' no rcjison for blaming" the King
for signing an order to spare Glen-
garry and to "extirpate" Glenooe,
and that the order itself was " per-
fectly innocent."
The Master of Stair lost no time
in potting William*s commands into
execntion. He forwarded the order
forthwith in duplicate to Living-
stone, the commander of the forces,
and to Hill, the governor of the gar-
rison of Inverlochy ; and he wrote on
the 16th Janoary, the very day on
whioh the order was signed, the fol-
lowing letter to the former : —
BtAlB TO LiVlXGSTONl.
*'Lovi>OK, Jan, 16, 1091
''Sn^ — By this flying packet I send
you further instructioos coocerning the
propositioDs by Glengarry ; none know
what they are but only CoL Hill, ^
. . . Th$ King does not at all incline to
receive anv after the diet but on meretf,
4c . . . But for a just example of ven-
geance, I intreat that the thieving tribe
of Gleneo mav be rooted out in earnest
. . . Let me know whether you would
have me expede your commission as a
brigadier of the army in general, or if
you would rather want it till the end of
tktM eacpedilion ; thai 1 hope your tuceeu
may he eueh as to incline the King to give
yam afwtthet advaneement'* Ae,
He wrote on the same day to
Hill:—
*' I shall entreat you, that for a just
vepgeaooe and public example the
thieviog tribe of Oleaeo may be rooted
out to purpose. The EarU of Argyle
and BreadaibaBS have promised wey
shall have no retreat in their bounds.
The passes to Rannoch would be secured,
Ac. A party that may be posted in
Island Stalker must cut them off," Ac*
Again on the 80th of January he
wrote :— " . , . Let it be secret and
sadden. ... It must be qaietly
done, otherwise they will make shift
both for the men and their cattle.
Argyle's detachment lies in Eeppoch
wellt to assist the garrison to do all
on a sudden."}
Other letters from the Master of
Stair contain expressions even more
savage. In one of them he informa
Livingstone with exaltation that a
report had reached him, through
Arg)'Ie. that Glenooe had not taken
the oatn ; bat these whioh we have
quoted refer immediately and ex-
pressly to William's order for " extir*
pation" of the 16th of January.
Hill was a time-serving bat not
an* inhuman man. He had kept in
with every government sinoe ^he
Commonwealth, bat he had no nste
for anoeoeesary bloodshed, though
he had not mudiness or oonrage to
oppose the slaoghter. Ready agents
were, however, found in 8ir Thomas
Livingstone, Lieut. -Od. Hamilton,
Mcjor Duncanson, Captain Campbell
of Glenlyon, Captain Drummond,
and the two Lindsays. These names .
have been handed down to an im-
mortality of infamy, as the willing
and remorselees tools of the King, <^
Breadalbane, and the Master of Stair,
in the work of murder. On the 28d
of Janoaiy, immediatelv after the
receipt of the Master^s letter of the
16th, Sir Thomas Livingstone wrote
to Lieat-Col. Hamilton as follows : —
** Ei>onuiea, Jan. tt, 109i.
8x11, — Since my last 1 understand that
the Laird of Olenco, coming after the
prefizt time, was not admitted to take
the oath, lohich is very oood newe to ue
here, being tftat at Court it is wished thai
he had not taken it — so that the very
nest might be entirely ronted out ; for
the Secretary, in three of bis last letters^
has made mention of him, and it is
known at Court that he has not taken
it So, sir, here is a fair occasion to
show you that your garrison serves for
some use ; and being that the order i$ so
positive from Court to me not to spare
* Highland Papers, Maitland Club, p. 66.
!In other copies these words are *' m Lettrickwheel.**
Gal. Red, 102. Report, 80, 81.
18
Lard Maeaulay and the Mmaors of Gienooe.
tJ«iy,
finy of them that were not timeonaly
oome in, as you may see by the order*
I sent to your colonel, I dedre you
would begin with Glenco, and spare
nothing of what belongs lo them ; but
do not trouble the Government with pri'
toners, I nhall expect with the first
occasion to hear the progress you have
made in this, and remain, sir, your obe-
dient seryanf, T. Livingstoni."*
Hamilton lost no time.t Campbell
of Glenlyon was selected for the ser-
vice. On the Ist of February 1692
he entered the glen with his two sub-
altern?, Lieutenant and Ensign Lind-
say, and one hnndred and twenty
men. The story of the massacre has
been told in eloquent prose and in
impassioned verse, but never, in our
opinion, so vividly, so impressively,
as in the words of the Report of
1696 :—
" The slaughter of the Glenco men
was in this manner; viz., John and Alex-
ander Macdonnld, sons to the deceased
Oleoco, depone that, Glengarry's house
being reduced, the forces were called
back to the south, and Glenlyon, a cap-
tain of the Earl of Argyle*8 regioaent,
with Lieutenant Lindsay and Ensign
Lindsay, and six-score solaiers^ returned
to Glenco about the 1st of February
1692, where at their entry the elder bro-
ther John met them, with about twenty
men, and demanded the reason of their
coming, and Lieutenant Lindsay showed
him his orders for quartering there, un-
der Colonel Hiir» hand, and gave assur-
ance that they were only come to quar-
ter; whereupon they were billeted in
the country, and bad free quarters and
kind entertainment, living familiarly
with the people until the 13th day of
February. And Alexander further de-
pone^ that Glenlyon, being his wife's
uncle, came almost every day and took
his morning drink at his house; and
that the very night before the slaughter,
Glenlyon did play at cards in his own
quarten with both the brothers. And
John depones, that old Glenco, his fa-
ther, haa invited Glenlyon, Lieutenant
Lindsay, and Ensign Lindsay, to dine
with him upon the very day the slaugh-
ter happened."
Here we most break in npon the
narrative, and show how this 12th of
Febrnary. which was passed by Glen-
lyon in playing cards with the young
Macdonalds in his quarters, and re-
ceiving invitations from their firther,
was employed . by Hill, Hamaton,
and Duncanson. This will appear
from the following letters, all of
which are dated on that day : —
Col. Hill to LncuT.CoL. Hamiltok.
FoBT. WIXXI41K, 12C^ jFeb^ 1699^
"Sib,— -You are, with four hundred of
my regiment, and the four hundred of
my Lord Argyle's regiment under the
command of Major Duncanson, to march
straight to Glenco, and there put in ex-
ecution the orders you have received
from the Commander-in-Chief. Given
under my hand at Fort-William the
12th [Feb.] 1692. J. Hill."
LxxUT.-CoL. Hamilton to Major Robt.
DuNOANSOIf.
(?) t " bjlluchtlls, twi rtb^ legs.
" Sib, — ^Pursuant to the Gommander-in
Cliief and my colonel's order to me, for
putting in execution the King's com-
mand against these rebels of Glenco,
wherein you, with the party of the Earl
of Argyll's regiment under your com-
mand, are to be concerned : you are,
therefore, forth with to order your affairs
BO as that the several posts already as-
signed you be by you and your several
detachments fain in activeness precisely
by five of the clock to-morrow morning,
being Saturday ; at which time I will
endeavour the same witli those ap-
pointed from this regiment for the other
places. It will be most necessary you
secure well those avenues on the south
side, that the old fox, nor none of his
cubs, get away. The orders are, that
none be spared of the sword, nor the
Government troubled with prisoners;
which is all until I see you, from, air,
your most humble servant^
'* Jambs Hamilton.
"Please to order a guard to secure
the ferry and boats there; and the
boats must be all on this side the ferry
after your men are over."
Major BoBBST DuNOANRON to Captain'
RoBBBT Camfbbll of Gleulyons.
nth Feb. imt
"SiB, — You are hereby ordered to
fall upon the rebels, the Maodonalds of
•• Cfulloden Papers, 19.
f Just one hundred years after these events, in 1791, the opening of the roads
ana the establishment of posts are mentioned aa having had so great an effect that
*'a letter might come from Edinburgh to Appin in three days, or even two days
and a-half."— Sinclaib'b Statistical Account of the Highlands, vol. i. p. 497.
J " Fort William" in other copies, and apparently correct See the order in
the P.S. to h4ve the boats on this side to prevent the escape of the victimsi
1859]
Lord Ifaeaulay and the MtuMcre of Olencoe.
Oleneo, and put all to the sword under Innerriggen, where Qlenlyon waa «1^
•evenly. You are to have an especial tered; and that he founa Glenlyon *^^1^
care that the old fox and his sons do not his men preparing their arms, '**'*^^i.i.t.
escape your hands; you are to secure all made the deponent ask the cause ; ^&*
the atenues, that no man escape. This Glenlyon eave him only good '^^V^^^^t.
you are to put in execution at five of the and said they -were to tnarch *?^v»^>"
clock percisely; and by that time, or some of Glengarrie's men; and i* \^^.^^^
very shortly after it, I will strive to be were ill intended, would he not ^ ^;^ ^
at you with a stronger party. If I do told Sandy and hisniecef— meani^^^j^<- 1>
not come to you at five, you are not to deponent's brother and his wife — ^^^ &*^
tarry for me, but to fall on. This is by made the deponent go home ^**%^c^l> *^
the kiDg*8 special command, for the a^ain to his bed, until h is serv»tit»^ ^^^^ ^
good and safety of the country, that hindered him to sleep, roused hini 5 ^^^^€.
~ " when he rose and went out, he perc^^ '9:^1
these miscreants be cut off, root and
branch. See that this be put in execu-
tion without fear or favour, or you
may expect to be dealt with as one not
true to King or Government, nor a man
fit to carry commission in the King*s
service. Ehcpecting you will not failln \&*^
the fnlfilltng hereof, as ^ou love yourself were killed ; and that he ^c^**^^^ g^l 3^
— I suhecribe this wuh my hand at shots at Innerriggen, where ^ \«^1*
Ballychylls the 12th Feb. 1692. had caused to kill nine more, as ^'^^
"Robert Duncamson.- hereafter declared ; and this is con ^
We now ,.tnro to il-arrative of ^.^ii^^XSist^^^^^^^^
T"kp? ?^"'''^' ""l^^^^u "^"^f '"^ Yant waked out of sleep, saying. 1^^^^^ ^
which Glenlyon executed these orders. ^^^^ ^^^ ^, to be sleeping when ^^^^ \ »
**But on the 18th day of February, kilVine vour brother at the door * ^^:^%
..__..„..... .^ made^Alexander t« flee with biB m^^
to the hill, where both of V'zS^^ m
the forcsMd shots at Anchnaioo _ ^
about twenty men coming towa*^^^^^
house, with their bayonets fixed t^ '^^\
muskets ; whereupon he fled to tU ^^^ *
and having Auchnaion, a little ^^^^^^% * » ^
Glenco, in view, he heard the ,-gr> * • J
wherewith Auchintriaten and ^f**^^o ^*
1 ^
1^
being Saturday, about four or five in the
jnorning. Lieutenant Lindsay, with a
partv of the foresaid soldiers, came to
old (jrlenco's house, where, having called
in a friendly manner, and got in, they
shot his father dead, with several ahota,
as he was rising out of his bed; and
their mother having sot up and put oa
her clothes, the soldiers stripped her
naked, and drew the rings on her fin-
cers with their teeth ; as likeviae they
Killed one man more, and wounded an-
other grievously at the same place.
And this relation they say they had.
from their mother, and is confirmed \>y
the deposition of Archibald idacdonald,
indweller in Glenco, who farther de-
pones that Glenco was shot behind his
back with two shot»— one through the
head, and anothe^ through the body ;
and two more were killed with hiixi in
that place, and a third wounded and left
for dead: and this he knows, because lie
came that same day to Glenco house,
and saw his dead body lyings before tlio
door,with the other two that mrere killed,.
and spoke with the third that ^was
wounded, whose name was Duncan X>oDy
who came tliere occasionally ^with letters
from the Brae of Mar. .
*'Th«said John Macdonald, eldest son
to the deceased Glenco, depones i The
same morning that his father '^nr&s Icilled
there came soldiers to his hoase before
day, and called at his windo-w, iwUicli
gave him the alarm, and made hin» ^o to
▼OL. LXXXVL
nerriggen. And the said J o^^ ^
andefTand Archibald Macdonal^ ' t
depone, i^^at the same mo^-^^^
W-. one S«ne.i.t Barter "'tb ' _
ing there in W. ^">*«' * 5,° :& «" *
eiiht more sitUng about the ,
a^n and fonr "O" V.^^"* '"jea,
^.rtiereof •<>'"• ''"'Berber*'
down a. dead, 8«>?«" o«.er o»
toxxr, and •»*" "T, v„, aO* *"
He M»^««*..**l;thont Vath«e«C
^^r* ^Baf^^Sat for »^-
■within. B?'"^„ V,. •would do R
favour to »"" »'» T^ „„t, ancl *
^l,e man -"a. »'^°°f°him, he b* ^
Brought up to ol'^* ;i";heir f«^-
pJaid^looM.«»»K"°'*Jher thr*=
».hrougU the b»cK j^„,„igg^r»
escaped. *°° ^..-nered, t;li« _
took other nine me". „^ tHtrn
hand andfpo . ""y^hen Gl«"
one -with »bol. » o,ari c
dined to •»'*„{%. ""•^■P"'''
twenty year* o'»|'j,^^ be c-»
„ond came and «**»^.^ ^i
sckvedjinreap***"''
2
16
Lord Macaulay and the ManoAf of Gleneoe.
[July,
any of thwi that were not timeooaly
oom« in, m you mar tee by tbe orders
I sent to your colonel, I desire you
would begin with Glenco, and spare
nothing of what belongs lo them ; but
do not trouble the Oovemment with pri-
toners, I nhall expect with the nrst
occasion to hear the progress you have
made in this, and remain, sir, your obe-
dient servant, T. Liyirgstone.**
Hamilton lost no time.t Campbell
of Glenlyon Avas selected for the ser-
vice. On the Ist of February 1692
he entered the glen with his two sub*
altems, Lieutenant and £n!«ign Lind-
say, and one hundred and twenty
men. The story of the massacre has
been told in eloquent prose and in
impassioned verse, but never, in our
opinion, so vividly, so impressively,
na in the words of the Report of
1696 :—
" The slaughter of the Glenco men
was in this manner; viz., John and Alez-
and|r Macdonald, sons to the deceased
Glenco, depone that, Glengarry's house
being reduced, the forces were called
back to the south, and Glenlyon, a cap-
tain of the Earl of Argyle's regiment,
with Lieutenant Lindsav and Ensign
Lindsay, and six-score solaiers, returned
to Glenco about the 1st of February
1692, where at their entry the elder bro-
ther John met them, with about twenty
men, and demanded the reason of their
comins; and Lieutenant Lindsay showed
him his orders for quartering there, un-
i^er Colonel Hill's hand, and gave assur-
ance that they were only come to quar-
ter; whereupon they were billeted in
the country, and had free quarters and
kind entertainment, living familiarly
with the people until the 13th day of
February. And Alexander further de-
pones, that Glenlyon, being his wife's
uncle, came almost every day and took
his morning drink at his house; and
that the very nieht before the slaughter,
Glenlyon did play at cards in his own
quarters with both the brothers. And
John depones, that old Glenco, his fa-
ther, had invited Glenlyon, Lieutenant
Lindsay, and Ensign Lindsay, to dine
with him upon the very day the slaugh-
ter happened."
Here we most break in upon the
narrative, and show how this 12 th of
February, which was passed by Olen-
lyon in playing cards with the yonng
Macdooalds in his quarters, and re-
ceiving invitations from their father,
was employed . by Hill, Hamilton,
and Dnncanson. This will appear
from the following letters, ail of
which are dated on that day : —
Col. Hill to Lixut.Col. Hamilton.
FosT-WiuJ4iK, t%thFeb,, IBOa.
"Sra,*— You are, with four hundred of
my regiment, and the four hundred of
my Lord Argyle's regiment under the
command of Major Duncanson, to march
straight to Glenco, and there put in ex-
ecution the orders you have received
from the Commander-in-Chief. Given
under my hand at Fort- William the
12th [Feb.] 1692. J. Hill."
Ldcvt.-Col. Hamilton to Major Robt.
DUMOANSON.
(?) t " Balucktlls, lah JTeb^t 1Q8S.
*'SiB, — Pursuant to the Commander-in
Chief and my coloneVs order to me, for
putting in execution the King's com-
mand against these rebels of Glenco,
wherein you, with the party of the Earl
of Argyll's regiment under your com-
mand, are to be concerned : you are,
therefore,forthwith to order your affairs
so as that the several poets already as-
signed you be by you and your several
detachments fain in activeness precisely
by five of the clock to-morrow morning,
being Saturday ; at which time I wUl
endeavour the same with those ap-
pointed from this regiment for the other
places. It will be most necessary you
secure well those avenues on the south
side, that the old fox, nor none of his
cubs, get away. The orders are, that
none be spared of the sword, nor the
Government troubled with prisoners;
which is all until I see you, from, sir,
your most humble servant
** Jamxs Hamiltoit,
"Please to order a guard to secure
the ferry and boats there; and the
boats must be all on this side the ferry
after your men are over."
Major Bobsrt Dumganson to Captain'
lioBsaT Camfbxll of Glenlyone.
ittAiw.isn.
"Sim, — You are hereby ordered to
fall upon the rebels, tbe Maodonalds of
•• Cullodtn Papers, 19.
t Just one hundred years after these events, in 1791, the opening of the roads
ana the establishment of posts are mentioned as having had so great an effect that
•*a letter might come from Edinburgh to Appin in three days, or even two days
and a-half."— Sinclair's Statistieat Account of the Highlands, vol. i. p. 497.
J " Fort William" in other copies, and apparently correct See the order in
the P.a to h4ve the boaU on this side to prevent the etcape of the victims.
1869.]
Lord Maeaulay and the Massacre of QUncoe,
Vt
Gleneo, and put all to the iword under
■evenly. You are to have an especial
care that the old fox and his sons ao not
escape your hands; you are to secure all
the ateoues, that no man escape. This
you are to put in execution at nv^ of the
dock perewely ; and by that titne, or
▼ery shortly oifter it, I will strive to be
at you with a stronger party. If I do
not come to you at fiye, you are not to
tarry for me, but to fall on. This is by
the king*8 special command, for the
good and safety of the country, that
these miscreants be cut off, root and
branch. See that this be put in execu-
tion without fear or favour, or you
may expect to be dealt with as one not
true to King or Government, nor a man
fit to carry commission in the Kind's
aervioe. Expecting you will not fail in
the fatfiUing hereof, as ^ou love yourself
— I subscribe this wuh my hand at
Banychylls the 12th Feb. 1692.
*'K0BBRT DtJNCANSON."
We DOW return to the narrative of
events in Glencoe, and the mode in
which Glenly on executed these orders.
^But on the 18th day of February,
being 8aturda3% about four or five in the
inorning. Lieutenant Lindeay, with a
party of the foresaid soldiers, came to
old 6lenoo'8 house, where, having called
in a friendly manner, and got in, they
ahot hia father dead, with several shots,
aa he was rising out of his bed; and
their mother having got up and put on
her elothes, the soldiers stripped her
naked, and drew the rings off her fin*
fers with their teeth ; as likewise they
illed one man more, and wounded an-
other grievously at the same place.
And this relation they say they had
from their mother, and is confirmed by
the deposition of Archibald Macdonald,
indwelier in Gleneo, who farther de-
pones that Gleneo was shot behind his
back with two shots— one through the
bead, and anothei^ through the body;
and two more were killed with him in
that place, and a third wounded and left
lor dead : and this he knows, because he
came that same day to Gleneo house,
and saw his dead body lying before the
door, with the other two that were killed,,
and spoke with the third that was
wounaed, whose name was Duncan Don,
who came there occasioually with letters
from the Brae of Mar. . . .
*'The said John Macdonald, eldest son
to the deceased Gleneo, depones: The
same morning that his father was killed
there eame soldiers to his house before
day, and eaUcd at hia window, which
gave him the alarm, and made him go to
TOL. LXXZTI.
Innerriggen, where Glenlvon was quar-
tered; and that he founaGlenlyon and
his men preparing their arms, which
made the deponent ask the cause ; but
Glenly on gave him only good words,
and said they were to march against
some of Glengarrie's men ; and it they
were ill intended, would he not have
told Sandy and his niece! — meaning the
deponent's brother and his wife — which
made the deponent go home and go
again to his bed, until his servant, who
hmdered him to sleep, roused him ; and
when he rose and went out, he perceived
about twenty men coming towards his
house, with their bayonets fixed to their
muskets ; whereupon he fied to the hill,
and having Auchnaion, a little village in
Gleneo, in view, he heard the shots *
wherewith Auchintriaten and four more
were killed ; and that he heard also the
shots at Innerriggen, where Glenlyon
had caused to kill nine more, as shall be
hereafter declared; and this is confirmed
by the concurring deposition of Alex-
anderMacdonald,hi8 brother,whom a ser-
vant waked out of sleep, saying, It is no
time for you to be sleeping when they are
killing your brother at the door; which
made Alexander to flee with his brother
to the hill, where both of them heard
the foresaid shots at Auchnaion and In-
nerriggen. And the said John, Alex-
ander, and Ai*chiba1d Macdonald, do all
depone, that the same morning there
was one Seijeant Barber with a party at
Auchnaion, and that Auchintriaten be-
ing there in his brother's house, with
eiffht more sitting about the fire, the
soldiers discharged upon them about
eighteen shots, which killed Auchintri-
aten and four knore ; but the other four,
whereof some were wounded, falling
down as dead, Seijeant Barber laid hold
of Auchintriaten*s brother, one of the
four, and asked him if he were alive ?
He answered that he was, and that he
desired to die without rather than
within. Barber said, that for his meat
that he had eaten, he would do him the
favour to kill him without; but when
the man was brought out, and soldiers
brought up to shoot him, he having his
plaid loose, flung it over their faces, and
BO escaped ; and the other three broke
through the back of the house and
escaped. And at Innerriggen, where
Glenlyon was quartered, the soldiers
took other nine men, and did bind them
hand and foot, and killed them one by
one with shot ; and when Glenlyon in-
clined to save a young man ot about
twenty years of age, one Captain Drum-
mond came and asked how he came to be
taved, in respect of the orders that were
16
Lord Macaulay and the Mauaare of Gleneoe.
[Jaiy,
oAy of them ihat went not timeondy
Qom« in, as you may see by the orders
I Bent to your colonel, I deeire you
would begin with Glenco, and spare
nothing of what belongs lo them ; but
do not trouble the Oovemment with pri-
wners. I 8ha11 expect with the first
occasion to hear the progress you have
made in this, and remain, sir, your obe-
dient servant, T. LiviwasTONK."*
HaniiUon lost no time.t Campbell
of Glenlyon was selected for the ser-
Tlce. On the let of Febmary 1692
ho entered the glen with his two sub-
alterns, Lieutenant and Ensign Lind-
say, and one hnndred and twenty
men. The story of the massacre has
been told in eloquent prose and in
impassioned verse, but never, in our
opinion, so vividly, so impressively,
as in the words of the Report of
1695 :—
" The slaughter of the Glenco men
was in this manner; viz., John and Alez-
andkr Macdonald, sons to the deceased
Gleoco, depone that, Glengarry's house
being reduced, the forces were called
back to the south, and Glenlyon, a cap-
tain of the Earl of Ai^yle's regiment,
with Lieutenant Lindsay and £nsign
Lindsay, and six-score soldiery returned
to Glenco about the 1st of February
1692, where at their entry the elder bro-
ther John met them, with about twenty
men, and demanded the reason of their
coming; andLieutenant Lindsay showed
him his orders for quartering there, un-
<)er Colonel HilFs hand, and gave assur-
ance that they were only come to quar-
ter; whereupon they were billeted in
the country, and had free quarters and
kind entertainment, living familiarly
with the people until the ISth day of
February. And Alexander further de-
poaee^ that Glenlyon, being his wife's
uncle, came almost every day and took
his morning drink at his house; and
that the very night before the slaughter,
Glenlyon did play at cards in hiJa own
Quarters with both the brothers. And
John depones, that old Glenco, his fa-
ther, hac invited Glenlyon, Lieutenant
Lindsay, and Ensign Lindsay, to dine
with him upon the very day the slaugh-
ter happened."
Here we most break in upon the
narrative, and show bow this 12th of
Febmary. whioh was passed by Glen*
lyon in playing cards with the young
Macdonalds in hia quarters, and re-
oeiving invitations from thmr father,
was employed . by Hill, Hamilton,
and Donoanson. This will appear
from the following letters, all of
whioh are dated on that day : —
CoL. Hill to Ltbxjt.Col. Hamilton.
Fon- WiLUAX, IWh Feb,, 1001.
"Sra,— You are, with four hundred of
my regiment, and the four hundred of
my Lord Argyle's regiment under the
command of Major Duncanson, to march
straij^ht to Glenco, and there put in ex-
ecution the orders you have received
from the Commander-in-Chief. Given
under my hand at Fort-William the
12th [Feb.] 1692. J. Hill."
LiEirr.-Cou Hamilton to Major Robt.
DUNOANSOK.
(!) t " Baluchtujb, 12^ JTeb^ 1098.
" Sib, — ^Pursuant to the Commander-in
Chief and my coloners order to me, for
putting in execution the King's com-
mand against these rebels of Glenco,
wherein you, with the party of the Earl
of Argyll's regiment under your com-
mand, are to be concerned : you are,
therefore,forthwith to order your affairs
so as that the several posts already as-
signed you be by you and your several
detachments falu in activeness precisely
by five of the clock to-morrow morning,
being Saturday ; at which time I wUl
endeavour the same with those ap-
pointed from this regiment for the other
places. It will be most necessary you
secure well those avenues on the south
side, that the old fox, nor none of his
cubs, ffet away. The orders are, that
none be spared of the sword, nor the
Government troubled with prisoners;
which is all until I see you, from, sir,
your most humble servant,
" James Hamilton.
"Please to order a guard to secure
the ferry and boats there; and the
boats must be all on this side the ferry
after your men are over.''
Major Robert Dukoanson to Captain'
RoBKRT Gampbbll of Glenlyone.
mh Feb. lan.
"Sir, — ^You are hereby ordered to
fall upon the rebels, the Macdonalds of
• Culloden Papers, 19.
f Just one hundred years after these events, in 1791, the opening of the roads
ana the establishment of posts are mentioned as having bad so great an effect that
'*a letter might come from Edinburgh to Appin in three days, or even two days
and a-half."— Sinclaib's StatUticaX Aceount of the Highlande, vol. i. p. 497.
X " Fort William" in other copies, and apparently correct See the order in
the P.S. to h&ve the boats on thie side to prevent the escape of the victims.
1869.]
L(frd Macaula/y and ths Manaere of QUncoe.
Vt
Gleneo, and put all to the iword under Innerriggen, where Glenlvon wa« quar-
seventy. You are to have an especial tered; and that he founa Glenlyon and
care that the old tax. and his bods do not his men preparing their arms, which
escape your hands; you are to secure all made the deponent ask the cause; hut
the atenueS) that no man escape. This Glenlyon gave him only good words,
you are to put in execution at nve of the and said they were to march against
dock pefcieely ; and by that time, or some of Glengarrie*s men ; and if they
very shortly after it, I will strive to be were ill intended, would he not have
at you with a stronger party. If I do
not come to you at five, you are not to
tarry for me, but to fall on. This is by
the king*s special command, for the
good and safety of the country, that
these miscreants be cut off, root and
branch. See that this be put in execu-
tion without fear or favour, or you
may expect to be dealt with as one not
true to King or Governmeot, nor a man
^% to carry commission in the Kind's
Eb^pecting you will not fail in
told Sandy and his niece! — meaning the
deponent's brother and his wife — which
made the deponent go home and go
a^^ain to his bed, until his servant^ who
hmdered him to sleep, roused him ; and
when he rose and went out, he perceived
about twenty men coming towards his
house, with their bayonets fixed to their
muskets ; whereupon he fled to the hill,
and having Auchnaion, a little village in
Gleneo, in view, he heard the shots
wherewith Auchintriaten and four more
at
the fulfiliinff hereof, as you love yourself were killed ; and that he heard also the
* -_L_._?L_ *i.i_ — u — L — J ^t, shots at lunerriggen, where Glenlyon
had caused to kill nine more, as shall be
hereafter declared ; and this is confirmed
by the concurring deposition of Alex-
anderMacdonald.his brother,whom a ser-
vant waked out of sleep, saying, It fs no
time for you to be sleeping when they are
killing your brother at the door; which
made Alexander to flee with his brother
to the hill, where both of them heard
the foresaid shots at Auchnaion and In-
— I tuhecrrbe this wuh my hand
Ballyebylls the 18th Feb. 1692.
**KOBERT DUNCANSON."
"We now return to the narrative of
eventa in Gleni^oe, and the mode in
which Glenlyon executed these orders.
••But on the 18th day of February,
being Saturday, about four or five in the
inoroing. Lieutenant Lindsay, with a
party of the foresaid soldiers, came to
old 6lenoo*s house, where, havinjs: called nerriggen. And the said John, Aler
?_ - *s — ji __j _^i. __ s.\ — ander, and Archibald Macdonald, do all
depone, that the same morning there
was one Seijeant Barber with a party at
Auchnaion, and that Auchintriaten be-
ing there in his brother's house, with
eiffht more sitting about the fire, the
soldiers discharged upon them about
in a friendly manner, and got in, they
shot his father dead, with several shots,
as he waa rising out of his bed; and
their mother having got up and put on
her clothes, the soldiers stripped her
naked, and drew the rings off her fin-
gers with their teeth ; as likewise they
fers witn tneir teetn ; as likewise toey soldiers discnarged upon them about
illed one roan more, and wounded an- eighteen shots, which killed Auchintri
other grievously at the same place.
And this relation they say they had
from their mother, and is confirmed by
the deposition of Archibald Macdonald,
indweller in Gleneo, who further de-
pones that Gleneo was shot behind his
back with two shots— one through the
head, and anothef through the body;
and two more were killed with him m
that place, and a third wounded and left
for dead : and this he knows, because he
eame that same day to Gleneo house,
and saw his dead body lying before the
door, with the other two that were killed,,
and spoke with the third that was
wounded, whose name was Duncan Don,
who came there occasionally with letters
from the Brae of Mar. . . .
*'The said John Macdonald, eldest son
to the deceased Gleneo, depones: The
same morning that his father was killed
there eame soldiers to his house before
day, and called at hia window, which
gave him the alarm, and made hiu go to
TOL. Lxxxn.
aten and four more; but the other four,
whereof some were wounded, falling
down as dead, Serjeant Barber laid hold
of Auchintriaten's brother, one of the
four, and asked him if he were alive!
He answered that he was, and that he
desired to die without rather than
within. Barber said, that for his meat
that he had eaten, he would do him the
favour to kill him without ; but when
the man was brought out, and soldiers
brought up to shoot him, he having his
plaid loose, fiong it over their faces, and
so escaped ; and the other three broke
through the back of the house and
escaped. And at Innerriggen, where
Glenlyon was quartered, the soldiers
took other nine men, and did bind iheni
hand and foot, and killed them one by
one with shot ; and when Glenlyon in-
clined to save a young man of about
twenty years of age, one Captain Drum-
mond eame and asked how he came to be
■aved, in respect of the orders that were
2
16
Lord Maemilay and ihs Mauaar^ of Oleneoe.
[My,
any of them that were not timeoudy
oome in, as you may see by the orders
I Bent to your colonel, I desire you
would begin with Glenco, and spare
nothing of what belongs to them ; btit
do not trouble the Oovemment with pri-
eonera. I shall expect with the first
occasion to hear the progress you have
made in this, and remain, sir, your obe-
dient serTant, T. Livikgstonk ."•
HaniiUon lost no time.t Oatnpben
of Glenlyon was selected for the ser-
vice. On the l8t of Febmary 1692
he entered the glen with his two sub-
alterns, Lieutenant and En^^ign Lind-
say, and one hundred and twenty
men. The story of the massacre has
been told in eloquent prose and in
impassioned verse, bnt never, in oar
opinion, so vividly, so impressively,
aa in the words of the Report of
1695 :—
" The slaughter of the Olenco men
was in this manner; viz., John and Alex-
ander Macdonald, sons to the deceased
Gleoco, depone that, Glengarry's house
being reduced, the forces were called
back to the soath, and Glenlyon, a cap-
tain of the Earl of Argyle's regiment,
with Lieutenant Lindsay and Ensign
Lindsay, and six-score soldiery returned
to Glenco about the let of February
1692, where at their entry the elder bro-
ther John met them, with about twenty
men, and demanded the reason of their
coming, and Lieutenant Lindsay showed
him his orders for quartering there, un-
<)er Colonel HilPs hand, and gave assur-
ance that they were only come to quar-
ter; whereupon they were billeted in
the country, and had free quarters and
kind entertainment, living familiarly
with the people until the ISth day of
February. And Alexander fnrther de-
pones, that Glenlyon, being his wife's
uncle, csme almost every day and took
his morning drink at his house; and
that the very night before the slaughter,
Glenlyon did play at cards in hiis own
Quarters with both the brothers. And
John depones, that old Glenco, his fa-
ther, had invited Glenlyon, Lieutenant
Lindsay, and Ensign Lindsay, to dine
with him upon the very day the slaugh-
ter happened."
Here we most break in npon the
narrative, and show how this 12th of
Febraary. which was passed by Glen*
lyoii in playing cards with the young
Macdonalds in hia quarters, and re-
ceiving invitations from their father,
was employed . by Hill, Hamilton,
and Doncanaon. This will appear
from the following letters, all of
which are dated on that day : —
CoL. Hill to Lixut.Col. Hamilton.
FoR-WmJAX, t2thF6b., 1001.
" Sra,*— Tou are, with four hundred of
my regiment, and the four hundred of
my Lord Argyle's regiment under the
command of Major Duncanson, to march
Btraij^ht to Glenco, and there put in ex-
ecution the orders you have received
from the Commander-in-Chief. Given
under my hand at Fort-William the
12th [Feb.] 1692. J. Hill."
LiEirr.-Cou Hamilton to Major Robt.
DUNOANSOK.
(?) t " Ballxchtlls, im. jF«&., 1098.
" Sib, — Pursuant to the Commander-in
Chief and my coloners order to me, for
putting in execution the King's com-
mand against these rebels of Glenco,
wherein you, with the party of the Earl
of Argylrs regiment under your com-
mand, are to be concerned : you are,
therefore,forthwith to order your affairs
so as that the several posts already as-
signed you be by you and your several
detachments fain in activeness precisely
by five of the clock to-morrow morning,
being Saturday ; at which time I will
endeavour the same with those ap-
pointed from this regiment for the other
places. It will be most necessary yon
secure well those avenues on the south
side, that the old fox, nor none of his
cubs, ffet awsy. The orders are, that
none be spared of the sword, nor the
Government troubled with prisoners;
which is all until I see you, from, sir,
your most humble servant,
" Jamks Hamilton.
"Please to order a guard to secure
the ferry and boats there; and the
boats must be all on this side the ferry
after your men are over."
Hsjor Robert Duncanson to Captain'
RoBXRT Caxpbxll of Gleulyone.
"Sir, — ^Yon are hereby ordered to
fall upon the rebels, the Maedonalds of
•• Oulloden Papere, 19.
f Just one hundred years after these events, in 1791, the opening of the roads
ana the establishment of posts are mentioned as having had so great an effect that
"a letter might come from Edinburgh to Appin in three days, or even two days
and a-half."— Sinclair's Statitiical Aceouni of the HighlandM, voL i. p. 497.
J " Fort William" in other copies, and apparently correct See the order in
the P.S. to have the boats on thit side to prevent the escape of the victims.
1869.]
Lord MacavJay and the Moisacre of Olenece.
ir
Gleneo, and pat all to the iword nnder
serenly. Ton ara to have an especial
care that the old fox and his sons ao not
escape your hands; yon are to secure all
th« atenues, that no man escape. This
you are to put in execution at five of the
clock pereieely ; and by that titne, or
▼ery shortly after it, I will striTe to be
at you with a stronger party. If I do
not come to you at fiye, you are not to
tarry for me, but to fall on. This is by
the kiogV special command, for the
good and safety of the country, that
these miscreants be cut off, root and
brauch. See that this be put in execu-
tion without fear or favour, or you
may expect to be dealt with as one not
true to King or Government, nor a man
fit to carry commission in the Kind's
service. Eb^pecting you will not fail in
the fulfilling hereof, as ^ou love yourself
— I subscribe this with my hand at
Ballychyils the 12th Feb. 1692.
**KOBBRT DUNCANSON."
We DOW return to the narrative of
events in Glencoe, and the mode in
which Glenly on executed these orders.
••But on the 18th day of February,
being Saturday, about four or five in the
morning, lieutenant Lindsay, with a
party of the foresaid soldiers, came to
old Glenco's house, where, having called
in a friendly manner, and got in, they
shot his father dead, with several shots,
as he was rising out of his bed; and
their mother having c^ot up and put on
her clothes, the soldiers stripped her
naked, and drew the rings off her fin-
gers with their teeth ; as likewise they
killed one man more, and wounded an-
other grievously at the same place.
And this relation thev say they had
from their mother, and is confirmed by
the deposition of Archibald Macdonala,
mdweller in Gleneo, who further de-
pones that Gleneo was shot behind his
back with two shotA— one through the
head, and anotbef through the bod]^;
and two more were killed with him in
that place, and a third wounded and left
lor dead : and this he knows, because he
eame that same day to Gleneo house,
and saw his dead body lying before the
door, with the other two that were killed,.
and spoke with the third that was
woanaed, whose name was Duncan Don,
who came there occasionally with letters
from the Brae of Mar. . . .
"The said John Macdonald, eldest son
to the deceased Gleneo, depones: The
■ame morning thst his father was killed
there eame soldiers to his house before
day, and called at his window, which
gave him the alarm, and made him go to
TQL. LZXXYI.
Innerriggen, where Glenlvon was quar-
tered; and that he founaGIenlyon and
his men preparing their arms, which
made the deponent ask the cause ; but
Glenlyon gave him only good words,
and said they were to march against
some of Glengarrie*s men ; and if they
were ill intended, would he not have
told Sandy and his niece! — meaning the
deponent's brother and his wife — which
made the deponent go home and go
aeain to his bed, until his servant, who
hindered him to sleep, roused him ; and
when he rose and went out, he perceived
about twenty men coming towards his
house, with their bayonets fixed to their
muskets ; whereupon he fied to the hill,
and having Auchnaion, a little village in
Gleneo, in view, he heard the shots *
wherewith Auchintriaten end four more
were killed ; and that he heard also the
shots at Innerriggen, where Glenlyon
had caused to kill nine more, as shall be
hereafter declared; and this is confirmed
by the concurring deposition of Alex-
anderMacdonald,hi8 brother.whom a ser-
vant waked out of sleep, saying. It h no
time for you to be sleeping when they are
killing your brother at the door; which
made Alexander to flee with his brother
to the hill, where both of them heard
the foresaid shots at Auchnaion and In-
nerriggen. And the said John, Alex-
ander, and AiHshibald Macdonald, do all
depone, that the same moiiiing there
was one Serjeant Barber with a party at
Auchnaion, and that Auchintriaten be-
ing there in his brother's house, with
eight more sitting about the fire, the
soldiers discharged upon them about
eighteen shots, which killed Auchintri-
aten and four more ; but the other four,
whereof some were wounded, falline
down as dead, Serjeant Barber laid hold
of Auchintriaten*s brother, one of the
four, and asked him if he were alive f
He answered that he was, and that he
desired to die without rather than
within. Barber said, that for his meat
that he had eaten, he would do him the
favour to kill him without; but when
the man was brought out, and soldiers
brought up to shoot him, he having his
plaid loose, flung it over their faces, and
so escaped ; and the other three broke
througb the back of the bouse and
escaped. And at Innerriggen, where
Glenlyon was quartered, the soldiers
took other nine men, and did bind ihem
hand and foot, and killed thtm one by
one with shot ; and when Glenlyon in-
clined to save a young man ot about
twenty years of age, one Csptain Drum-
mond eame and asked how he came to be
Mved, in respect of the orders that were
16
Lard Macaulay and ths MasMcr^ of OUncoe,
[Joiy,
amy of them, that wer« not timeoudy
oom« in, as you may see by the orders
I sent to your colonel, I desire you
would begin with Glenco, and spare
nothing of what belongs to them ; but
do not trouble the Government with pri-
toners, I shall expect with the first
occasion to hear the progress you have
made in this, and remain, sir, your obe-
dient servanr, T. Litingstonk ."•
Haniilton lost no time.t Campbell
of Glenlyon was selected for the ser-
vice. On the l8t of Febmary 1692
he entered the glen with his two sub-
alterns, Lieutenant and Ensign Lind-
say, and one hundred find twenty
men. The story of the massacre has
been told in eloquent prose and in
impassioned verse, but never, in our
opinion, so vividly, so impressively,
as in the words of the Report of
1695 :—
" The slaughter of the Glenco men
was in this manner; viz., John and Alex-
ander Macdonnld, sons to the deceased
Gleoco, depone that, Glengarry's house
being reduced, the forces were called
back to the south, and Glenlyon, a cap-
tain of the Earl of Argyle*s regiment,
with Lieutenant Lindsay and £neign
Lindsay, and six-score soldiery returned
to Glenco about the Ist of February
1692, where at their entry the elder bro-
ther John met them, with about twenty
men, and demanded the reason of their
coming; and Lieutenant Lindsay showed
him his orders for quartering there, un-
Ser Colonel HilPs hand, and gave assur-
ance that they were only come to quar-
ter; whereupon they were billeted in
the country, and had free quarters and
kind entertainment, living familiarly
with the people until the ISth day of
February. And Alexander further de-
ponee^ that Glenlyon, being his wife's
uncle, came almost every day and took
his morning drink at his house; and
that the very night before the slaughter,
Glenlyon did play at cards in hiis own
Quarters with ooth the brothers. And
John depones, that old Glenco, his fa-
ther, hac invited Glenlyon, Lieutenant
Lindsay, and Ensign Lindsay, to dine
with him upon the very day the slaugh-
ter happened."
Here we most break in upon the
narrative, and show how this 12th of
Febraary. which was passed by Glee*
lyoii in playing cards with the young
Macdooalds in his quarters, and re-
ceiving invitations from their father,
was employed by Hill, Hamilton,
and Doncanaon. This will anpear
from the following letters, all of
which are dated on that day : —
CoL. Hill to Ltexjt.Col. Hamilton.
FoBT- WiujAX, IWk Feb.t UM.
**Sra,— -You are, with four hundred of
my regiment, and the four hundred of
my Lord Argyle's regiment under the
command of Major Duncanson, to march
Btraieht to Glenco, and there put in ex-
ecution the orders you have received
from the Commander-in-Chief. Given
under my hand at Fort-William the
1 2th [Feb.] 1 692. J. Hill."
Ldevt.-Col. Hamilton to Major Robt.
dunoanson.
(?) X " Baluohtlis, 12th Feb^ ICW.
*( Sib, — ^Pursuant to the Commander-in
Chief and my coloneVs order to me, for
putting in execution the King's com-
mand against these rebels of Glenco,
wherein you, with the party of the Earl
of Argyll's regiment under your com-
mand, are to be concerned : you are,
therefore,forthwith to order your affairs
so as that the several posts already as-
signed you be by you and your several
detachments fain in activeness precisely
by five of the clock to-morrow morning,
being Saturday ; at which time I will
endeavour the same with those ap-
pointed from this regiment for the other
places. It will be most necessary you
secure well those avenues on the south
side, that the old fox, nor none of his
cubs, set awsy. The orders are, that
none be spared of the sword, nor the
Government troubled with prisoners;
which is all until I see you, from, sir,
your most humble servant
" Jamss Hahilton.
"Please to order a guard to secure
the ferry and boats there; and the
boats must be all on this side the ferry
after your men are over."
Major Robert Duncanson to Captain'
RoBiRT Campbbll of Glonlyone.
imjf'aft.ian.
"Sir, — ^You are hereby ordered to
fall upon the rebels, the Maedonalda of
• Oullcden Papers, 19. . , . ■,
f Just one hundred years after these events, in 1791, the opening of the roads
ana the establishment of posts are mentioned as having had so great an effect that
«*a letter might come from Edinburgh to Appin in three days, or even two days
and a-half."— Sinclair's Staiistieal Account of the Highland*, voL i. p. 497.
X '* Fort William" in other copies, and apparently correct See the order in
the P.S. to hive the boats on this side to prevent the escape of the victims.
1859]
Lord Macaulay and the Maaaaere of QUncoe.
Vt
Gleoeo, and put all to the aword under
•e^enty. You are to hare an especial
cftre that th« old fox and his sons ao not
oeeape your hands; you are to secure all
the atenues, that no man escape. This
Innerriggen, ivhere Glenlvon was quar-
tered; and that he founaGIenlyon and
his men preparing their arms, which
made the deponent ask the cause ; hut
Glenlyon gave him only good words,
you are to put in execution at five of the and said they were to march against
dock percMely ; and by that time, or some of Glengarrie's men ; and if they
Tery shortly after it, I will striTe to be were ill intended, would he not have
at you with a stronger party. If I do told Sandy And his niece! — meaning the
not come to you at fiye, you are not to deponent's brother and his wife — which
tarry for me, but to fall on. This is by made the deponent go home and go
the king*s special command, for the a^ain to his bed, untilhis servant, who
good and safety of the country, that ' ^ -^ '---^- » -- ji-i— .
these miscreants be cut off, root and
branch. See that this be put in execu-
tion without fear or favour, or you
may expect to be dealt with as one not
true to King or Governmeot, nor a man
fit to carry commission in the King's
Expecting you will not fail In
hmdered him to sleep, roused him ; and
when he rose and went out, he perceived
about twenty men coming towards his
house, with their bayonets fixed to their
muskets; whereupon he fled to the hill,
and having Auchnaion, a little village in
Glenco, in view, he heard the shots
wherewith Auchintriaten and four more
I
the fulfilling hereof, as you love yourself were killed ; and that he heard also the
—I suhecribe this wuh my hand at shots at Innerriggen, where Glenlyon
Ballycbylla the 12th Feb. 1692. bad caused to kill nine more, as shall be
**KoBERT DoNCANBON." hereafter declared ; and this is confirmed
by the concurring deposition of Alex-
anderMacdona1d,his brother.whom a ser-
vant waked out of sleep, saying, It is no
timeforyou to be sleeping when they are
killing your brother at the door; which
made Alexander to flee with his brother
to the hill, where both of them heard
the foresaid shots at Auchnaion and In-
nerriggen. And the said John, Alex-
ander, and Archibald Macdonald, do all
depone, that the same morning there
was one Serjeant Barber with a party at
Auchnaion, and that Auchintriaten be-
ing there in his brother's house, with
eight more sitting about the fire, the
soldiers discharged upon them about
eighteen shots, which Killed Auchintri-
aten and four more ; but the other four,
whereof some were wounded, falling
down as dead, Serjeant Barber laid hold
of Auchintriaten's brother, one of the
four, and asked him if he were alive!
He answered that he was, and that he
desired to die without rather than
within. Barber said, that for his meat
that he had eaten, he would do him the
favour to kill him without; but when
the man was brought out, and soldiers
brought up to shoot him, he having his
plaid loose, fiong it over their faces, and
BO escaped ; and the other three broke
through the back of the house and
escaped. And at Innerriggen, where
Glenlyon was quartered, the soldiers
took other nine men, and did bind them
hand and foot, and killed them one by
one with shot ; and when Glenlyon in-
clined to save a young man ot about
twenty years of age, one Captain Drum-
mond came and asied how he came to be
saved, in respect of the orders that were
2
We DOW return to the narratiye of
events in Glencoe, and the mode in
which Glenlyon executed these orders.
"But on the 18th day of February,
being Saturday, about four or five in the
pioming. Lieutenant Lindsay, with a
party of the foresaid soldiers, came to
old Gleneo's house, where, having; called
in a friendly manner, and got in, they
shot his father dead, with several shots,
aa he was rising out of his bed; and
their mother having ^ot up and put on
her clothes, the soldiers stripped her
naked, and drew the rings off her fin-
;ers with their teeth ; as likewise they
:illed one roan more, and wounded an-
other grievously at the same place.
And this relation they say they had
from their mother, and is confirmed by
the deposition of Archibald Macdonald,
indweller in Glenco, who further de-
pones that Glenco was shot behind his
back with two shots— one through the
head, and anothei^ throngh the body;
and two more were killed with him in
that place, and a third wounded and left
for dead : and this he knows, because he
eame that same day to Glenco house,
and saw his dead body lying before the
door, with the other two that were killed,,
and spoke with the third that was
wounded, whose name was Duncan Don,
who came there occasionally with letters
from the Brae of Mar. . . .
'*The said John Macdonald, eldest son
to the deceased Glenco, depones: The
aame morning that his father was killed
tfa«re came soldiers to hie lioose before
day, and called at his window, which
gave him the alarm, and made him go to
▼OL. Lxxrvi.
18
Lord, Macaulay and the Manaere qf GUneoe.
[July,
giT«n, and shot him dead. And another
young boy, of about thirteen years, ran
toGlenlyoo to be saved; he was like-
wise shot dead. And in the same town
there was a woman, and a boy about
four or five years of age, killed. And
at Auchnaion there was also a child
missed, and nothiog found of him but
the baud. There were likewise several
killed at other place^ whereof one was
an old man about eighty years of age.
And all thi^ the deponents say, they
affirm, because they heard the shot, saw
the dead bodies, and had an account
from the women that were lefU And
Bod aid Macdonald, indweller in Glenco,
farther depones, — ^That he being living
with his father in a little town in Glenco,
some of Glenlyon's soldiers came to his
father's house, the said ISth day of Feb-
ruary, in the morning, and dragged his
father out of his bed, and knocked him
down for dead at the door ; which the
deponent seeing, made his escape ; and
his father recoTering after the soldiers
were gone, got into another house ; but
this house was shortly burnt, and his
father burnt in it; and the deponent
oame there after and gathered his lather's
bones and buried tAem. He also de-
olares, that at Auchnaion, where Anch*
intriaten was killed, he saw the body of
Auohintriaten and three more cast out
and covered with duns. And another
witness of the same dedares, that upon
the same ISth day of February, Glen-
lyon and Lieutenant Lindsay, and their
soldiery did, in the morning before day,
fall upon the people of Glenco, when
they were secure in their beds, and killed
them ; and he beinff at Innerriggen, fled
with the first, but heard shots, and had
two brothers killed there, with three
men more and a woman, who were all
buried before he came back. And all
these five witnesses concur, that the
aforesaid slaughter was made by Glen-
Ijon and his soldiers, after they had
been quartered, and lived peaceably and
friendly with the Glenco men about
thirteen days, and that the number of
those whom they knew to be slain were
about twenty-five, and that the soldiers,
after the slaughter, did burn the houses,
barns, and goods, and carried away a
great spoil of horse, nolt, and sheep,
above 1000. And James Campbell, sol-
dier in the castle of Stirling, depones,
that in January 1692, he then being a
soldier in Glenlyon's comoany, marched
with the company from Inverlochie to
Glenco, where the company was Quar-
tered, and very kindly entertainea for
the space of fourteen days; that he knew
nothing of the design of killing the
Glenco men till tlie morning that the
slaughter was committed, at which time
GleiUyon and Captain Drummond*s com-
panies were drawn oqt in several partiM,
and got orders from Glenlyon and their
other officers to shoot and kill all the
countrymen they met with; tod that
the deponent, bieing one of the party
which was at the town where Glenlyon
had his quarters, did see several men
drawn ont of their beds, and particularly
he did see Glenlyon's own landlord shot
by his order, and a young boy about
twelve years of age, wno endeavoured to
save himself by taking hold of Glenlyon,
offering to go anywhere with him if he
would spare his life ; and was shot dead
by Captain Drummond's order. Ana
the deponent did see about eight persons
killed, and several houses burnt^ and
women flyins to the hills to saTe their
livea And lastly. Sir Colin Campbell
of Aberuehil depones, that after the
slaughter, Glenlyon told him that Hac-
donald of Innerriggen was killed with
the rest of the Glenco men, with Colonel
Hill's pass or protection in his pocket,
which a soldier brought and showed to
Glenlyon."
Some cironmstances still remain
strangely obscure. We have been nn-
able to discover whether the olan
gave up their arms when they made
their submission to the Government.
It is difficult to suppose that a fact
which would add so greatly to the
atrocity of the deed should have been
passed over nnnotieed; yet it is
equally difficult to suppose that a
body of from fifty to a hundred men,
trained to arms, should have per-
mitted themselves, their wives, and
children, to be butchered without
striking a single blow in their de-
fence; and unequal as the numbers
were, and sudden as was the attack,
it can hardly be suf>posed that such
defence would have been wholly with-
out effiMt
Another point which has never
been cleared up, relates to the plunder
of the glen by the troops. The soldiers
of William, who, according to Lord
Macaulay, were executing justice
upon thieves and marauders, did not
content themselves with murder, but
added the crimes of robbery and
arson. The flocks and herds, the
only movables of value, were swept
away, and all that ooald not be re-
moved was ruthlessly homed. The
plunder was considerable — ^above a
1869.]
Lori Macaulay and ths Maseaere of Glencoe^
19
thousand head of oatUe, horee^ and
sheep rewarded the murderers. Of
this they appear to have retained
quiet possession ; at least we oan
nowhere trace any act of restitntion.
The Parliament of Scotland ad-
dressed the King, recommending that
some reparation might he made to
the sarvivors of the massacre for
their losses, and ^^ such orders given
for supplying their necessities as his
migesty should think fit." William
was deaf to their prayer. The only
^eot was the remission of a cess
which had heen imposed upon the
▼alley, and which they appear to have
been utterly unahle to pay.*
Snch is the story of the massacre
of Glencoe. Lord M icanlay observes
— ^ It may be thong ht strange that
these events shoald not have been
followed by a burst of execration
from every part of the civilised
world/'t It would ha^e been strange
indeed had they passed unnoticed.
Official publication in England was
of course suppressed. The London
Gazettes, the monthly Mercuries, and
tlie licensed pamphlets were silent.
Bot the Paru Gazette of the 12th
April 1692, under date of the 2dd
March (less than six weeks after the
event), has the following announce
mont : —
'* D'Edimbourq, 23 Man, 1692.
" Le Laird de Glencow a este masaacr^
depuis quelques jours, de la maui^re la
plus barbare, quoy qu*il ae fust soumU
au Gontftrrwnent present Le Laird de
Glenlion.cfipitaine dansle regiment d*Ar-
g^le, Buivftiit I'ordre expr^a du Colonel
ffill, gouverneur d*Inverlochie, se trans-
Sorta la nuit a Qleneow, avee un corps
e troQpes ; et lea soldata estant entrex
dans les mai^ons, tiierent le Laird de
Glenoow, deux de sea fila, trente six
hommes on enfani et qnatre femmea.
'* Ua avoient r^aolu aextermiaer aind
le reste dea habitaua, nanobMtani Fam'
nestU qui leur avoit e»te aeeordee : mtm
envirou deux cents ae aauverent^ On fait
eourir le bruit qu*II a est^ tu^ dana une
embuacaiie lea armea k la main, pour
diminuer d*horreur d'une action ai bar-
bare, capable de faire connoiatre k
toate la nation, le pea de suretd qu'il y
a dans lea parolea de cuixqai gbuveme-
meat"}
This account, It is true, contains
few particular.-*. It is silent as to
the peculiar treachery of Glenlyon ;
but it states the slaughter of peace-
ful men, women, and children, in
violation of an amnesty. How Lord
Macaulay, who refers to this passage,
can state that *Mn this there was
nothing very strange or shocking,'"}
we confess ourselves wholly unable
to understand. If murder committed
in violation of pledged faith is not
shocking, we sfaonld be glad to know
what is. A detailed and very accnrste
account, entitled ** A letter fW>m a
Gentleman in Scotland to his Friend
in London, &o.," dated April 20th,
li892, next appeared. Lord Maoaiday
intimates his opinion that this letter
was not published until the follow-
ing year, and reminds his readers
that the date of 1692 was at that
time used down to the 25tb March
1698. But L(Td Macaulay has failed
to observe that the date of the letter
is Aprils and April 1692 was always
April 1692.
It is no doubt difficnlt to fix the
precise date*— great obstacles were
thrown in the way of publication.
But the contents of the letter were
certainly known in London before
June 1692, for in that month Charles
Leslie, the writer of the Gallienui
Redivwus^ went In conseqoenoe of
this letter to Brentford, where Glen-
lyon and Drunmiond, with the rest of
Lord Argyle's regiment, were quarter-
ed, and there heard the account of the
massacre from the soldiers who had
been actor? in it, one of whom said,
" Glencoe hangs about Glenlyon night
and day; yon may $ee him in hie
/aee^'l
It is strange that Lord Macaulay,
who is not scmpulons as to the sa-
crifices he makes for the sake of the
picturesque, should have lost the
poetry of this passage by using a
doubtful term, substituting a place
for a person, and a prosaic paraphrase
f«#r the simple words and poetical
imagination of the Highlander who*
♦ Highland Papers, Mait CL f Vol iv. p. 218. % Paris Gazette, 12 ^vri/ 1692.-
§ Vol iv. p. 214. I Gal, Red , p. 92.
Lord Maeaulay and the Mamurt nf Gleneot.
[Jnlj,
saw the imase of the murdered man
reflected in the face of his murderer.*
The OaUUnvt £edkivu»y which,
Lord Maeaulay eaye, ^^ speedily fol«
lowed," did not appear until after
the execution of the commission in
1605. Lord Maeaulay hestows a
note t upon the singular name of this
pamphlet, which deseryes a passing
notice, as it hetrays the care with
which he has arailed himself of every
opportunity to divert indignation
from William to the Master of Stair.
He says,^ ^* An unlearned or even a
learned reader may be at a loss to
gneas why the Jacobites should have
selected so strange a title for a
pamphlet on the massacre of Glen-
ooe." The reader, learned or un-
learned, who found himself at any
loss in the matter, must be singularly
Btapid, inasmuch as the reason is
ftiUy stated at page 107 of the
pamphlet, where a parallel is drawn
between William and the Emperor
Oallienus, and a comparison insti-
tuted between the ^^ Extirpation ^*
order of the former, and a letter of
the Emperor to Yenianus. This
letter, which the writer of the
pamphlet quotes, and which Gibbon
describes as ^^ a most savage mandate
from Gallienus to one of his minis-
ters after the suppression of logen-
uns, who had assumed the purple in
Il]yricum,"§ concludes with the
following words — *^ language to
which " (says Lortl Macaula} ) " that
iff the Master of Stair bore but too
v^uch raemhlanes : " — " Perimendua
«Bt omitis sexus virilis. Occid<;ndus
est quicunque maledixit. Occidendus
eat quicunque male voluit Laoe-
rm, Occide, Ooncide : animum mewn
intelligere potety mea mente ircueere
fui hoe manu msa §eripiV^ Lord
Maoaulay, quoting the passage which
is given entire in the OaUienus JRedi-
Motia, omits the words which we
have put in italics, which contain the
sting, from their similai'ity to the facts
of William having signed the ^^ extir-
pation" order with his own hand. An-
other point of similarity consisted in
the filial impiety of William and Mary.
" Whilst Rome lamented the fate of
her sovereign (f>ays Gibbon), the aov-
age eoldnese of his son was extolled
by the servile courtiers as the per-
fect firmness of a hero and a stoic'i
Lord Maeaulay substitutes the Mas-
ter of Stair tor William, and bis
letters for the " extirpation " order,
and garbles the quotation to make it
fit. In dealing with a book which
is in the hands of so few as the Gal-
li^nue Bediwue^ this is hardly
fair.
We owe the knowledge we derive
of the massacre from the evidence
taken before the Commission to a
fortunate combination of circum-
stances.
The excitement of public feeling
rendered it impossible for William to
resist the demand for inquiry, and
the jealousy of Johnston made that
inquiry searching and complete, with
the view of destroying bis colleague,
the Master of Stair. We agree with
Lord Maeaulay, that the report of
the commission is an ^^ excellent di-
gest of evidence."T The character of
** austere justice," which he claims for
it, we wholly deny. "The conclu-
sion," says Lord Maeaulay, " to
which the commission came, and in
which every intelligent and candid
inqvirer toill concur, was that the
slaughter of Glencoe was a barbarous
mnnJer, and that of this barbarous
murder the letters of the Master of
Stair were the sole uarrant and
caused ** At the risk of having onr
intelligence or our candour denied
by Lord Maeaulay, we are compelled
to dissent from the latter portion of
this judgment Admitting ' in its full
extent the atrocity of these letters,
they formed, in our opinion, but a
small and secondary part of the cause
of the slaughter. There was another
greater than Stair, or than Breadal-
bane, who must, according to the
* Lord Macaulay'a words are as follows: " Some of his soldiers, however, who
observed him closelv, whispered that all this braveiy was put on. He was not
the man that he had been before that night The form of his coantenance was
changed. Id all places, at all hoore, whether he waked or slept, Glencoe was
forever before him." — Vol. iv. p. 216.
tSee note, p. 21 8. % Vol. iv. p. 218. § Guibon, D^line and Fall, vol. i. p. 41 2.
Gibbon, vol. L p. 407. 1 VoL iv. p. 574. •♦ Vol iv. p. 674.
1869.]
Lord Maeaulay and the Mamusre of GUnooe,
21
"anstere jnstioe" of history, share
the responsibility of this great crime
with them. Lord Macanlay mis-
leads his readers, and obscares the
question, by treating the slaughter,
when it suits his purpose, as the
exercise of a wild and irregular jas-
tioe against a band of murtlerera and
freebooters. To prepare the mind of
the reader, he evokes from past
eentnries horrible tales of outrages
committed by the tenth oonsins of
the great-grandfathers of the Mao-
donalds of Glencoe on the people of
CuIIoden, by the inhabitants of Eig
on the Maeleods, and by the Mac-
leods again on the people of Eig.
He narrates a story, unsupported by
a single tittle of evidence, of M*Ian
having at some former period exe-
cuted with his own hand the wild
iustice of the tribe on a member of
his own o)an.* He likens the Mac-
donalds to the mosstroopers of the
Border and the banditti of the Apen-
ninee, and describes them as ^^ ma-
rauders wlio, in any well-governed
country, would have been hanged
thirty yenrs before."t Lord Macaulay
is an ace implished advocate, and is
will aware of the effc'ot that declama-
tion of this kind will produce on the
minds of nine out of ten of his
readers. The tenth man knows that
be has the testimony of Colonel
Hill to the quiet, peaceable, and
honest demeanour of tbe Macdonalds,
and the couclu^jive fact^ that during
tiie whole of the inquiry, though
abundance of hard language was used,
there was no attempt to bring even
a single charge of any offence what-
ever against the Macdonalds. This
puts an end at once to any defence
of William's " extirpation " order,
grounded on the supposition, of its
being directed against civil offenders.
We may therefore confine our atten-
tioQ to the inquiry into how far it
was justified, and who was respon-
sible for it as a military act.
The Parliament of Scotland found
the slaughter to be murder, and
demanded that Glenlyon, Drum^
mood^ the Lyndsays, and Sergeant
Barber should be sent home to be
prosecuted for the crime of marder
nnder trust. Lord Maoanlay saya
that the Parliament was here severe
in the wrong place ; | that the
crimes of these men, horrible m they
were, were nevertheless not the fit-
ting subject of punishment, inasmuch
as each was compelled to act as h«
had done by the subordination ne*
cessary in an army. Lord Macaulay
rona up the ladder of responsibility
from the serg'^ant to the ensign, and
so on up to Glenlyon, and from him
to his colonel, Hamilton ; but he ap<
pears not to be aware to what this
argument necessarily leads. If Glen«
lyon was justified by the order of
Hamilton, Hamilton was in likft
manner justified by the order of
Li vingstone. Thus we reach the comt-
mander*in -chief. Does the responsi-
bility rest there? If it did, load
would have been the cry of vengeance
for innocent blood; yet the Scottish
Parliament acquitted Livingstone, and
Lord Macaulay passes him over un-
noticed. That tbe slaughter in Glen«
ooe was a harbarous murder, mur-
der under trust, the foulest and
hig^hest degree of crime, nil ara
agreed. We have traced the responsi-
bility up to the commander-in-chief;
who was his superior? Not the
Master of Stair. The Secretary of
State for Scotl nd has no authority
in military matters over the com-
mander-in-chief, except so far as h%
is the mouthpiece of the King. Liv-
ingstone derived his orders direct from
William. If he exceeded those or*
ders, the blood-guiitinens rests on his
head. It is of no avail for him to
say, " I obeyed the Master of Stair,"
unless the Master of Stair Apoke and
wrote a^ the agent of the Xing ; and
if he did his orders were William's
orders. The Parliament of Scotland
voted that the order signed by Wilr
liam did not authorise the slaughter
of Glencoe. If Johnson^s Dictionary
had been in existence, and if they
had consulted it to discover the
meaning of tbe King*s words they
would have found that his design
♦ This story was first told by Dalrymple in 1771. There is no trace whatever
of it to be discovered in the eotemporary proceedioga, where, no doubt^ it would
have been found, had there been even the slightest foundation for tU
t Vol iv. p. 203. ^ \ Vo*. iv, pi 67©.
Lord MatsenUay and the Mamacre ^ Olencoe.
[Wy,
Unas to ^^root out, to eradicate, to
ezseiDd, to destroy,** and the follow-
ing example given : *'*' We in vain
endeavour to drive the wolf from
onr own to another's door ; the breed
ought to be BXTsiPATBD out of the
iiland:"* It would be difficult to
point out any passage in the Mas*
ter of 8tair*8 letters which exceeds
this. Inhuman as they are, they
add nothing to the plain and simple
words of the order. The execution
certainly fell far short. Instead of
*^ extirpation,'' not more than about
one tenth part of the clan was de-
stroyed. Here, then, following out
Lord Macaulay's own principle — the
principle known to the law as ^* re-
spondeat snperior" — the responsi-
bility rests with William. The only
escape is the one suggested by
Burnett, namely, that William affixed
bis signature to a paper, presented to
him by Stair and Breadalbane, in
ignorance of its contents. We have
Mready shown how entirely this
hypothesis is unsupported by evi-
dence, how strong the presumptions
are against it. But there remains
one piece of evidence, which to our
minds is conclusive. Had William
been thus entrapped, how terrible
would have been bis wrath when he
discovered the crime to which be had
been unwittingly made a party ! How
signal his vengeance on tlie traitors
Stair and Breadalbane! Instead of
this, we find that, when he was
obliged to dismiss Stair from office
in compliance with public opinion
and the intrigues of his colleagues,,
instead of handing him over to justice,
oonsigning him to the trial, the cim-
vioticm, and the death of sliame,
which he most unquestionably would
have deserved, he grants him full
pardon, immunity, and protection for
all bis acts, and especially for his
•hare in the slaughter of the men of
Glencoe.
We are not aware that the follow-
ing document has been cited in any
history of the massacre : to us it
appears conclusive of the original
participation of William in that great
«rime:—
"SoaoLi. or Discharge to Jobs
VidoooNT Stair.
" His maiestjT, considering that John
Viscount of Stair bath been employed in
his majesty's service for many yeara, and
in severtd capacities, first as nia njajesty's
Advocate, and thereafter as Secretary of
State, in which eminent employments
persons are in danger, either by exceed-
ing or coming short of their duty, to
fall under the severities of law, aod
become obnoxious to prosecutions or
trouble therefor; and his maiesty being
well sntisfied that the said Visooont of
Stair hath rendered him many faithful
services, and being well asstAred of his
aflfeotion and good intentions, and beingr
graciously pleased to pardon, cover, and
secure him now after the demi^ion of
his office, and that he is divested of publie
em^iloyment, from all Questions, prose-
outions, and trouble wnatsoever; and
particularly his majesty, considering
that the wanner of execution of the men
of Glenco was contrary to the laws of
humanity and hospitality, being done
by those soldiers wno for some days be-
fore had been quartered amongst them
and entertained by them, which was a
fault in the actors, or those who gave
the ioDmediate orders on the place. But
that the said Viscount of ^t«ir. then
Secretary of State, being at London,
many hundred miles distant, he could
have no knowledge of nor accession U>
the method of that execution ; and his
maiesty being willing to pardon, forgive,
and remit any excess of zeal or going
beyond his instructions by the snid Joha
Viscount of Stair, and that he had fte
hand in the barbarous manner of execu-
tion; therefore his majesty ordains a
letter of remission to be made, and
passed his great seal of his majesty's
antient kingdom, Ac, and |)ai'ticularly
any excess, crime, or fault done or com-
mitted by the said John A'iscount of
Stair in that matter of Glenco, and
doth exoner, discharge, pardon, indem-
nify, and remit the said John Viscount
ofbtair, Ac."t
It is to be observed that the very
gentle censure contained in this docu-
ment is confined entirely to ^^ the
manner of execution^ The King
shows no disapproval whatever either
of the order — bis signature to which,
Burnett says, was obtained by the
fraud of Stair — or of those letters
^ LoCKi. f Papers Illuetrative of the Highlands of Scotland, Maitland auk
1869.]
LordL Maoaulaif and ike Mamacfe a^ Oleneoe,
28
which Lord Maoaolay anertB to ha^e
been the " sole warrant and oaiue of
this barbarous murder J' If anything
were wanting to prove withoat a pos-
ability of doabt the Eing^s participa-
tion in the crime, it would be supplied
by the &ct that this '' ScroU of Dis-
charge" is immediately followed by a
grant from William of the tef nd duties
and others of the regaKty of Qlenlaoe,
as a ** mark of his farour to John Vis-
count Stair.'*
None of the actors in the transac-
tion, so far as we are aware, incurred
any marks of the displeasure of the
King. They appear to hare had
prosperous lives : Oolonel Hill be-
comes Sir John ; Glenlyon, when he
reappears on the page of history, is a
colonel ; Livingstone becomes Lord
Teviot* The Master of Stair, though
withdrawn for a time from active em-
ployment, in obedience to the voice of
the Parliament and public opinion,
was, as we have seen, rewaraed by
William, and not many years after-
wards reappears an earl instead of a
viscount
We do not think that it is a task of
any great difficulty tu measure out
the degree of responsibility which
fkiriy attaches to each of the actors in
this horrible tragedy.
First to our mincb comes the King.
He had not the excuse, poor as it may
be, that he was urged on by personal
wrong and animosity, like Breadal-
bane; or by chagrin and disappoint-
ment at the failure of a favourite
scheme, like the Master of Stair. We
cannot doubt that William's signature
was affixed to the order with full
knowledge of the facts, and that his
intention was to strike terror into the
Highlanders by the ^^ extirpation*' of
a clan too weak to offer any formida-
ble jesistance, but important enough
to serve as a formidal^e example.
Kex|^ come Breadalbane and the
Master of Stair, between whom the
scales balance so nicely that it is hard
to say to which the larger share of
execration is due.
Livingstone, Hamilton, Duncanson,
Dmmmond, Glenlyon and his subal-
terns, mast share amongst themselves
the responsibility for the peculiar
circumstances of treachery ana breach
of hospitality attendant npon the ex-
ecution. For this we think neither
William, Breadalbafie, nor the Mas-
ter of Stair can justly be held answer-
able.
The blundering partisans of the
day attempted to make light of the
atrocity of the slaughter. Lord
Macaulay is too skilful to be betray-
ed even by his partisanship into sup-
porting so false an issue. He de-
nounces the orime with unsparing
severity. But by suppression, by
sophism, by all the arts which may
be tolerated in an advocate, but
which are intolerable in a judge, he
seeks to obtain a verdict of acquittal
fbr William— to limit his culpability
to his remissness in fiuling to brinff
the Master of Stair to justice, an{
by dwelling in strong terms on that
offence, to keep out of view his parti-
dpation in the original crime. The
readers of the Decameron know by
what means San Oiappelletto ob-
tained canonisation ; the readers of
Lord Macaula^'s History see how the
meed of justice and humanity may
be awarded to the murderer of
Glenooe. They may compare the por:
trait of Marlborough with the portrait
of William, and judge what fidelity
is likely to be found in the rest of
Lord Macaulay'a picture-gallery.
« Xt/V 0/ WUliam HI., p. 857.
24
Tke Lifted Veil
[Jnly,
THE LIFTED VEII*.
CHAPTfiB I.
The time of my end approaches.
I have lately been subject to attacks
of angina pectorii ; and in the ordin-
ary coarse of tilings, my phyHcian tells
me, I may fairly ho[>e that my life
will not be protracted many mimths.
Unlesa, then, I am cjrsed with an
exceptional physical constitution, as
I am cursed with an exceptional
mental cbarapter, I shall not much
longer groan under the wearisome
burthen of this earthly existence.
If it were to be otherwise — if I
were to live on to the age most
men desire and provide for— I shonld
for once have known whether the
miseries of delusive expectation can
OQtweiffh the miseries of true previ-
sion. For I foresee when I shall die,
and everything that will happen in
my last moments.
Just a month from this day, on the
20th of September 1850, I shall be
sitting in this chair, in this study, at
ten o^clock at night, longing to' die,
weary of incessant insight and fore-
sight^ without delusions and without
hope. Just as I am watching a
tongue of blue flame rising in the
fire, and my lamp is burning low, the
horrible contraction will begin at my
chest I shall only have time to
reach the btll, and pull it violently,
before the sense of suffocation will
come. No one answers my bell. 1
know why. My two servants are
lovers, and will haTe quarrelled. My
housekeeper will have rushed out of
the house in a fury, two hours before,
hoping that Ferry will believe she
has gone to drown herself. Perry is
alarmed at last, and is gone out after
her. The little scullery- maid is asleep
on a bench : she never answers the
bell ; it does not wake her. The
sense of suffocation inere&<es : my
lamp goes out with a horrible stench :
I make a great efiort, and snatch at
the bell again. I long for life, and
there is no help. I thirsted for the
unknown : tlie thirst is gone. O God,
let me stay with the known, and be
weary of it : T am content Agony
of pain and suffocation — ^and all the
while the earth, the fields, the pebbly
brook at the bottom of the rookery,
the fresh scent after the rain, the light
of the morning through my chamber
window, the warmth of the hearth
after the frosty air — ^will darkness
close over them for ever ?
Darkness — darkness — no pain —
nothing bat darkness : but I am pass-
ing on and on through the darkness :
my thought stays in the darkness^
but always with a sense of moving
onward
Before that time comes, I wish to
use my last hours of ease and strength
in telling the strange story of my
experience. I have never fully un-
bosomed myself to any human being;
I have never been encouraged to
trust much in the svmpathy of my
felk)winen. But we have all a chance
of meeting with some pity, some
tenderness, some charity, when we
are dead : it is the living only who
cannot be forgiven — the living only
fnim whom men^s indulgence and
reverence are held off, like the ritia
by the hard east wind. While the
heart beats, bruise it — ^it is your only
opportunity ; while the eye can stiU
turn*. towards you with moist timid
entreaty, freeze it with an icy unan-
swering gaze; while the ear, that
delicate messenger to the inmost
sanctuary of the soul, can still take
in the tones of kindness, pat it off
with hard civility, or sneering com-
pliment or envious affectation of ia«
difference; while the creative brain
can still throb with the sense of in-
justice, with tlie yearning for brotheriy
recognition — make haste— oppress it
with your ill -considered judgments,
your trivial comparisons, your care-
less misrepresentations. The heart
will by-and-by be still — uhi sava
%nd%gnati0 ulterivs eor lactrare ne-
quit;* the eye will cease to entreat;
the ear will be deaf; the brain will
have ceased from all wants as well as
* Inseription on Swift*s tombstone.
1969.]
nU lAfUi V^h
25
from all work. Then your oboritable
speeches may fiud rent; then yoo
may remember and pity the toil and
the straggle and the failure; then
yon may gi^e dne honour to the work
aohiered ; then yon may find extenu-
ation fur errors, and consent to bnry
them.
That is a trivial schoolboy text;
why do I dwell on it ? It has little
reference to me, for I shall leave no
works behind me for men to hononr.
I have no near relatives wbo will
make up, by weeping over m v grave,
for the wounds they inflicted on me
when I wa<* among them. It is only
the story of my life that will perhaps
win a little more sympathy from
strangers when I am dead, than I
ever believed it would obtain from
my friends while I was living. '
My childhood perhaps f>eems hap-
pier to me than it raolly wa», by con-
trast with all the after years. For
then the curtain of. the future wAs
as impenetrable to me as to other
children : I had all their delight in
the present hour, their sweet indefi-
nite hoped for the morrow; and I
had a tender mother: even now,
after the dreary lapse of long years,
a slight trace of sensation accompa-
nies the remembrance of her caress
as she held tne on her knee— her
arms round my little body, her
cheek pressed on mine. I had a
complaint of the eyes that made me
blind for a little while, and she kept
me on her knee from morning till
night. That unequalled love soon
vanished out of m^ Kfe, and even to
my chil Hsh consciousness it was as
if that life had become more chill. I
rode my little white pony with the
groom by my side as before, but there
were no loving eyes looking at me as
I monnted, no glad arms opened to
me when I came back. Perhups I
miased my mother's love more than
most children of seven or eight would
have done, to whom the oUier plea-
sures of life remained as before ; for
I was certainly a very sensitive child.
I remember still the mingled trepida-
tion and delicious excitement with
which I was afi'ected by the tramping
of the horses on the pavement in the
echoing stables, by the kind resonance
of the grooms' voices, by the booming
bark of the dogs as my father's car^
riage thundered under the archway
of the courtyard, by the din of the
gong as it gave notice of luncheon
and dinner. The measured tramp of
soldiery which I scmietimes heard-*
for my father's house lay near a
county town where there were large
barracks — made me sob and trem-
ble; and yet when they were gone
past, I longed for them to come back
again.
I fancy my father thought me an
odd child, and had little fondness
for nie : though he was very carefol
in fulfilling what he regarded as a
parent's duties. But he was already
past the middle of life, ami I was not
his only son. My mother liod been
his second wife, and he was five-and-
forty when he married her. He was
a firm, unbending, intensely orderly
man, in root and stem a banker, but
with a flourishing graft of the active
landholder, aspiring to county influ-
ence: one of those people who are
alwuys like themselves from day to
day, who are uninfluepced by the
weather, aiMi neither know melan-
choly nor high spirits. I held him
in great awe, and appeared more
timid and sensitive in his presence
than at other times; a circumstance
which, perhaps, helped to confirm
him in the intention to educate me
on a difi^«rent plan from the prescrip-
tive one with which he had complied
in the case of my elder brother,
already a tall youth at Eton. My
brother was to be his representative
and successor; he must go to Eton
and Oxford, for the sake of making
connections, of course : my fiither was
not a man to underrate the bearing
of Latin satirists or Greek drama-
tists on the attainment of an aristo-
cratic position. But, intrinsically,
he had slight esteem for ^* those dead
but sceptred spirits;" having quali-
fied h mnelf for forming an indepen-
dent opinion by reading Potter's
jEtehyltu^ and dipping into Francis's
Horace, To this negative view he
added a positive one, derived from a
recent connection with mining speon-
lations; namely, that a scientific
education was the really useful train-
ing for a younger son. Moreover, it
was dear that a shy, sensitive boy
like me was not fit to encounter the
roi^ experience of a public school.
7%4 Lifted V0iL
[My,
Mr. Letherall bad said so Teiy deoid>
ediy. Mr Letherall waa a large pan
in speetaflles, who one day took iny
email head between bis large hands,
and pressed it here and there in an
exploratory, sospioioas manner — then
placed each of his great thambs on
my temple^ and pushed me a little
way from him, and stared at me with
glittering spectacles. The contem-
plation appeared to displease him,
for he frowned sternly, and said
to my father, drawing* his thambs
acrora my eyebrows.
**The deficiency is there, sir-
there; and here," he added, touching
the upper sides of my head, *^ here is
the excess. That must be brought
oat, sir, and this most be laid to
sleep."
1 was in a state of tremor, partly
at the vague idea that I was the
object of reprobation, partly in the
agitation of my first hatred — hatred
of tills big, spectacled man, who
palled my head about as if he wanted
to boy and cheapen it.
I am not aware how much Mr.
Letherall had to do with the system
afterwards adopted towards me, but
it was presently dear that private
tutors^ natural history, science, and
the modem languages, were the ap-
pliances by which the defects of my
organisation were to be remedied.
I was very stupid about machines, so
I was to be greatly occupied with
them; I had no memory for classi-
fication, so it was particularly neces-
sary thQt I should study systematic
zoology and botany; I was hongry
for human deeds and human emo-
tions, so I was to be plentifully
<»iimmed with the meohanical powers,
the elementary bodies, and the phe-
nomena of electricity and magnetism.
A better-constituted boy would cer-
tainly have profited under my in-
telligent tutors, with their scientific
apparatus; and would, doubtless,
have found the phenomena <^ elec-
tricity and magnetism as fascinating
as I was, every Thursday, assured
they were. As it was, 1 could have
paired off, for ignorance of whatever
was taught me, with the worst Latin
scholar tliat was ever turned out of
a classical academy; whence 1 have
been led to conclude that the only
universal rule with regard to educa-
taon is, that no rule sboald be held
universal, a good education beiuff
that which adapts itself to individual
wants and faculties. 1 read Pln-
tarch, and Shakespeare, and Don
Quixote by the sly, and supplied my-
self in that way with wandering
thoughts, while my tutor was assur-
ing me that ^an improved man^ as
distinguished from an ign(»*ant one,
was a man who knew the reason why
water ran down-hill." I had no de-
sire to be this improved man ; I was
glad of the running water; I could
watch it and listen to it gu idling
among the pebbles, and bathing the
bright green water-plants, by the hour
together. I did not want to know
why it ran ; I had oeifect ooi fidenoe
that there was good reason for what
was^ very beautiful.
There is no need to dwell on this
part of my life. I have said enough
to indicate that my natore was of tiie
sensitive, unpractical order, and that
it grew up in an uncongenial medium,
which could never foster it into
happy, healthy development. When
I was sixteen I was sent to Geneva
to complete my course of education ;
and the change was a very happy one
to me, for the first sight of the Alpa,
with the setting sun on them, as we
descended the Jura, seemed to me
like an entrance into heaven ; and the
three jeors of my life there were
spent m a perpetual sense of exalta-
tion, as if from a draught of delicioos
wine, at the presence of Nature in all
her awful loveliness. You will think,
perhaps, that I must have been a
poet, from this cArly sensibility to
Nature. But my lot was not so
happy as that. A poet poars forth
his song and heliefiea in the listening
ear and answering soul, to which his
song will be fioated sooner or later.
But the poet's sensibility without his
voice — ^the poet's sensibility that finds
no vent but in silent tears on the
sunny bank, when the noonday light
sparkles on the water, or in an in-
ward shudder at the sonnd of harsh
human tones, the siglit of a cold
human eye — ^Uiis dumb passion brings
with it a fatal sditude of son! in the
society of one's fellow-men. My least
solitary moments were those in which
I poshed off in my boat, at even-
ing, towards the centre of the lake;
1609.]
The LsfUd VHl.
27
it seemed to me that the skj, and the
glowiog moaiitain-tops, and the wide
bine water, sarroonded me with a
eberiahing love aach as no human
&oe had shed on me ainoe my
mother^s love had vanished oat of
tay life. I used to do as Jean
Jacqnes did — ^lie down in my boat
and let it glide where it would, wlule
I looked np at the departing glow
leaving one mountain-top after the
other, as if the prophet^s chariot of
fire were passing over them on its
way to the home of light. Then,
when the white summits were all sad
and oorpso-tike, I had to push home-
ward, tor I was under careful sur-
yeillance, and was allowed no late
wanderings. This disposition of mine
was not favourable to the formation
of intimate friendships among the
numerous youths of my own age who
are always to be found studying at
Geneva, Tet I made one such friend-
ship; and, singularly enough, it was
inth a youth whose intellectual ten-
dencies were the very reverse of ray
own. I shall call him Charles Meu-
nier; his real surname— an English
one, for he was of English extraction
— ^having since become celebrated.
He was an orphan, who lived on a
miserable pittance while he puraaed
the medical studies for which he had
a special genius. Strange I that with
my vague mind, impressionable and
nnobeervant, hating inquirv and given
up to contemplation, I should have
been drawn towards a youth whose
strongest passion was science. But
the bond was not an intellectual one ;
it came from a source that can hap-
pily blend the stupid with the bril-
liant, the dreamy with the practical;
it came from community of feeling.
Oharles was poor and ugly, deridM
by Genevese gamins^ and not ac-
ceptable in drawiDg^rooms. I saw
that he was isolated, as I was, though
from a different cause, and, stimu-
lated by a sympathetic resentment, I
made timid advances towards him.
It is enough to say that there sprang
up as much eamaraderie between as
as our different habits would allow ;
and in Cbarles^s rare holidays we
went up the Saldve together, or took
the boat to Vevay, while I listened
dreamily to the monologues in which
lie nnfolded his bold ooDoeptiona of
foture experiment and discovery. I
mingled them confusedly in my
thought with glimpses of blue
water and delicate floating cloud,
with the notes of birds and the dis-
tant glitter of the glacier. He knew
quite well that ray mind wa? half
absent, yet^he liked to talk to me in
this way; for don*t we talk of our
hopes and our pn\jects even to dogs
and birds, when they love us? I
have mentioned this one friendship
because of its connection with a
strange and terrible scene which I
shall bave to narrate in my subse-
quent life.
This happier life at Geneva was
put an ena to by a terrible illness,
which is partly a blank to me, partly
a time of dimly-remembered suffer-
ing, with the presence of my father
by my bed from time to time. Then
came the languid monotony of conva-
lescence, the days mdually breaking
into variety and distindtness as my
strength enabled me to take longer
and longer drives. On one of these
more vividly remembered days, my
father said to me, as he sat beside my
sofa:
*^ When yon are quite well enough
to travel, Latimer, I shall take yon
home with me. The journey will
amuse you and do you good, for I
shall go through the Tyrol and Aus-
tria, and you will see many new
places. Our neighbours, the Fil-
mores, are come ; Alfred will join us
at Basle, and we shall all go together
to Vienna, and back by Prague'^ . . .
My father was called away before
he had finished his sentence, and he
left my mind resting on the word
Prague^ with a strange sense that a
new and wondrous scene was break-
ing U|K>n me: a city under the broad
sunshine, that seemed to me as if
it were the summer sunshine of a
long-past century arrested in its
course — ^nnrefreshed for ages by the
dews of nighty or the rushing rain-
cloud; scorching the dusty, wearv,
time-eaten grandeur of a people
doomed to live on in the stale repeti-
tion of memories, like deiiosed and
superannuated kings, in titeir regal
gi^ld - inwoven tatters. The city
looked so thirsty that the broad
river seemed to me a sheet of metal:
and the blackened etatuesi aa I passed
28
Th$ TAfUA VeU,
[July,
TiDder th«ir blank gaze, along the
unending bridge, with their ancient
garments and their saintly crowns,
seemed to me the real inhabitants
and owners of this place, while the
busy, trivial men and women,
hurrying to and fro, were a swarm
of ephemeral visitants infesting it
tor a day. It is snch grim, stony
beings as these, I thought, who are
the fathers of ancient faded chil-
dren, in thbse tanned, time-fretted
dwellings that crowd the steep be-
fore me ; who pay their court in the
worn and crumbling pomp of the
palace which stretches its monoton-
ous length on the height ; who wor-
ship wearily in the stifling air of the
churches, urged by no fear or hope,
but compelled by their doom to be
ever old and undying, to live on in
the rigidity of habit, as they live on
in perpetual mid-day, without the
repose of night or the new birth of
morning.
A stunning clang of metal suddenly
thrilled through me, and I became
conscious of the objects in my room
again : one of the fl re-irons had fallen,
as Pierre opened the door to bring
me my draught. My heart was pal-
pitating violently, and I begged
rierre to leave my draught beside
me ; I would take it presently.
As soon as I Was alone again, I
began to ask myself whether I had
been sleeping. Was this a dream —
this wonderfully distinct vision — mi-
nute in its distinctness down to a
patch of coloured light on the pave-
ment, transmitted through a coloured
lamp in. the shape of a star — of a
strange city, quite unlamiliar to my
imagination? I had seen no picture
of Prague: it lay in my mind as a
mere name, with vaguely remembered
historical associations — ill - defined
memories of imperial grandeur and
religious wars.
Nothing of this sort had ever oo-
cnrred in my dreaming experience
before, fur I had often been humili-
ated because my dreams were only
saved from being utterly disjointed
and commonplace by the frequent
terrors of nightmare. But I could
not believe that I had been asleep,
for I remembered distinctly the
gradual breaktng-in of the vision up-
on me, like the new images in a dis-
solving view, or the growing dis-
tinctness of the landeca|)e as the son
lifts np the veil of the morning mist.
And while I was conscious of this in-
cipient vision, I was also conscioiu
that Pierre came to tell my father
Mr. Filmore was waiting for him, and
that my father hurried out of the
room. No, it was not a dream ; was
it — the thought was full of tremulous
exultation — was it the poet's nature
in me, hitherto only a troubled,
yearning sensibility, now manifesting
itself suddenl}^ as spontaneous crea-
tion ? Surely it was in this way that
Homer saw the plain of Troy, that
Dante saw the abodes of die departed,
that Milton saw the earthward flight
of the Tempter. Was it that my ill-
ness had wrought some happy change
in my organisation — given a firmer
tension to my nei'ves — carried oS
some dull obstruction? I had often
read of such effects— in works of
fiction at least. Nay; in genuine
biographies I had read of the subtU-
wng or exalting influence of -some
disea.()es on the mental powers. Did
not Novalis feel his inspiration in-
tensified under the progress of con-
sumption ?
When my mind had dwelt for some
time on this blissful idea, it seemed
to me that I might perhaps test it by
an exertion of my will. The vision
had commenced when my father was
speaking of our going to' Prague. I
did not for a moment believe it was
really a representation of that oity^
I believed — I hoped it was a pic-
ture that my newly-liberated genius
had painted in fiery haste, with the
colours snatched from lazy memory.
Suppose I were to fix my mind on
some other place— Venice, for ex-
ample, which was far more familiar
to my imagination than Prague : per-
haps the same sort of result would
follow. I concentrated my thoughts
on Venice; I stimulated my imagi-
nation with poetic memories, and
strove to feel myself present in
Venice, as I had felt myself present
in Prague. But in vain. I was only
colouring the Oanaletto engravings
that hung in my old bedroom at
home; tibe picture was a shifting
one, my mind wandering uncertainly
in search of more vivid images; I
could see no accident of form or
1869.]
Th4 Li/ted VeU.
29
shadow without oonsoioos laboar
after the necessary conditions. It
was all prosaio efiort, not rapt pas^
sivity, snch as I had experienoed
half an honr before. I was discour-
aged; bnt I remembered that in-
spiration was fitful.
Por several days I was in a state
of excited ex{)6ctation, watching for
a recarrence of my new gift. I sent
my tbonghts ranging over my world
of knowledge, in the hope that they
woald find some object which would
send a reawakening vibration through
my slumbering genius. Bat no; my
world remained as dim as ever, and
that fiash of strange light refused to
oome again, thoagh I watobed for it
with palpitating eagerness.
My father accompanied me every
day in a drive, and a gradually
lengthening walk as my powers of
walking increased; and one cTening
he had agreed to oome and fetch
me at twelve the next day, that
we might go together to select a
musical snuff-box, and other pur-
diasas, rigorously demanded of a
rich Englishman visiting Geneva.
He was one of the most punctual
of men and bankers, and I was al-
ways nervously anxious to be quite
ready for him at the appointed time.
But, to my surprise, at a quarter
past twelye he had not appeared. I
felt all the impatience of a convales-
cent who has nothing particular to
do, and who has just taken a tonic
in the prospect of immediate exwcise
Uiat would curry off the stimulus.
Unable to sit still and reserve my
strength, I walked up and down the
room, looking out on the current of
the Rhone, just whece it leaves the
dark-blue lake; but thinking all the
while of the possible causes that
could detain my father.
Suddenly I was conscious that my
&tber was in the room, but not
alone : there were two* persons with
him. 8trange 1 I had heard no foot-
step, I had not seen the door open ;
but I saw my father, and at his
right hand our neighbour Mrs. Fil-
more, whom I remembered very
well, though I had not seen her
for five years. She was a com-
monplace middle-aged woman, in
silk and cashmere; but the lady on
the left of my father, was not more
than twenty, a tall, slim, willowy
figure, with luxuriant bloncT hair ar-
ranged in cunning braids and folds
that looked almost too. massive for
the slight figure and Uie small-fea-
tured, thin-lipped face they crowned.
But the face had not a girlish expres-
sion: the features were sharp, the
pale grey eyes at once acute, rest-
less, and sarcastic. They were fixed
on me in half-smiling curiosity, and
I felt a painful sensation as if a sharp
wind were' cutting me. The pale-
green dress, and the green leaves that
seemed to fonn a b(tf>der about her
blond hair, made me think of a
Water-Nixie, — for my mind was full
of German lyrics, and this pale, fatal-
eyed woman, with the green weeds,
looked like a birth from some cold,
sedgy stream, the daughter of an
aged river.
^' Well, Latimer, you thought me
long," my father said. ...
But while the last word was in
my ears, the whole group vanished,
and there was nothing between me
and the Ohinese painted folding-
screen that stood before the door. I
was cold and trembling: I could only
totter forward and throw myself on
the sofa. This strange new power
had manifested itself again
But VHU it a power? Might it not
rather be a disease — a sort of inter-
mittent delirium, concentrating my
eneigy of brain into moments of un-
healthy activity, and leaving my
saner hours all the more barren ? I
felt a dizzy sense of unreality in
what my eye rested on; I grasped
the bell convnbively, like one trying
to free himself from nightmare, and
rang it twice. Pierre came with a
look of alarm in his face.
'* Monsieur ne se trouve pas bien ?"
he said, anxiously.
" I'm tired of waiting, Pierre,'* I
said, as distinctly and emphatic^sUy
.as I could, like a man determined to
be sober in spite of wine ; ^^ I'm afraid
something has happened to my father
— he's usually so punctual. Kun to
the H6tel des Bergues and see if he
is there."
Pierre left the room at once, with
a soothing ^* Bien, Monsieur ;" and I
felt the better for this scene of simple,
waking prose. Seeking to calm my-
self still further, I went into my bed-
80
The lifted VHl.
[July,
nx>in, adjoiniDg the salon, and
opened a case of eau«de-cologne ;
took oat a bottle ; went through the
process of talking out the cork very
neatly, and then rubbed the reviving
spirit over my hands and forehead,
and under my nostrils, drawing a
new delight from the soent because I
had procured it by slow details of
labour, and by no strange sudden
madness. Already I had begun to
taste something of the horror that
belongs to the lot of a homan being
whose nature is not adjusted to
simple human conditions.
Still enjoying the scent, I returned
to title salon, but it was not unoccupied,
as it had been before I left it. In front
of the Chinese folding-screen there
was my father, with Mrs. Filmore on
his right hand, and on his left
the slim blond-haired girl, with the
keen face and the keen' eyes fixed on
me in half-smiling curiosity.
^'Well, Latimer, tou thought me
long," my father said. . . .
I heard no more, felt no more, till
I became conscious that I was Ijing
with my head low on the sofo, Pierre
and my father by my side. As soon
as I was thoroughly revived, my
father left the room, and presently
returned, saying,
^^Fve been to tell tiie ladies how
you are, Latimer. They were wait-
ing in the next room. We shall put
off our shopping expedition to-day."
Presently he said, "That young
lady is Bertha Grant, Mrs. Filmore's
orphan niece. Filmore has adopted
her, and she lives with them, so yon
will have her for a neighbour when
we go home — perhaps for a near re-
lation ; for there is a tenderness be-
tween her and Alfred, I suspect, and
I should be gratified by the match,
since Filmore means to provide fur
her in every way as if she were his
daughter. It hadn't occurred to me
that you knew nothing about her *
Uving with the Filmores."
He made no farther allusion to the
fiict of my having fainted at the mo-
ment of seeing her, and I would not
for the world have told him the
reason: I shrank from the idea of
disclosing to any one what might
be regarded as a pitiable peculiarity,
most of all from betraying it to my
father, who would have suspected
my sanity ever after.
I do not mean to dwell with par-
tfcularity on the details of my ex-
perience. I have described these two
cases at length, becanse they had
definite, clearly traceable results in
my after lot.
Shortly after this last oconrrenoe
— ^I think the very next day — I be-
gan to be aware of a phase in
my abnormal sensibility, to which,
from the languid and slight nature
of my intercourse with others since
my illness, I had not been alive be*
fore. This was the obtrusion on my
mind of the mental process going for-
ward in first one person, and then
another, with whom I happened to
be in contact : the vagrant, frivolous
ideas and emotions of some unin-
teresting acquaintance — Mrs. Fil-
more, for example — would force
themselves on my conscionsnesa like
an importunate, ill-played masical
instrument, or the loud activity of an
imprisoned insect. But this unplea»>
ant sensibility was fitfnl, and left me
moments of rest, when the souls of
my companions were once more shut
out from me, and I felt a relief such
as silence brings to wearied nerves. I
might have believed this importunate
insight to be merely a diseased ac-
tivity of the imagination, but that
my prevision of incalculable words
and actions proved it to have a fixed
relation to the mental process in
other minds. Bot this superadded
consciousness, wearying and annoy-
ing enongh when it urged on me
the trivial experience of indififerent
people, became an intense pain and
grief when it seemed to be opening
to me the souls of those who wero in
a close relation to me— when the
rational talk, the gfacefal attentions,
the bon-mots, and the kindly deeds,
which used to make the web of their
characters, were seen as if thrust
asunder by a microscopic vision, that
showed all the intermediate frivoli-
ties, all the suppressed egoism, all
the struggling chaos of puerilities,
meanness, vague, capricious me-
mories, and indolent make-shift
thoughts, from which human words
and deeds emerge like leafiets cover-
ing a fermenting heap.
At Basle we were joined by my
brother Alfred, now a handsome
self-confident man of si x-and- twenty
— a thorough contrast to myfra^e,
1859.]
TkeUifUi Vdk
81
nervous, tneflbofcual aelf. I believe I
was held to have ft sort of half*
womanish, half-ghostly beanty; for
the portrait painters, who are thick
as weeds at Geneva, had often asked
nie to sit to them, ami I had been
the model of a dying minstrel in a
fajxtj pietnre. Bnt I thoroogbly dis-
liked my own physiqne, and nothing
bnt the belief that it was a condition
of poetic genins would have reoon*
oiled me to it That brief hope was
quite fled, and I saw in my faee now
nothing but the stamp of a morbid
organisation, framed for passive snf-
fering — too fieeble for the snblime
resistance of poetic prodaotion.
Alfired, from whom I had been almost
constantly separated, and who, in his
present stage of character and appear-
ance, came before me as a perfect
stranger, was bent on being extreme*
ly friendly and brother-like to me.
He bad the snperficial kindness of a
good-humom«d, self-satisfied nature,
that fears no rivalry, and has en-
countered no contrarieties. I am not
sore that mj disposition was good
enough for me to have been qaite
free from envy towards him, even if
our desires had not dashed, and if I
had been in the healthy human condi-
tion that admits of generous confi-
dence and charitable construction.
There must always have been an
antipathy between our natures. As
it was, he became in a few weeks an
object of intense hatred to me ; and
when he entered the room, stitt more
when he spoke, it was as if a sensa-
tion of grating metal had set my teeth
on edge. My diseased consciousness
was more intensely and continually
occupied with his thoaghts and emo-
tions, than with those of any other
person who came in my way. I was
perpetually exasperated with the
pettv promptings of his conceit and
his love of patronage, with his sdf-
complacent belief in Bertha Grant^s
passion for him, with his half- pitying
contempt for me — seen not in the
ordinary indications of intonation
and phrase and slight action, which
an acute and suspicious mind is on
the watch for, but in all their naked
skinlees complication.
For we were rivals, and our desires
dashed, though he was not aware of
it I have said nothing yet of the
effiwt Bertha Gbant produced in me
on a nearer acquaintance. That
effect was chiefly determined by the
fact that she made the only ezcei>*
tion, among all the human b^ingB
about me, to my unhappy gift of in-
sight About Bertha I was always
in a state of uncertainty ; I could
watch the expression of her face, and
speculate on its meaning ; I could
ask for her opinion with the real in-
terest of ignorance ; I could listen for
her words and watch for her smile
with hope and fear ; she had for me
the &scination of an unravelled des-
tiny. I say it was this fact that
chiefly determined the strong e£fect
she produced on me ; for» in the ab-
stract, no womanly character could
seem to have less sympathy with that
of a shrinking, romantic, passionate
youth than Bertha's. She was keen^
sarcastic, unimaginative, premature-
ly cynical, remaining critical and un-
moved in the most impressive scenes,
iodined to dissect all my favourite
poems, and, most of all, contemptn-
ous towards the German lyrics,
which were -my pet literature at that
t^me. To this moment I am unable
to define my foding towards her: it
was no ordinarir boyish isdmiration,
for she was the very oppodte, even to
the colour of her hair, of the ideal
woman who still remained to me the
type of lovdiness; and she was with-
out that enthusiasm for the great and
good, whidi, even at the moment of
her strongest dominion over me, I
should have decbired to be the highest
dement of character.' But there is
no tyranny mere complete than that
which a self-centred negative nature
exerdses over a morbidly sensitive
nature perpetually craving sympaUiy
and support. The most independent
people feel the effect of a man's
dlenoe in heightening their value for
his opinion — feel an additional
triumph in conquering the reverence
of a critic habitually captious and
satirical: no wonder then, that an
enthusiastio self-distrusting youth
should watch and wait before the
closed secret of a sarcastic woman's
Um^ as if it were the shrine of the
doubtfully benignant deity who ruled
his destiny. For a yoimg enthusiast
is unable to imagine the total nega-
tion in another mind of the emodoBB
82
Tlu Lifted Veil
[July,
that are stirHag his own : they may
be feeble, latent, inactive, he thinka,
hot they are there, they may be called
forth— sometiinee, in moments of
happy hallaci nation, he believes they
may be there in all the greater
strength because ho sees no outward
sign of them. And this effect, as I
have Intimated, was hei^tened to
its utmost intensity in me, because
Bertha was the only being who re*
mained for me in the mysterious se*
elusion of soul that renders such
yoQtlkfhl delusion possible. Doubt-
less there was another sort of fasci-
nation at work — that subtle physical
attraction which delights in cheating
our psychological predictiona, and
in compelling the men who paint
sylphs, to &11 in love with some
himne et hrmoe fimime^ heavy^heeled
and freckled.
Bertha's behaviour towards me
was such as to encourage all my illo-
sioDS, to heighten my boyish passion,
and make me more and more depen-
dent on her smiles. Looking back
with my present wretched know-
ledge, I condude that her vanity and
love of power were intensely grati-
fied by the belief that I had fieunted
on first seeing her purely from the
strong impression her person had
produced on me. The most prosaic
woman likes to believe herself the
object of a violent, a poetic passion ;
and without a grain of romance in
her. Bertha had that spirit of vor
triple which gave piquancy to the
idea that the brother of the man she
meant to man^ was dying with love
and jealousy for her sake. That she
meant to marry my brother, was
what at that time I did not beUeve;
for though he was assiduoos in his
attentions to her, and I knew well
enough that both he and my fiither
had made up their minds to this
nsolt, there was not yet an under-
stood engagement — there had been
no exphoit declaratioQ ; and Bertha
babitQaUy, while she flirted with my
brother, and accepted his homage in
a way that implied to him a thorough
recognition of its intention, made roe
believe, by the subtlest looks and
phrases, shgbt feminine nothings that
could never be quoted against her,
that he was really the object of her
secret lidicole; that die thought
him, as I did, a coxcomb, whom she
would have pleasure in disappoint-
ing. Me she openly petted in my
brother's presence, ss if I were too
yoimg and sickly ever to be thought
of as a lover ; and that was the view
he took of me. Bat I believe she
must inwardly have delighted in the
tremors into which she threw me by
the coaxing way in which she patted
my curls, while she laugheil at my
quotations. Such caresses were al-
ways given in the presence of oar
friends, for when we were alone to-
gether, she affected a much greater
distance towards me, and now and
then took the opportunity, by words
or slight actions, to stimulate my
foolish timid hope that she really
preferred me. And why should ehe
not follow her inclination f I was
not in so advantaueons a position as
my brother, but I had fortune, I was
not a year younger than she was,
and she was an heiress, who w^onld
soon be of age to decide for herself.
The fluctuations of hope and fear,
confined to this one channel, made
each day in her presence a delicious
torment There was one deliberate
act of hers which especially helped
to intoxicate me. When we were at
Vienna her twentieth birthday oc-
curred, and as she was very fond of
ornaments, we all took the oppor-
tunity .of the splendid jewelers'
shops in that Teutonic Pari:», to pur-
chase her a birthday present of
jewellery. Mine, naturally, was the
least expensive; it was an opal. ring
— the opal was my favourite stones
because it seemed to blush and turn
pale as if it had a soul. I told
Bertha so when I gave it to her, and
said that it was an emblem of the
poetic nature, changing with the
changing light of heaven and of
woman's eyes. In the evening she
appeared elegantly dressed, and wear-
ing conspicuously all the birthday
presents except mine. I looked
eageriy at her fingers, but saw no
opaL I had no opportunity of no-
ticing this to her during tlie evening;
but the next day, when I found her
seated near the window alone,
after breakfast, I said, ^* Yon scorn
to wear my poor opal. I shonM have
rvmembered that von demised poetic
natures, and ahoiud have given yon
1869.]
Tke L^M YM.
88
ooraK or tnTqaoia^ or some otber
opaqiM norespoiiBive utone.*' *^ Do I
desDiae itf abe answered, taking
hola of a delieato gold ohaia whiob
she alwaja wore rottad her oeck and
drawing oat the end from her hosom
with my ring banging to it ; ^^ it hurts
me a little, I can tell yon,*'* she said,
with her iieaal dabiona smile, ^*to
wear it in tha( secret plaoe; and
since yonr poetical nature is so
stapid as to prefer a more pnblie
pontion, I abail not endure the piun
any longer."
She took off the ring from the
chain and pat it on her finger, smil-
ing still, while the Uood rnshed to
my cheeks, and I could not trust my-
self to say a word of entreaty that
she wouhl keep the ring where it
was before.
I was completely fooled by this,
and fur two days shut myself np in
my own room wh^iever Bertha was
aUeot. that I might intoxicate my-
self afresh with the thought of thia
scene, and all it implied.
I should mention that during theae
two month(«— which eeemed a long
life to nie from the novelty and in-
tensity of the pleaaores and pains I
underwent — ^my diseased partioipa-
tioD in other people'a oonaciotisnesa
continued to torment me; now it
was my father, and now my brother,
now liira. Filmore or her husband,
and now our German courier, whose
stream of thought rushed upon me
like a ringing in the ears not to be
gotrid of, though it allowed my own
impnlsee and ideas to continue their
uninterrupted course. It was like a
pretematurally heightened aenae of
hearing, making audible to one a
roar of aonnd where others find per-
fect stillness. The weariness and
disgust of thia involuntary intrusion
into other aoola was counteracted
only by my ignorance of Bertha, and
my growing passion fur her ; a paa-
sion enormously atimulated, if rK>t
produced, by that ignorance. She
was my oasia of mystery in the dreary
desert of knowle<1ge. I had never
allowed my diseased condition to be-
tray itself, or to drive me into any
UDQ»ual speech or action, except once,
when, in a moment of peculiar bitter-
ness againat my brother, I had fore-
stalled some words which I knew he
waa gMng to ntter— a clever observa-
tion, which he had prepared before-
hand. He had occasionally a alightly-
affeoted hesitation in his speech, and
when be paused an Instant after the
second word, my impatience and
jealousy impelled me to oontinue the
speech for him, %» if it were some-
thing we had both learnt by rote.
He coloured and looked astonished,
as well as annoyed ; and the words
had no sooner escaped my lips than
I felt a shock of alarm lest such an
anticipation of words, very far from
being words of course easy to divine,
should have betrayed me as an ex-
oeptiomd bdng, a sort of quiet ener-
gumen, that every one, Bertlut above
all, would shudder at and avoid.
But I magnitied, as usual, the im-
pression any word or deed of mine
could produce on others ; for no one
gave any sign of having noticed my
interruption as more tlian a rudeness,
to be forgiven me on the score of my
feeble nervous condition.
Wliile this superadded conscioua-
neas of the actual waa almot^t constant
with me, I had never had a recur-
rence of that distinct prevision which
I have described in relation to my
first interview with B<:rtha; and I
was waiting with eager curiosity to
know whether or not my viaion cf
Prague would prove to have been an
instance of the aame kind. A few
daya after the incident of the opal
ring, we were paying one of our u-e-
qoent viidta to the Lichtenberg
Palace. I could never look at many
pictures in aucoession; for pictures,,
when they are at all powerful, affect
me ao atrongly that one or two ex-
hanat all my capability of contiempla-
tion. This morning I had been looking
at Giorgione's picture of the cruel-
eyed woman, said to be a likeness of
Lucrezia Borgia. I had stood long
alone before it, fascinated by the
terrible reality of that cunning, re-
lentless face, till I felt a strange
poisoned sensation, as if I had long
been inhaling a fatal odour, and was
Jnst beginning to be conscious of ita
effecta. Perhaps even then I should
not have moved away if the rest uf the
party had not returned to this room,
anil announced that they were going
to the Belvedere Gallery to settle a
bet which had arisen between my
VOL. LXZXVL
8
84
n$ L^fM YdL
[JjAt,
brother and Mr. Filmore alboat a
portrait. I followed them dreiimily,
and was hardly alire to what oo-
earred till they had all gone np to
the gallery, leaving me below ; for I
refused to oome within tight of
another piotnre that day. I made my
way to the Grand Terrace, for it was
agreed that we shonld sannter in the
gtirtlens when the dUpnte had been
decided. I had been sitting here a
short space, vagnely conscious of trim
gardens, with a city and green hills
in tlie distance, when, wishing to
avoid the proximity of the sentinel^
I rose and walked down the broad
stone steps, intending to seat my*
self farther on in the gardens*
Jast as I reached the grayel walk,
I felt an arm slipped within mine,
and a light hand gently pressing my
wrist. In the same instant a strange
intoxicating numbness passed over
me, like the oontinnanoe or
climax of the sensation I was still
feeling from the gaze of Lncrezia
Borgia. The gardens, the summer
sky, the oonscionsoess of Bertha's
arm being within mine, all vanished,
and I seemed to be suddenly in
darkness, out of which there
gradually broke a dim firelight, and
i felt myself sitting hi my father^
leather cbur in the library at home.
I knew the fireplace — the dogs for
the wood fire — the black marble
chimney-piece with the wlnte marble
medallion of the dying Oleopatra in the
centre. Intense and hopeless roiseiy
was pressing on my soul ; the light
became stronger, for Bertha was
entering with a candle in her hand —
Bertha, my wife — ^with cruel eyes,
with green Jewels and green leaves
on her white ball-dress ; every hate-
ful thought within her present to me.
....** Madman, idiot 1 why don't
you kill yourself then f ** It was a
moment of hell. I saw into her piti-
less soul — saw its barren worldliness,
its scorching hate, and felt it clothe
me round like an air I was obliged to
breathe. She came with her candle
and stood over me with a bitter smile
of contempt ; I saw the great emerald
brooch on her bosom, a studded ser-
pent with diamond eyes. I stioddered
— ^I despised this woinas wi^ the
barren soul and mean thooghts; but
I feit helpless before her, at if she
elutohed my bleeding heart, and
would clutch It till the last drop of
life bloud ebbed away. She was my
wife, and we hated each otfaw.
Gradually the hearth, the dim library,
the candle-light disappeared — seemed
to melt away into a background of
light, the green serpent with the
diamond e^es remaining a dark image
on the retina. Then I had a sense of
my eyelids quivering, and the living
daylight broke in upon me; I saw
gardens, and heard voices; I was
seated on the steps of the Belvedere
Terrace, and my friends were round
me.
The tumult <A mind into which I
was thrown by this hideous viidon
made me ill for several days, and
prolonged oar stay at Vienna. I
shuddered with horror as the seoDO
recurred to me ; and it recurred con-
stantly, with all its minutiad, as if
they had been burnt into my raemoi^;
and yet, such is the madness of
the hnman heart under the in-
fluence of its immediate dearee, I
felt a wild hell-braving joy tiiat
Bertha was to be mine; tor the
fulfilment of my former prevision
concerning her first appearance be-
fore me left me little hope that this
last hideous glimpse of the future
was the mere diseased play c€ my
own mind, and had no relation to
external realities. One thing iiloiie I
looked towards as a possible means
of casting doubt on my terrible con-
viction— the discovery that my visicm
of Prague had been false — and Prague
was the next city on our route.
Meanwhile, I was no sooner in
Bertha's society again, than I was
as completely under her sway as
before. What if I saw into the heart
of Bertha, the matured w<Mnan — B«v
tha, my wife? Bertha, the girl, was
a fascinating secret to me still: I
trembled under her touch ; I felt the
witchery of her presence; I veamed
to be assured of her love. I'he fear
of poison is feeble against the sense
of thirst. Nay, I was jost as Jealous
of my brother as before-^just as
much Irritated by his small patrmils-
ing ways ; for my pride, my diseased
aensibility, were there as they had
always been, and winced at inevi-
tably under evety offence aa my
eye winced from an intruding mote.
H&9.]
Th€ZVUd YwO:
The ftit9r«s e?eQ when bixMi^t wtth«
in the oompass of feeling by a virion
that made me ehadder, had still no
more thtin the foroe of an idea, com-
pared with the force of present emo-
tion—of my love for Bertha, of my
didlike and jealousy towarde my
hniiher.
It- 18 an old story, that men sell
themselves to the tempter, and sign
at bond with their blood, beoanse it
\» only to take effect at a distant
day ; then rash on to snatdi the cap
their sonls thirst after with no less
savage an impnlse, because there is
a dark shadow beside them for ever-
more. There is no short oat, no
patent tram road, to wisdom : after
all the ceutaries of . inveotion, the
soaPs path lies through the thorny
wilderness which most be still trod-
den in solitnde, with bleeding feet,
with sobs for help, aa it was trodden
by them of old time.
My mind speculated eacerly on
the means by which I should become
my brother^s successful rival, for I
was still too timid, in my ignorance
of Bertha's actual feeling, to venture
on any step that would urge from
her an avowal of it I thought I
should gain confidence even for this,
if my vision of Prague proved to
have been veracious; and yet, the
horror of that certitude I Behind
the slim girl Bertha, whose wt^s
and looks I watched for, whose
touch was bliss, there stood con-
tinoally that Bertha with the ful-
ler form, the harder eyes, the more
rigid month, — ^with the barren sel-
fish soul laid bare ; no longer a fasci-
nating secret, but a measured fiict,
urging itself iierpetually on my un-
willing right. Are you unable to
give me your sympathy — ^you who
read this? Are you unable to ima^
gine tiiia doable consciousness at
work witfam me, flowing on like two
parallel streama that never mingle
their waters and blend into a com-
mon hoe f Tet you mast have known
something of the presentiments that
spring from an inright at war with
pasaiun ; and my visions were only like
presentiments intensified to horror.
You have known the powerlessness
of ideaa before the might of impulse ;
and my virions, when once they had
paased into memoiy, were mei» ideaa
-^pale shadcrwa that beokdned' ib
vain, while my hand waa grasped by
the living and the loved.
In after days I thought with bittsr
regret that if I had foreseen some-
th&g moro.<» something dtfESerentr—
if instead of that hideous . vision
which pdsoned the passion it could
not destroy, or if^ even along with it,
I could have had a foreshadowbg of
that momeut when I looked on my
brother^s iaee for the last time, some
flkyfbeniug influence wonld have bees
^ed over my feeling towards him:
pride and hatred would surely have
been subdued into pity, and the
record of thoee hidden sins would
have been riiortened. But this la
one of the vaiin thoughts with which
we men flatter ourMlves, trying to
believe that the egoism within us
wonld have earily been melted, and
that it was only the nanrowneea
of our knowledge which hindered our
generosity, our awe, om* human piety,
from flooding our hard cruel inaiflStf^
ence to the sensations and feeUngs of
our fellow, with the tenderness and
self-renuaciation which have only
come when the egoism has had its
day, when, after our mean striving
for a trium h that is to be another's
loss, tlie triumph comes suddenly,
and we shudder at it because it is
held out by the chill hand of death.
Our arrival in Prague hapfwned at
night, and I was glad of this, for
it seemed like a deferring of a terribly
dectrive moment^ to be in the city for
hours without seeing it. As we were
nut to remain long m Pregue, but to
go on speedily to Dresden, it waa
proposed that we riioold drive out
the next morning and take a general
view of the place, as well aa virit
some of its specially intere^ng spots,
before the heat became oppresrive —
for we wero in August, and the sea-
son was hot and dry. But it hap-
pened that the ladies were rather
late at thrir morning toilette, and
to my father's politely repressed but
perceptible annoyanoe, we were not
in the carriage till the morning waa
far advanced. I thought with a
sense of relief, as we entered the
Jews' quarter, where we were io
virit the old synagogue, that we
should be kept in this flat, shnt^np
part of tibe city, until we shooML
ThaL^Ud 700.
tJ%,
an be too tired 'and too warm to
90 farther, and 80 we should return
without Beetng more than the streets
through which we had already
passed. That would give me another
day^fl Buapense-^suBpense, the only
form in which a fearful spirit knows
the solace of hope. But, as I stood
onder the blackened, groined arches
of that old synagogae, made dimly
Tisible by the seven thin candles in
the sacred lamp, while our Jewish
dcerone reached down the Book of
the Law, and read to us in its ancient
tongue, — I felt a shuddering impres-
aion that this strange building, with
fbs shrunken lights, this surviving
withered xemnant of medieval Joda-
ism, was of a piece with mv vision.
Those darkened dusky Christian
saints, with their loftier arches and
tiieir larger candles, needed the con*
aolatory soom with which they raiisht
point to a more shrivelled death in
ufs than their own.
As I expected, when we left the
Jews' qnarter, the elders of our
party wished to return to the hotel,
but now, instead of rtgoioing in this,
as I had done beforehand, I felt a
sudden overpowering impulse to go on
at -once to tne bridge, and put an end
to the suspense I had been wishing to
protract. I declared, With unusual
decision, that I would get out of the
carriage and walk on alone; they
migh t return wl thout me. My father,
thinking this merely a sample of my
usual ^ poetic nonsense,*' objected
that I should only do myself harm
by walking in the heat ; but when I
persisted, he said angrilv that I might
follow my own absurd devices, but
that Bohmidt (our courier) must go
with me. I assented to thi9, and set
off with Schmidt towards the bridge.
I had no sooner passed from onder
the archway of the grand old gate
leading on to the bridge, than a
trembhng seized me, and I turned
cold under the mid-day sun; yet
I went on; I was in search of
something — a small detail which I
remembered witli special intensity
as part of my vision. There it was
— the patch of coloured light on
the pavement transmitted through a
lamp in the shape of a star.
OHA.FTSB n.
Before the autumn was at an
end, and wiiile the brown leaves
still stood thick on the beeches in our
paik, my brother and Bertha were
engaged to each other, and it was un-
derstood that their marriage was to
take place early in the next spring.
In spite of the certainty I had felt
from that moment^ on the bridge
at Prague, that Bertha wouhl one
day be my wife, my constitutional
timidity and di«trnst had continued
to benumb me, and the words in
which I had sometimes premeditated
a confession of my love^ had died
away unuttered. The same conflict
bad gone on within me as before—
the longing for an assurance of love
from Bertha's lips, the dn^ad Irst
a word oi contempt and denial should
fall upon me like a corrosive acid.
What was the oonvicti«>n of a distant
necessity to me? I trembled under
a present glance, I hungered after a
present joy, I was clogged and chilled
by a present fear. And so the di^s
passed on : I witnessed Bertha^s en-
gagement and heard her marriage*
dincussed as if I were under a con-
scions nightmare— knowing it was a
dream that would vanish, but feeling
stifled under the grasp of bard-olutoh-
intffingers.
When I was not in Berthage pre-
aience — and I was with her very
often, for she continued to treat me
with a plajful patronage that wak-
ened no jealousy in my brothtrr— I
spent my tiu>e chiefly in wanderirg,
in strolling, or taking long rides
while the daylight lasted, and then
shutting mysflf up with my unread
books ; for books had k«t the power
of cbaitiing my attention. My self-
conscionsneas was heightened to that
pitch of intensity in which our own
ei notions take the form of a drama
that urges itself imperatively cm
our contemplation, and we begin to
weep, less under the sense of oar
sttftering than at the thought of it.
I felt a sort of pitying anguissh over
1869.]
ns LifUd F<Hl
»T
iiie {latlios of my own lot — ^the lot of
A l«iTig finely orgranised for pain,
but with hardly any fibres that re-
sponded to pleasure — to whom the
idea of fotnre evil robbed the pre-
sent of itfi joy, and f.>r whom the
idea of fntare good did not still the
uneasiness of a present yearning or
a present dread; I went dumbly
through that stage of the poet^s
snfiering, in which he feels the de-
lioioas pang of utterance, and makes
an image of his sorrows.
I was left entirely without remon-
atrance conoerning this dreamy way-
wanl life: I knew my father's
thought about me:— "^ That lad will
never be good for anything in life:
be may waste his years in an insig-
nificint way on the income that falls
to him : I shall not trouble myself
abont a career for him."
One mild morning in the begin-
ning of November, it happened that I
was standing outside th« portico pat*
ting lazv old Gsssar, a Newfoundland
alm<ist blind with age, tlie only dog
that ever took any notice of me—
for the very dogs shunned me, and
fiiwned on the happier peofile about
me — ^when the groom brought up
my brother's horse which was to
earo'' him to the hunt, and my
brother himself appeared at the
door, florid, broad-chested, and self*
4K>mpIaoent, feeling what a good-
natnred fellow he was not to behave
insolently to us all on the strengtli
of hift great advantages.
"Latimer, old hoy^^ he said to
me in a tone of compassionate cor-
diality, ^ what a pity it is you don't
have a run with the hounds now and
then. The finest thing in the world
for low spirits I"
^' Low spirits!" I thought bitterly,
as he rode away; ^Uhat's tiie sort
of phrase with which coarse, narrow
natures like yours think you com-
pletely define experience of which
you can know no more than your
horse knows. It is to such as yon
that the good of this world fails:
reaily dulneas, healthy selfishneas,
good- tern (lered conceit — these are
the keys to happiness."
The quick thought came, that my
selfishness was eveu stronger than
his — it was only a suffering selfish-
ness instead of an enjoying one.
But then again, my exakperating
insight into Alfred's self-complacent
soul, his freedom from all the doubts
and fear^, the unsatisfied yearningSi
the exquisite tortures of sensitive-
ness, that had made the web of my
life, seemed to absolve me from idl
bonds towards him. This man needed
no pity, no love ; those fine infiuencee
would have been as little felt by
him as the delicate white mist is
felt by the rook it caressfs. Thei«
was no evil in store for him: if he
was not to marry Bertha, it would be
because he had found a lot pleasanter
to himself.
Mr. Filmore's house lay not more
than half a mile beyond our own
gates, and whenever I knew my
brother was gone in another direc-
tion, I went there for the chance df
finding Bertha at home. Later on
in the dav I walked thither. By a
rare accident she was alone, and we
walked out in the grounds together,
for she seldom went on foot beyond
the trimly swept gravel- walks. I
remember what a beautiful sjlph
she looked to me as the low Novem*
her sun shone on her blond hair,
and she trip|)ed along teasing me
with her usual light banter, to which
I listened half fondly, half moodily:
it was all the sign Bertha's myste-
rious inner self ever made to me.
To-day perhaps the m(X>dine8S pre-
dominated, for I had not yet shaken
off the access of jealous hate which
my brother had raised in me by his
parting patronage. Suddenly I in*
terrupted and startled her by saying,
almost fiercely, *' Bertha, how can
you love Alfred?"
She looked at me with surprise
for a moment, but soon her light
smile came agfun, and she answered
sarcastically, ^\ Why do you suppose I
love him?"
" Hnw can you ask that. Bertha ?"
" What I your wisdom thinks I
must love the man I'm going to
marry ? The mo^^t unpleasant thing
in the world. I should quarrel with
him; I should be jealous of him^
our minags would be conducted in
a very ill-bred manner. A little
quiet contempt ctmtribntes greatly
to the eleganre of life."
'^Bertha, that is not your real
feeling. Why do you delight in
as
T&6 LifM Tea.
IJoiy,
Iryiog to decetTe me by inventing
flQoh cynical speeches ?"
^ I need never take the troable of
Invention in order to deceive you, my
small Jasso "^(that was the mocking
name she nsaally gave me). ^' The
easiest way to deceive a poet is to
tell him the truth."
She was testing the validity of
her epigram in a daring way, and
for a moment the shadow of my
vision — the Bertba whose soul was
no secret to me — passed between me
and the radiant girl, the playful
sylph whose feelings were a fa.«)oinat-
mg mystery. I sappuse I most have
•buddered, or betrayed in some other
way my momentary chill of horror.
^^Tassor' she said, seizing my
wrist, and peeping round into my
ihce, **are yon really beginning to
discern what a heartless girl I am f
Why, yon are not half the poet I
thought you were; you are actually
capable of believing the truth about
me."
The shadow passed from between
OS, and was no longer the obpect
nearest tQ me. The girl whose light
fingers grasped me, whose elfish
QbarjQing face looked into mine-^
who, I thought, was betraying an
interest in my feelings that she
would not have directly avowed, —
this warm-breathing presence again
possessed my senses and imagination
Bke a retuniiog syren melody that
had been overpowered for an instant
by the roar of threatening waves.
It was a moment as delicious to me
as the waking up to a consciousness
of youth after a dream of middle
age. I forgot everything but my
passion, and said with swimming
eyes —
^* Bertha, shall yon love me when
we are first married?- I wouldn't
mind if you really loved me only for a
little while."
Her look of astonishment, as she
loosed my hand and started away
firom me, recalled me to a sense of
my strange, my criminal indiscretion.
"Forgive me," I said, hurriedly,
as soon as I could speak again ;
^*I did^nt know what I was saying."
"Ah, Tasso's mad fit has come
on, I see," she answered quietly, for
she had recovered herself sooner than
I had. " Let him go home and keep
his head cool. I mmt go in, for the
sun is setting."
I left her— full of indignaUon
against myself. I had let slip words
which, if she reflected on them,
might rouse in her a sospicion of mj
abnonnal mental condition— a suspi-
cion which of all things I dreaded.
And besides that, I was ashamed of
the ap[)arent ba><eness I had commit-
ted in uttering them to my brother^
betrothed wife. I wandered home
slowly, entering our park through a
private gate instead of by the lodges.
As I approached the house I saw a
man dashing off at full speed from
the stable-yard across the park. Had
any accident happened at home?
1^0 ; perhaps it was only one of my
father's peremptory business errands
that required this headlong bibste:
Nevertheless I quickened my pace
without any distinct motive, and
was soon at the house. I will not
dwell on the scene I found there.
My brother was dead — had been
pitched from his horse, and killed on
the spot by a concussion of the brain.
I went up to the room where be
lay, and where my father was seated
beside him with a look of rigid de-
spair. I had shnnned my father
more than any one since our return
home, for the ratlical antipathy be-
tween our natures made my insight
into his inner self a constant afflio*
tion to me. But now, as I went up
to him, and stood beside him in sad
silence, I felt the presence of a new
element that blended us as we had
never been blent before. My father
had been one of the most successful
men in the money-getting world : he
had had no sentimental sufferings, no
illness. The heaviest troable that
had befallen him was the death of his
first wife. But he married my mother
soon after ; and I remember he seemed
exactly the same to my keen childish
observation, the week after her death
as before. But now, at laat, a siirrow
had come — the sorrow of old age,
which snfi^rs the more from tlie
crushing of its pride and its hopes,
in proportion as the pride and hope
are narrow and prosaic. His son
was to have been married soon —
would probably have stood fir the
borough at the next election. That
son's existence was the best motive
18690
TksLVUd VM.
S9
tiwt oaoM be aU«g»d for mftklng new
pofohiiseft of land every year to ronnd
off the estate. It is a dreary thing
to live on doing the Bome things year
Alter year, without knowing why we
do them. Perhaps the tragedy of
disappointed yoath and passion is
less piteous than the tragedy of dis-
appointed age and world liness.
As I saw into the desolation of my
fiatfaec's heart, I felt a moreinent of
deep pity towards him, which was
the b^inningof a new affeetion — ^an
affection that grew and strengthened
in spite of the strange bitterness with
which he regarded me in the first
month or two after my brAiher's
death. If it had not been for the
floitening inflaenee of my compassion
for him — the first deep compassion
I had ever felt--I should have been
otang by the perception that my
father traosferred the inheritance of
an eldest son to me with a mortified
eense that fate had compelled him to
the unwelcome oonrse of caring for
me as an important l)eing. It was
oidy in spite of himself that he began
to think of me with anxions regard.
There is hardly any negleeted child,
for whom death has made vacant a
more favoured place, that will not
onderstand what I mean.
Gradually, however, my net^ de-
ference to hiH wishes, the effect of
that pstience which was born of my
pity for him, won apon his affection,
and he began to please himself with
the endeavonr to make me fill my
brother^ place as fully as my feebler
personality wonld admit I saw that
the prospect which by-and-by pre^
sented itself of my becoming BertWs
husband was welco le to him, and he
even contemplated in my case what
he bad not intended in my brother^s
— tliat his son and daughter-in-law
should make one household with hiui.
My eofleoed feeling toworils my
father made this the happiest time
I had known since childhood ; — these
last months in which I retained the
delieioua illusion of loving Bertha, of
longing and doubting and hopins
that she loved me. She behaved
with a certain new consciousness and
distance ti) wards me after my bro-
ther's death ; and I too was nnder a
double constraint — that of delicacy
towards my brother's memory, and
of anxiety as to the impression my
abrupt words had left on her mind.
But the additional screen this mu-
tual reserve erected between us only
brought me more completely under
her power: no matter how empty
the adytum, so that the veil be thick
enough. So absolute is our souPs
need of something hidden and un-
certain for the maintenance of that
doubt and hope and effort which are
the breath of its life, that if the whole
future were laid bare to us beyond
to-day, the interest of all mankind
would be bent on the hours that He
between; we should pant after the
uncertainties of our one morning and
our one afternoon; we should rush
fiercely to the Exchange for our last
possibility of speculation, of success,
of disappointment; we should have
a glut of political prophets foretelling
a crisis or a no-crisis within the only
twenty-four hours left open to pro-
phecy. Oonoeive the condition of
the human mind if all propositions
whatsoever were self-evident except
one, which was to become self-evident
at the close of a summer's day, but
in the meantime might be the subject
of question, of hypothesis, of debate.
Art and philosophy, literature and
science, would fiisten like bees on
that one proposition that had the
honey of probability in it, and be the
more eager because their enjojment
would end with sunset. Our im*
pulses, . our spiritual activities, no
more a(^ust ttiemselves to tlie idea
of their future nullity, than the beat-
ing of our heart, or the irritability of
our muscles.
Bertha, the slim, fair-haired girl,
whose present thoughts and emotions
were an enigma to me amidst the
fatiguing obviousness of the other
minds around me, was as absorbing
to me as a single unknown to-day —
as a single hypothetic proposition to
remain problematic till sunset; and
all the cramped, hemmed-in belief
and disbelief, trust and distrui^t, of
my nature, welled out in this one
narrow channel.
And she made me believe that she
loved me. Without ever quitting
her tone of badinage and pluyful
superiority, she intoxicated me with
the sense that I was necessary to
her, that she was never at ease un-
40
TUI^fM Y0SL
[Joly,
l«as I was near her, Babmitfctng to her
playful tyranny. It ooBtH a wonuwi
•o little effort to beeot us in this
way 1 A half-repressed word, a mo-
ment's unexpected fdlenoe, even an
easy fit of petulance on our acconnt,
will serve ns as htjahy%k for a long
while. Out of the subtlest web of
aoaroely- perceptible signs, she set me
weaving the fancy that she had always
nnoonsoiously loved me better than
Alfred, bat, that, with the ignorant
fluttered Sensibility of a young girl,
she had been imposed on by the charm
that lay for her In the distinction
of being admired and chosen by a
man who made so brilliant a figure
in the world as my brother. 6he
satirined herself in a very graceful
way fur her vanity and ambition.
What was it to me that I had the
light of my wretched prevision on the
fact that now it was I who possessed
at least all but tlie personal part
of my brother^s advantages? Our
sweet illoslons are half of them con-
scious iUosioos, like effects of colour
that we know to be mule up of tin*
BcL broken glass, and rags.
We Were married eighteen months
after Alfred's death, one cold, clear
murning in April, when there came
hail and sunshine both tngether; and
Bertha, in her white silk and pale-
green leaves, and the pale sunshine
of her hair and eyes, looked like tiie
spirit of the morning. My father
was happier than he hod thought of
being again: my marriage, he f«rlt
sure, would complete the desirable
modification of my character, and
make me practical and worldly
enough to take my place in society
among sane meq. For he delighted
in Bertha's tact and aenteness, and
felt bure she would be mistress of
me, and make me what she chose:
I was only twenty-one, and madly in
love with her. Poor father! He
kept that hope a little while after
our first year of marriage, and it was
not quite extinct when paralyf^is
came and saved him from utter dis«>
appointment.
I shall hurry through the rest of
my story, not dwelling so nmch as I
have hitherto done on my inward
experience. When people are well
known to each other, they talk rather
of what be&Us them eixtomally, leav-
ing th«ir feelings and sentiments to
be inferred.
We lived in a round of yiaits for
some time after our return homa,
giving splendid dinner-parties, and
making a sensation in our ndghboar-
hoo<l by the new lustre of onr equi-
page, for my fatlier had reserved this
display of his increased wealth for
the period of his son's marriage ; and
we gave our acquaintances liberal
opportunity for remarking that it
was a pity I ma^le so poor a figure as
an heir and a bridegroom. The aer-
Yous fatigue of this existence, the
insincerities and platitudes which I
hod to live thoogh twice over —
through my inner and outward sense
-—would have been maddening to me,
if I had not had that sort of intoxi-
cated callousness which came from
thci delights of a first passion. A
bride and bridegroom, surronnded
by all the a|)pliances of wealth, har>
ried through the day by the whirl of
society, filling their solitary moments
with nastily-snatched caresses, are
pre^mred for their future life, together,
as the novice is prepared for the
cloister, by experiencing its utmost
contrast
Through all these crowded ex<»ted
monthis Bertha^s inward self re-
mained shrouded from me, and I still
read her thouglits only thniugh the
language of her lips and demeanour ; f
had still the delicious human interest
of wondering whether what I did and
said pleased her, of longing to hear
a word of affection, of giving a deli-
cious exaggeration of meaning to her
smile. But I was conscious of a
growing difference in her manner to-
wards me ; sometimes strong enough
to be called haughty coldness, cut-
ting and chilling me as the hail had
done that came across the sunshine
on onr marriage morning; some-
times only perceptible in the dex-
terous avoidance of a Utt-it tete walk
or dinner, to which I bad been look-
ing forward. I had been deeply
pained by tliis — ^had even felt a sort
of crushing of the heart, from the
Bent<e that my brief day of happiness
was near its setting; but still I re-
mained defiendent on Bertlia, eager
for the last rays ei a bliss that would
1869J
neLVM VM.
41
soon be gone for erer, boping and
watohing for aonie aAer-glow more
beaatifal from the impoiding nigbt.
I remember— bow sbosld I not re-
member ?-*~tbe time wben tbat de*
pendence and bope utterly kit me— -
when the Badness I bad felt in Bertha^a
growisg estrangement b«f«ame a joj
thai i looked back apon with longing,
as a man might look back on the
laet pains in a paralysed limb. It
waK jaiit after the close of ray father's
last illness, which necessarily with-
drew ns from society, and threw us
mure npon each other. U was the
eTeoing of my father's death. On
that evening the veil that had
ahronded Berthage soul from me,
and made me find in her alone
among my fellow- beings the blessed
poseibUity of mystery, anddoobt, and
es|)ectation, was iirdt withdrawn.
P«rha|ie it was the first day since the
beginning of my passion for her, in
which that passion was completely
neatralided by the presence of an
absorbing feelioff of anotht^ kind. I
bud lieen watching by my father^s
death- bed : I had been witneesing the
last fitful yearning glances that his
Bonl liad cast back on the spent in-
' beritanoe of life— the last faint con-
fldoiisnessof love that he had gathered
irum the pressare of my hand. What
are all oor personal lovee when we
bare been sharing In that supreme
agony ? In the nrst moments wben
we come away from the presence of
death, every other relation to the
living id merged, to our feeling, in the
great relation of a common nature
and a common deetiny.
it WAS in that state of mind that I
joined Bertha in her private sittuig-
ro'iiu. She was seated in a leaning
p«i8ture on a settee, with her back
toward;* the door; tlie great rich
coils uf her blund hair surmounting
her small neck, visible above the
back of the settee. I remember, as I
closed the door behind me, a cold
tremnlousness seizing me, and a
vague sense of being hatibd and lunely
<^vagtte and strong, like a presenti-
ment. I know how I loi»ked at that
moment, for I saw myself in Beriha^s
thought as she lifwd her cutting
grey eyes, and looked at me: a
miserable gfaost'seer, suisrounded by
phantoms in the noon-day, trembling,
undar a breeae wben the leaves were
still, without appetite for tlie com-
mon objects of human desire, but
pining after the moonbeams. We
Were front to front With each other,
and judged each other. . The terrible
moment of complete illnmination had
come tome, nnd I saw that the dark-
ness bad hidden no landscape from
me, but only a blank prosaic wall :
from that evening forth, through the
eSckening years that followed, I saw
ail round the narrow room of this
woman's soul-'^eaw petty artifice and
mere negation where I had delighted
to believe in coy sensibilitiee, and in
wit at war with latent feeling— saw
the light floating vaoities of the girl
defining themselves into the syntemar
tic coquetry^ the scheming selfishness,
of the woman — saw repulsion and an-
tipathy hardening mto cruel hatred,
giving pain only for the sake of
wreaking itself.
For Bertha too, aA<er her kind, felt
the bitterness of disillusion. She
had believed that my wild poet^s
passion for her would make me her
slave; and that^ being her slave, I
shnuld execute her will In all tbingi.
With the essential shallowness of a .
negative, unimaginative nature, she
wan unable to conceive the fact that
sensibilities were anything else than
weaknesses. She had thought my
weaknesses would put me in her
power, and she ft^nd them un-
manageable forces. Oor positions
were reversed. Before mamage, she
had completdy mastered my iooagi-
oadon, for she was a secret to me ;
and I created the unknown thought
before which I trembled, as if it were
hers. But now .that her soul was
Liid open to me, now tbat I was cqpi-
pelled to share the privacy of her
motives*, to follow all the petty de-
vices that preceded her words and
acts, she found herself powerless with
me, except to produce in me the
chill shudder of repnlsion — power-
less, because I could be acted on by
no lever within her reach. I was
dead to worldly ambitious, to social
vanities, to all the incentives within
the compass of her narrow imagina-
tion, and I lived under influences
utterly invisible to her.
She was really pitiable to have
snob a liusband, and so all the world
nsL^ttd VttL
IJ'Ifr
tbovght. A graoefhl, brilliant woman,
likeBeitha, wboimiled on morning
M^en, made a figure in ball^rooms^
and W80 capable of that light refmrtee
.whiob, from snch a voman, is accept-
ed aa wit^ WB8 aeoore of carrying off
all Bympathy from a hnsband wbo
was sioKly, abslraoted, and, as some
saspeoted, oraok*brained. Even tlie
servants in oar hoase gave her the
balance of Uieir regard and pity.
For there were no aodible qnnrrels
between us; onr alienation, onr re-
polsion from each other, lay within
the silence of onr own hearts ; and if
the mistress went ont a groat deal,
and seemed to dislike the master's
society, was it not natural, poor
thing? The master was odd. I was
kind and Jost to mj dependants, bat
I ezeiced in them a shrinking, half-
oontemptoons pity ; for this class of
men and women are bot slightly de»
termined in their estimate of others
by general considerations of charac-
ter. They judge ci persons as they
judge of coins, and valoe those who
pass oorrent at a high rate.
After a time I interfered so little
with Bertha's habits, that it might
. seem wonderfal bow her hatred to-
wards me oonki grow so intense and
active as it did. Bat she had begon
to suspect, by some Involuntary be-
trayals of mine, that there was an
abnormal power of penetration in
me— that fitfully, at least, I was
strangely cognisant of her thoughts
and intentions, and she began to be
haunted by a terror of me, which
alternated every now and then with
defiance. She meditated oootinnally
how the incubus oould be shaken off
her life — how she could be freed from
this hateful bond to a being whom
die at once despised as an imbecile,
and dreaded as an inquisitor. For a
long while she lived in the hope that
my evident wretchedness would drive
ne to the commission of suicide;
but sqicide was not in my nature.
I was too completely swayed by the
sense that I was in the grasp of un-
known forces, to believe in my power
of self-release. Towards my own
destiny I had become entirely pa»>
live ; for my one ardent desire bad
spent itself, and impulse no longer
predominated over knowledge. For
this reason I never thought cf taking
any steps towards a oomj^ete aepara-
tira, which would have made oar
alienation evident to the world. Why
should I msh for help to a new
course, when I was only soffering from
the consequences of a deed which
had been tlie act of my intenseat
will? That woM have been the
logic of one wbo had desires to
gratify, and I had no desires. Bat
Bertha and I lived more and more
aloof from each other. The rich find
it easy to live married and apart.
That course of our life which I
have indicated in a few sentenoea
filled the space of years. So mnch
misery-— so slow and hideous a
grviwth of hatred and sin, may be
oomprcesed into a sentence f And
men judge of each other's lives
throogn this summary medium. They
epitomise the experience of thmr
fellow-mortal, and pronounce jodg^
ment on him in neat syntax, and feel
themselves wise and virtuous—Kwn-
oneroffs over the temptations they
define in well-selected predicates..
Seven years of wretchedness glide
glibly over the lips of the man who
has never counted them out in
moments of chill disappointment, of
head and heart throbbingsi, of dread
and vain wrestling, of remorse and
despair. We learn word$ by rute^
but not their meaning; ihat must be
paid for with onr life-blood, and
printed in the subtle fibres oi our
nerves.
Bat I will hasten to finish my
story. Brevity is justified at once
to those who readily understand, and
to those who will never understand.
Some years after my father's death,
I was sitting by the dim firelight in
my library one Januarjf evenings-
sitting in the leather chair that used
to be my father^s-^wben Bertha ap-
peared at the door, with a candle in
her hand, and advanced towards mew
I knew the ball-dress she had on —
the white ball-dre», with the gfeea
jewels, shone npon by the light of
the wax candle which Ht up the
medallion of the dying Cleopatra oo
the mantelpiece. Why did she come
to me before going out? I had not
seen her in the library, which was
my habitual place, for months. Why
did she stand before me with the
• candle in her hand, with her crosl
18594]
m L^M' Ydl.
eoBtemptnoFiis eyet fixed on me, and
the glitteriog serpent, like a famiiiar
demon, on her breast t For a mo-
ment I thonght this ftilfilment of my
▼ision at Vienna marked some dread-
fhl crisis In my fate, but I saw no*
thing in Berthage mind, as she stood
before me, ezoept scorn fbr the look
of overwhelming -miiery witii which
I sot before her. . . . «' Fool, idiot,
whT don't you kill yourself, then f ^
*— that was her tiioiight. Bot at
length her thoughts reverted to her
errand, and she spoke aioud. The
apparently iadifferent nature of the
errand seemed to make a ridieoloos
anticKmaz to my provision and my
agitation.
^' I have had to hire a new maid.
Fletoher is going to be m&rried, and
abe wants me to ask you to let her
hnsband have the public^house and
farm at Mohon. I wish him to have
it Yon must give the promise now,
because Fletoher is going to«morrow
morning — and quickly, because I'm
in a hurry."
"Very well; you may promise
her," I said, indifferently, and Bertha
swept out of the library again.
I always shrank from the sight of
a new person, and all the more when
it was a person whose mental life
was likely to weary my reluctant in-
sight with worldly ignorant triviali-
ties. But I shrank especially from
the sight of this new .maid, because
her advent had been announced to
me at a moment to which I could
not cease to attach some fatality : I
had a vague dread that I should find
her miied op with the dreary drama
of my life — that some new sickening
vision would reveal her to me as an
evil genius When at last I did nn*
avoidably meet her, the vsgue dread
was changed into definite disgust
Bhe was a tall, wiry, dark-eyed
woman, this Mrs, Archer, with a lace
handsome enough to give her coarse
hard nature the odious finish of bold^
self confident coquetry. That was
enough to make me avoid her, quits
apart from the contemptuous fedinff
with which she contemplated me. I
seldom saw her ; but I |)eroeived that
she rapidly became a favourite with
her mistross, and after the lapse of
eight or nine months, I began to be
aware that there had arisen in Ber*
tha's miiid towards tiila woman a
niingled ieeling of fear and depeor
dence, and that this feeling was a>-
sooiated with ill-defined images of
oandMight scenes in her dre88ing<»
room, and the looking-up of some*-
thing in Bertha's cabinet. My inters
views with my wife had become so
brief and so rarely ^solitary, that I
had no opportunity of penwiving
these images in her mind with more
definiteness. The recollections of
the past become contracted in the
rapidity of thought till they some>
times bear hardly a more distinct
resemblance to the external reality
than the forms of an oriental alpha-
bet to the objects that suggested
them.
Besides, for the hist year or more
a modification had being going for-
ward in my mental ooncBtion, and
was growing more and more marlced.
My insight into the minds of those
around me was becoming dimmer
and more fitful, and. the ideas that
crowded my double oonscionsness be-
came less and less dependent on any
personal contact. All that was per^
sonal in me seemed to be suffering a
gradual death, so that I was hifling
the organ through which the pei^
sonal agitations and proiects of otbeia
could affect me. But along with this
relief from wearisome inaight, there
was a new development of what I
ooncluded-«-as I have since found
rightly — ^to be a previnon of external
acenea. It was as if the relation be-
tween me and mv fettow-men was
more and more deadened, and mv
relation to what we eall the inani-
mate was qnickened into new life.
The more I lived afiart from society,
and in proportion as my wretchedness
subsided from the violent throb of
agonised passion into the dolness of
habitual pain, the more frequent and
vivid became such visioDs as that I
had had of Prague — of strange cities^
of sandy plains, of gigantic ruins, of
midnight skiea with strange bright
oonstellations, of monntain^passes, of
grassy nooks fiecked with the aftev-
noon sunshine throngh the boughs:
I was in the midst of all these scenes^
and in all of them one pres4rnce
Seemed to weigh on me in all these
mighty shapes^the presence of som^
thing nnitnown and pitilesa. For
TUlAfML VM.
[July
ooDtioual snfEering bad aonihilatod
religioud faith vitbin roe; to the
utterly miserable — ^the nnloviog and
the anloved — there is oo religioa pos-
sible, no worship, but a worship of
devik And beyond all these, and
oontinnally reonrring, was the vision
of my death — ^the pangs, the snffuca-
tion, the last straizgle, when life
wonid be grasped at in vain
Things Mrere in this stiite near the
end of the seventh year. I bad beoome
entirely free from inflight, from my
abnormal cognisanoe of any other
conscionsness than iny own, and in-
stead of intrnding involuntarily into
the worlfl of other minds, was living
continually in my own solitary fhture.
Bertha was aware that I whs greatly
• changed. To my surprise she had of
late Seemed to seek opportunities of
remaining in my society^ and had
euhivated that kind of distant ye*
familiar talk which is cnstomary
between a husband and wife who
live in polite and irrevooable aliena-
tion. 1 bore this with langnid sub*
mifisiiin, and without feeling enough
interest in her motives to be ronsed
into keen observation; yet I otmld
not help perceiving something tiium-
pbaiit and excited in her carriage and
the expression of her face— -«>mething
too subtle to express itself in words
or toners but giving one the idea that
she lived in a state' of expectation or
faopefnl suspense. My chief feeling
was satisfaction that her inner self
was once more shut out from me;
and I almost revelled for the moment
in the absent melancholy that made
me answer her at cross purposes, and
betray utter ignorance of what she
had been saying. I reni^nber well
the look and the smile with which
she one day said, after a mistake of
this kind on ray part: ^^I used to
think yon were a clairvoyant, and
that was the reason why you were
so bitter against other dairvoy-
anta, wanting to keep your mono*
poly ; but I see now you have become
rather duller than the rest of the
world."
I said nothing in reply. It oc-
enrred to me that her recent obtru-
non of herself upon me might have
been prompted by the wish to test
my p<iwer of detecting some of her
seorets; but I kt the thougjbt drop
again at once: her motives and her
deeds had no interest for me, and
whatever pleasures she might be
seeking, I had no wish to baulk her.
There was still pity in my soul for
every living thing, and Bertha was
livings- was surrounded with possi-
bilities of misery.
Just at this time there occurred an
event which roused me somewhat
from my inertia, and gave me an \n^
terest in the passing moment tliat I
bad thought impossible for me. It
was a vittit from Charles Meunier,
who had written me word that he
was coming to £ngland for relaxa-
tion ffDm too strenuous labour, and
would like to see me. Meunier bad
now a European reputation ; but bis
letter to me expressed that keen re-
membrance of an early regard, an
early debt of sympathy, which is in-
separable from nobility of character;
and I too felt as if his presence would
be to me like a transient resurrec-
tion into a happier pre -existence.
He came, and as far as possible, I
renewed our old plfasure of making
teU d'tite excursions, though, inz^ad
cf mountains and glaciers and the
wide blue lake, we had to content
ourselves with mere slopes and ponds
and artificial plantations. The years
had changed ns both, but with what
different result 1 Meunier was now
a brilliant figure in society, to whom
elegant women pretended to listen,
and whose acquaintance was boasted
of by noblemen ambitious of brains.
He repressed with the utmost deli-
cacy all betrayal of the shock which
I am sure he nmst have received
from our meeting, or of a desire to
penetrate into my condition and cir-
cumstances, and sought by tlie nt-
most exertion of his charming serial
powers to make our reunion agree-
able. Bertha was mnch struck by
the unexpected' fa^inations of a visi-
tor whom she had expected to find
presentable only on the score of his
celebrity, and put forth all her co-
quetries and accomplishments. Ap-
itareiitly she succeeded in attracting
his admiration, for his manner tOr
wards her was attentive ami flatter-
ing. The effect of his presence on
me was so benignant, especially in
those renewals of our old tite^-tite
wanderings, when he ponred iorth to
1669.]
The liftid Vdi.
me wonderiU DarratiTes of his pro-
fefiBional experience, that mtxre than
once, when his talk tamed on the
peyehological relations of disease, the
thought crossed mj mind that, if his
stay with me were long enough, I
might posriblj bring myself to teU
this man the secrets of my lot Might
there not lie some remedy for ma,
too, in his science? Mi^t there not
at least lie some comprehension and
sympathy ready fur me in his large
and sneceptiUle mind f Bat tl»e
thought only flickered feebly now
and then, and died out before it could
become a wish. The horror I had
<^ again breaking in on the privacy
of another soul, made me, by an irra-
tional iDStinot, draw the shroud of
concealment more closely around my
own, as we automatically perform
the gesture we feel to be wanting in
another.
* When Meunier's visit was ap-
proaching itsi conclusion, there hap«
pene<l an eyent which caused some
ezcitetnent in our household, owing
to the Aorprisingly strong effect it
appeared to produce on Bertha-»oii
Ben ha, the self-postsessed, who usn-
ally seemed inaccessible to feminine
agitations, and did even her hate in
a self restrained hygienic manner.
This event was the sudden severe
illness of her maid, Mrs. Archer. I
have reserved to this moment the
mention of a circnmstance which had
forced itself on my notice shortly
before Meunier^s arrival, namely,
that there had been some quarrel
between Bertha and this maid, ap-
parently during a visit to a dis-
tant family, in which she had accom-
panied her mistress. I had over-
beard Archer spt'aking in a tone of
bitter insolence, which I should have
thought an adequate reason for im-
mediate dismissal. No dismissal fol-
lowed ; on the contrary, Bertha
seemed to be silently putting up
with personal inconvtttiences from
the exhibitions of this woman^s tem-
per. I was the more astonished to
observe that her illness seemed a
cause of strong solicitude to Bertha;
that bhe was at ttie bedside night
and day, and would allow no one
.else to officiate as head-nurse. It
happened that our family doctor was
eoi on a holiday, an acddent which
made Meanier's presence in the honse
doubly welcome, and he apparently
entered into the case with an inte-
rest which seemed so much stronger
than the ordinary professional ML-
ing, that one day when he had iallea
into a long fit of silence after visit-
ing her, I said to him,
. ^^Is this a very peculiar case of
disease, Meunier?*'
^^No," he answered, ^^tt is aa
attack of peritonitis, which will be
fotal, but which does not differ phy-
sically fh>m many other cases that
have come under my observation.
But m tell you what I have on my
mind. I want to make an experi-
ment on this woman, if you will give
me pennission. It can do her no
harm — will j;ive her no pain — ^for I
shall not maJce it until life is extinct
to all purposes of sensation. I want
to try the effi^ct of transfnsing blood
into her arteries after the iieart has
ceased to beat for some minnte^s. I
have tried the experiment aguin and
again with animals that have died of
this disease, with astounding results,
and I want to try it on a human
subject I have the small tubes
necessary, in a oaae I have with me.
and the rest of the apparatus conla
be prepared readily. I should use
my own blood — take it from my own
arm. This woman won^ live ttirongh
the night, I'm convinced, and I want
yon to promise me your assistance in
making the experilnent. I can^t do
without another hand, but it would
perhaps not be well to call in a medi-
cal assistant from among your pro-
vincial doctors. A disagreeable, fool-
ish version of the thing might get
abmad."
^* Have yon spoken to my wife on
the subject?" 1 said, ^^ because she
appears to be peculiarly sensitive
about this woman: she has been a
fovourite maid.'*
"« To tell you the truth," said Ken-
nier, ^4 don't want her to know
about it. There are always insupeiv
able difficnltiea with women in these
matters, and the effect on the sup-
posed ciead body may be startling.
Yon and I will sit np togedier, and
be in readiness. When certain symp^
toms appear I shall take you in, and
at the ri^ht moment we most manage
to gelevery one else oot of the room.'*
M
HUIifUi FML
[Joly,
I need not give our fkrAcr oonv«>
ndon on the loljeot. He entered
▼erj fully into the dctailai «nd over*
came my repaMou from tbem, by
excfting in me a mingled awe and
enrioeity oonoeming l^ poattUe re-
8iilt» of hie experiment.
We prepared everything, and ha
fatttrocted me in my pari as assistant.
He had not told Bertha of his ab«
solnte oooviction that Archer wonld
not «nrvive through the night, and
endeayoared to persaade her to leave
the piitient and take a night^s rest
But she was obstinate, sospecting
the fitot that death vas at hand, and
snpposing that he wished merely to
save her nerves. She refused to
leave the sick-room. Meonier and I
sat np together in the library, he
making frequent visits to the sick-
room, Aod returning with the infor-
mation that the case was taking pre-
cisely the course he expected. Once
he said to me, ^ Oan yun imagine any
cause of ill-feeling this woman has
against her mistrwa, who ia so de-
voted to her?"
^ I think there was some misunder-
standing between them before her
illness. Why do yon ask ?^'
^Because I have observed for the
last five or six hours— since, I fancy,
she has lost all hope of recovery —
there seems a strange prompting in
her to say something which pain and
iuUng strength forbid her to otter;
and there is a look of hideous
meaning in her eyes, which she turns
continually towards her mistress. In
this disease the mind often rematna
singularly clear to the last."
^ I am not surprised at an indica-
tion of malevolent feeling in her,'^ I
said. ^She Is a woman who has
always inspired me with distrust and
dislike, but she managed to inainuate
herself into her iniatress^s favour."
He remained silent after this, looking
at the fire with an air of absorption,
till he went np-etairs again. He re*
malned away longer than usual, and
on retaminc, said to me qoietly,
•*Ooraenow?*
I followed him to the chamber
where death was hovering. The
dark hanghiga of the large bed made
a background that gave a strong
leliaf to BerthaVi pale ftoe aa I en-
tered. She startea Ibrward aa ahe
saw me enter, and then looked at
Meonier with an cxpreasion of angry
inquiiy; but be lifted np his hand as
if to impose silence, while he fixed
bis glance on the ^ng wooian and
felt her pnlre. The fhoe was pinched
and ghastly, a cold perspiration was
on &e fi»rehead, sAd the eyelids
were lowered so aa almost to conceal
the large dark eyes. After a minute
or two, Meonier walked round to the
other side of the bed where Bertha
stood, and with his usual air of gentle
politeness towards her begged her to
leave the patient under our care —
everytliiog should be done for her —
she was no longer in a state to be
conscious of an idfeetionate presence.
Bertha was hesitating, apparently
almost willing to believe bis assni^-
anoe and to comply. She looked
roimd at the ghaatlv dying face, as if
to read the confirmation of tiiat
assurance, when for a moment the
lowered eyelids were raised again,
and it seemed aa if the eyes were
looking towards Bertha, but blankly.
A shudder paased through BerthaVi
frame, and she returned to her station
near the pillow, tacitly implying that
ahe would not leave the room.
The eyelids were lifted no more.
Once I looked at Bertha, as ahe
watched the face of the dying one.
She wore a rich peignoir, and her
blond hair was half covered by a
lace cap: in her attire she was, aa
always, an elegant woman, fit to
figure in a picture of modern aristo*
cratic life: but I asked mysebf how
that face of hers could ever have
seemed to me the face of a woman
born of woman, with memories of
childhood, capable of pain, needing
to be fondled? The features at that
moment looked so preternatni«lly
sharp, the eyes were so hard and
eager — she looked like a cruel im-
mortal, finding her spiritual feaat in
the agonies of a dying race. For
across those hard features there came
something like a flash when the last
hour had be«n breathed out,, and we
all felt that the dark vail had com-
pletely fallen. What secret was there
Wween Bertha and this woman ? I
turned my ^ea from her with «
horrible dread lest my insight should ,
ratom^and I should be obliged to aee
wluit had been breeding about two
MSA.]
n^LifM VmL
4n
nnloting msmett's hearti. I fell; tbat
Bertha had bean watohtttg for tha
aMu&ant of daath as the seating of her
aeeret: I tbaaked Haayen it coold
remain sealed for me.
Menimr Mid qnletlj, ''Gone." He
then gave hia arm to'Bertlia, and she
aohmitted to be led oat of the room.
I soppoee it was at her order that
two female attendants came into the
room, ami dismissed the yoan|;er one
who had been present before. . When
they entered, Meonier had already
op«ned the artery in the long thin
neok that lay rigid on the piUow, and
I dismissed them, ordering them to
remain at a distance till we rang:
the doctor, I said, had an operation
to perform — ^he was not soro about
the death. For the next twenty
minatea I forgot everytliing hot
Heanier and the experiment in whioh
he was so absorbed, that I think his
senses would have been closed againstt
all sounds or sights that had no re-
lation to it It was my task at first
lo keep UD the artificial respiration
in the body after the transfusion had
been effected, bat presently Meuniw
relieved me, and I could see the won*
drooa slow return <^ life: the breast
began to heave, the inspirations be-
came stronger, the eyelids quivered,
and the soul seemed to have returned
teaeath them. The artificial respira*
tioD was withdrawn : still the breath:
ing continued, and there was a
movement of the lips«
Just then I heard the handle of
the door moving: I suppose Bertha
had heard from the women that they
had been dismissed: probably a
vague foar had arisen in her mind,
for she entered with a look of ahirm.
She came to the foot of the bed and
gave a stifled ciy.
The dead woman's eyes were wide
opeO) and met hers in full recognition
—the recognition of hate. With a
•udden strong effort, the hand that
Bertha had thought for w&t still was
pointed towards her, and the haggard
foce oooved. The gasping eager Toice
aaid,
^Tou mean to poison your hua*
band .... the pdoon is in the
black cabinet .... I got it for you
.... you laughed at me, and told
lies about ne behind my back, to
make me dfagnsting » . .
yea were fealona ..... are yen aony
. • . . now?"
The 11 pe continued to mummr, bat
the sonads were no longer disttnotb
Soon there was no aound— only a
slight movement: the flame had
leaped out, and was .being extin-
guished the faster. The wretched
woman^s heart-strings had been set
to hatred and vengeance; the spirit
of life had swept the chords for an
instant, and was gone again for ever.
Good God ! This is what it is to
live again ... to wake up with our
unstilled thirst upon us, with our
unnttered curses rising to our lips,
with our muscles ready to act out
their half- committed sins.
Bertha stood pale at the foot of the
bed, quivering and helpless despair-
ing of devices, like a cunning animal
whose hiding-places are surrounded
by swift -advancing flame. Even
Meunier looked paralysed; life for
that moment ceased to be a scientific
problem to him. As for me, this
scene seemed of one texture with the
rest of my existence : horror was my
familiar, and this new revelation was
only like an old pain recurring with
new circumstances.
Since then Bertha and I have lived
apart-— she in her own neighbonr-
hood, the mistress of half our wealth,
I as a wanderer in foreign countriea,
until I came to this Devonshire nest
to diCb Bertha lives pitied and
admired — for what had I against that
charming woman, whom every one.
but myself oould have been happy
with t There had been no witness of
the scene in the dying room except
Meunier, and while Meunier lived, ma
lipa were sealed by a promise to me.
Once or twice, weary of wandering,
I rested in a fovourite soot, and my
heart went out towards the men and
women and children whose faces
were becoming familiar to me : bat
I was driven away again in terror at
the appioaoh of my old insight—
driven away to live contiiiually with
the one Unknown Presence revealed
and yet hidden by the moving cur-
tain of the earth and aky. Till at
last disease took hold of me and
forced me to real hevc-foreed ma to
tive in depenidenoe oa my servanti.
49
2V. McMid^ SOmpUm Leeturss.
[J^^
' And then the onrae of insfgbfe^-of my
doable conscionsnese, came again, and
has never left me. I know all their
narrow thoaghts, thdr feeble regard,
their half^wearied pitj.
It is the SOtb of September 1860.
I know these flgnres I have jost
written, aa if thej were a long fwniliar
Inaoriptioa. I have eeen them on
this page in mj desk nnnnnibered
times, when the scene of mj dying
straggle has opened npon me. • . .
DR. M ANSEL'S BAMPTOK LSCTURSB.
Dr. Manners Bampton Lectures
were listened to by crowded and en-
thosiastic congregations; they far-
nished for some time the prominent
subject of conversation at the Uni-
veraity of Oxford; they cannot fail
to have had a considerable influence,
and an influence at Oxford is one
which graflually pervades the whole
country. Dr. Mansel, moreover, has
established for himself the reputation
of a profound thinker, or, at all events,
of a learned metaphysician. Selected
to write the article "Metaphysics*' in
the last e<iition of the Enq/elopcBdia
Britannica; selected to be one of the
editors' of the Works of the late Sir
William Hamilton,— the philosopher
of Magdalen Qollege stands before the
'public at large as one invested with
whatever authority the learning of
the schools, past and present, can be-
stow. It is possible that Dr. Mansel
may be more distinguished for the
erudition of an historian of philosophy,
than for those ucute powers of reanon-
ing which constitute a man to be pre-
eminently the philosopher, or which
enable him to walk with an assured
tread, and a straightfurwanl course,
amongst the shadowy abstractions
which metaphysics are wont to con-
jure up around us. Be that as it
may, the present series of Bampton
Lectures, on account both of the
author and the subject of them, have
a claim upon dur especial attention ;
and if some of the positions main-
tained in them appear to us erroneous
—erroneous, and not without an evil
tendency — we need make no apology
for entering into controveray with
them.
Let all due acknowledgments be
made to the scbolotftic learning of the
author, and to the vigorous style in
which he has clothed a very abatnise
elass of ideas. We oceasionnlly have
to regret a want of distinctness ; but
when we consider that the exigencies
of the preacher were added to those
of the essayist, we cannot be surprised
at a few passages of obscurity. It is
not oar wish to detract in the least
from the literary merit or reputation
of the volume before us. We have
simply to deal with the sol^tontial
thought it gives us, with the line of
reasoning it puts forth. We dissent
ftovci Dr. Mansel io the explanation
he has given us of the "Limits of
Religious Thought,*' or the limits of
the human mind in its knowledge of
the Creator of the worid. He has,
to our apprehension, so restrioted
these limits, as to render a system of
revealed religion as impossible as a
system of religion based on the un-
aided exercise of die human intellect
Strictly speaking, they are not limiU
that he uva described, for a' limit
would imply some capacity for theo-
logical knowledge; whereas he has
virtually asserted that we have no
capacity whatever for reasoning npon
theology. We can only repeat pro-
positions that we do not understand,
or adopts for our guidance, certain
other propositions which we do nnder^
stand, but which are ttdaptations to
the human intellect, and of whioh we
can never know how far they have,
or have not, an objective truth.
Such conclusions as tliese we may
be excused for controverting. We
firmly believe them to be erroneous
as well as mischievous. Such a de-
fence of revealed religion ends in a
l^e Limitn of lUHaitrtu Thought Bxinnined in Bight Lectures, preath4d be/ore
ih€ Uni9treitg of Oxford^ ^ Aa By Hnmr Lohgukvlllk MaMubL) B.D.
1359.]
Lr. Mtumft Bampton LeUuret.
49
Morific« of all religion whatever. It
is open to Dr. Mansel," or any other
metaphysical divine, to put hefore as
the Tkeistic and the Atheistic repre-
sentation of the nniverse; he may
«how (if such is his opinion) tlmt,
resting solely on the uninspired teach-
ing of the human intellect, either of
these representations might be adopt-
ed, and he may proceed to say that it
is Revelation which gives the cast-
ing vote, the peremptory decision in
favour of one of them. Here the
highest honour possible is done to
Revelation. Of two roads which the
mind was oqaally capable of faking,
it chooses for ns that which leads up
to light and hope ; it determines that
the world is the manifestation of a
superoul intelligence, and rescues us
from that <?ark athelstio view which
detects nothing in the universe but
unconscious forces breaking out^ in
their last development, into the phe-
nomena of conscionsness. This line
of argument may be tenable, though
we should shrinK even from this, be-
cause it would present the Atheistio
view as having a certain rationality
which we should not accord to it.
But it is not open to any metaphy-
sical divine whatever to prove to ui^
in the first p^ace, that Theism is
esecntialiy inconceivable by the Im-
man mind, or that it involves an irre-
condlable contradiction, and then to
introduce Revelation as our sole
teacher of theology. To adopt Lockers
well-known metaphor, this is to put
out the eyes of a man at the same
moment that you present him with a
telescope. " So far," says Dr. Mansel,
" is human reason from being able to
construct a .scientific theology inde-
pendent of, and superior to, Revela-
ttoo, that it cannot even read the
dphabet out of which that theology
must be framed." — P. 61, "We are in
such a condition, it seems, that we
cannot read this alphabet, nor can we
he taught to read it by any teacher
whatsoever.
If it be asked how it is that we find
ourselves in this desperate condition,
the answer is that we have " no phi-
losophy of the Infinite." We cannot
explain what scholastic men have
been pleased to call the Absolute and
the Infinite. Tear np for me these
gates of Gaza! You cannot Then
VOL. LXZZYI. 4
hold forth your hands for the fetters
and set yourself to grind, like a slave,
at the public mill. Solve me I^Ib
problem of the. Infinite I Yon can-
not. Then renounce for ever all free
activity, all intellectual inquiry, in
the domain of theology. Repeat our
dogmas, and live according to our
precepts, with implidt and nnresist-
ing obedience. This is your only
duty. Such defence of our orthodox
Christianity we do not desire to see
current in die world. It is true that
the divine who proceeds upon this
method will have, reduced his op-
ponent to perfect silence. He can
object to nothing; bnt neither can be
assent to anyUiing. He has the
alternative offered him cf quitting
the region of theolo^ altogether, or
of sitting down in it in mere mute
and stolid subjection. Rational as-
sent he cannot give, but he can repeat
with a certain sense of duty, proposi-
tions he does not oompreliena, or he
can regulate his conduct according to
certain intelligible representations of
the Divine Being, which, however,'
he is to understand are condescending
accommodations to the weakness of
humanitv. These latter are regula-
titt trutns ; he is to believe in them
for all practical purposes ; but should
he proceed to reason upon these in-
telligible and vivid conceptions of the
Just and Beneficent character of God,
he is immediately to be reminded
that they are adaptations to human
reason, and that the attributes of the
Absolute and the Infinite can never
be known to man. There is, in fact,
so incurable a contradiction in our
ideas upon these abstruse subjects,
that it amounts to an utter incapacity
to think of them at all. Yet think
of them it seems we must, and pre-
cisely in this contradictoiy manner.
*' Not only," it seems, " is the Abso-
lute, as conceived, incapable of a
necessary relation to anything else;
but it is also incapable of containing^
by the constitution of its own nature,
an essential relation within itself" —
P. 49. As in every cognition there
is some relation, it is evident that
the Abeolnte can be no object of cog-
nition, and we are distinctly told
that ^Hhe Absolute is a term ex-
pressing no object of thought, but
only a denial of the relation by wlnoh
60
I>r, Mant$V9 Bampton Zeeturei,
[July,
thought is constituted."— P. 76. Ne-
Terthelees this Absolute is to keep its
stand in the human mind, and lies
in the verj alphabet of theology. So
of the Infinite— "The Infinite, if it is
to be coDceived at all, must be con-
ceived as potentially everything, and
actually nothing."— P. 76. Such a
conception escapes entirely from the
arena of human thought. Many
other hard things are said of the
Infinite. " Yet all along, though
our positive religious consciousness
is of the Finite only, there yet runs
through the whole of that conscious-
ness the accompanying conviction
that the Infinite does exist, and must
exist, though of the manner of that
existence we can form no conception ;
and that it exists along with the Finite;
though we know not how such a co-
existence is possible." Thus we lie
fettered down in contradictory faiths,
doomed to believe in contradictory
propositions— doomed, it seems, to
believe, if such a state of mind can
be entitled to the name of belief, but
evidently not enabled to stir one step
in the way of reasoning.
The conclusions to which we are
finally conducted are these : 1. That
the Reason is incapable of criticising
Revelation, the fundamental truths
of Uieology lying beyond its appre-
hension ; that it can neither criticise
in the way of Rationalism^ which is
a tendency to abstract from the given
doctrine, nor in the way of Dogmat-
ism, which is here described as the
method of systefnatising the doctrines
of Revelation by supplement or addi-
tion. 2. Tliat, while the reason has
no other ofifice than implicitly to re-
ceive the doctrines in favour of which
it is assured that a miracle has been
wrought, these doctrines themselves
are (from the very limits of our
thought) either wholly incomprehen-
sible, or else are adaptations and
accommodations to the weakness of
the human intellect. They are either
to be believed without being under-
stood, or they are to be understood
and believed as merely subjective or
regulative truths. In fact, in Reve-
lation, according to Dr. Afansel, no
truth i$ revealed— only a duty of be-
lieving ; of believing propositions
which are unintelligible, or state-
ments which are indeed not only in-
telligible, but extremely impres^ve,
but which are to be understood by the
philosophic mind as condescending
adaptations to the human intellect.
Of these adaptations, these represen-
tatives or symbols, it U impossible to
say how near, or how remote, they
may be to the real truth. All that is
true is comprehensible, and all that
is comprehensible is, or may be, a
delusion.
Thus, even the given and intel-
ligible statements of Scripture are
not allowed to be fundamental truths
on which we may be permitted to
reason, so that one part of Scrip-
ture may be tested or explained by
another. We are altogether impotent
in theology, except to enter into the
question of the historical character
or credibility of certain Greek and
Hebrew documents. Our Oxford
metaphysician, it will be seen, is at
once the most dogmatic and the
most sceptical of men. The Church
of Rome could not require a more
abject submission of the reason ; bat
the Church of Rome does profess to
give its dif^ciples a positive truth.
Our Protestant divine tells us that
even what we believe with the
understanding and the heart, is bat
a representation put forwanl for our
discipline and culture ; it is not to
be reasoned on as positive truth. If
the Protestant would give us some-
what more liberty in investigating
the historical value of the document
(a department of theological study,
however, which, judging from the
notes appended to these lectures. Dr.
Mansel is evidently not much inclined
to, and apparently very little versed
in), there is one point' in which the
Protestant lies at so manifest a dis-
advantage to the Catholic, that it
appears to us the most natural thing
in the world that the advanced pupil
of the Oxford metaphysician should
run for aid and shelter into the
bosom of the infallible church. For
it is admitted that the Scriptures do
not give us a system of divinity ; and
if some systematic view is needed,
and if the human reason is incapable
of framing it, what other resource is
there but an infallible and inspired
church? Rationalism and Dogma-
tism, the only two modes of framing
such a system, are loth at fiiult.
1869.]
Dr. ManmP^ BampUm LeUwrm.
51
^*£aoh representA,^^ says Dr. Hansel
in his opening paragraph **a sys-
tem from which, when nakedly and
openly announced, the well-regulated
mind almost infltinctively shrinks
baek.^ And a little ftirther on he
says that ^hoUi dUH have prejudged
or neglected the previous inquiry, —
Are there not definite and discernible
limits to the provinoe of reason it-
self, whether it be exercised for ad-
vocacy or criticism?" — ^P. 10. Hean-
white there slips in this perplexing
avowal, ^^ whether a complete sys-
tem of Scientific Theology could or
oonld not hare been given by direct
revelation, consistently with the
existing laws of human thought, and
the purposes which Revelation is
designed to answer, it is at least cer-
tain that such a system is not given
in the Revelation which we possess,
but, if it is to exist at all, must be
constructed out of it by .human in-
terpretation.^'— ^P. 5. Now as some
system, whether yon choose to call
it of msUnUJU theology or not, the in-
telligent man does require, and does,
in fact, receive, as the product of
this or that church; and as mere
human interpretation is unequal to
any system whatever, we are at a
loss to perceive on what grounds any
such system is to be maintained if
not upon the claims of a continu-
ously inspired or infkllible church.
Short of the akematiye of aUieism
(which the logic of these Lectures
perpetually offers to the mind), it
would be impossible to adopt a more
disastrous position on the great sub-
ject of religion than the metaphysical
advocate for orthodox Christianity
has here assumed. The Reason, in
her great office of inquiry, is silenced,
and that in favour not of truth, but
of something which is to be received
o» truth, and which we know is more
or less a delusion. We are bound
hand and foot before the alrar, and
lol the statue which has fallen from
heaven is confessedly wft the image
of the God. We say that if it were
possible for men to assume or re-
tain such an attitude as this in pre-
sence of Revelation, it would be ao-
companied by the most pernicious
consequences. For religious &ith
would be sapped, while the natural
intelligence of men would be excluded
from its due exercise in the highest
region of tfiought. A religion that
is divorced fh>m the genuine and
earnest exercise of human reason,
lives only as the superstition of the
vulgar, or liveti only to crush and
torture the more generous mind that
has adopted it. Instead of advancing,
it checks the intellectual culture and
moral progress of society. You say,
perhaps, that its moral precepts
might at all events remain for our
guidance; but a high standard of
moral excellence will not long be
secured in a society forbidden to
think upon speculative truth. Tou
cannot aeal with the intellect of man
in this arbitrary manner— ask from
it its highest efforts in one direction,
and put a veto upon any effort what-
ever in another direction. In his late
Hktory of OmliBOtiof^ Mr. Buckle
has stated a great tnith in a partial
and a somewhat paradoxical manner,
when he enlarges on the value, as a
sodal element, of the spirit of philo-
sophical scepticism. It Is not scep-
ticism by which society has made its
great strides of progress; it is Faith
of some kind, religious or patriotic,
which has been the great motor
force; but it is njhith that thinks;
and as inquiry implies some mea-
sure cf scepticism, this latter becomes
a test of intellectual activity. It is
this intellectual activity in the high re-
gions of thought that is the real thing
wanted ; it is a faith that thinks, that
inquires, that €nergu€s^ and lives in
tiie energy it creates. We do not
want scepticism for its own sake;
we want a living and progressing
fiiith, a religion capable of being ani-
mated by the last and noblest ^orts
of the intellect. It would be no
gain, therefore (if this were possible),
but a great misfortune, if the truths
of Revelation were abstracted entirely
from the. region of controversy and
inquiry. It would be the decay and
destruction of religion, as well as a
great detriment to the general growth
and vigour of the intellect. We have
no wish to see the great doctrines of
Revelation sAifii^«2 aside out of the
direct tracks of human thinking —
men of the world looking only to see
that tliey ore so completely sljunted
as to keep the way open for science
and philoeophy. We derire that the
52
J)r, MantsPt Bampton LestuvM,
[July,
religion of a society ehoald feel the
legitimate iofltience of the whole
cultare of that society, and itself re-
act upon that cnltare. If indeed Dr.
Mansel is correct in the view he pre-
sents to us of the *^ Limits of Reli-
gions ThoDghV* — if his exposition is
ootnplete of the faonlties we possess,
by God's original gift, to look into
theology, or of the nature of that
" alphabet'* which it is said we can-
not read — then, indeed, rather Uian
lapse into tbe alternative of utter
darkness, we may he glad to accept
his scheme of a passive recipiency of
whatever time has brought down to
us. But we are persuaded that Dr.
Hansel's exposition is far from being
correct and complete ; we do not ac-
cept him as our guide in the matter
of this ** alphabet of Theology."
Be it remembered that it is we
here who stand upon the old paths
-*-not Dr. Mansel. It is he who is
facing the world with dangerous
novelties, with untried and precari-
ous dogmas. There is no harm in
that, if he has truth on his side, but,
at all events, the great teachers of
the Engiifih Church, and of Chris-
tendom in general, have constantly
proclaimed Uiat Revelation came in
aid of human reason ; very few re-
ligious men have asserted that there
was no independent faculty in the
human mind for the discovery of the
great fundamental truth of theology.
What sajs Bishop Butler, the es-
pecial favourite of Dr. Mansel, and
at present the extravagantly ap-
plauded of our English clergy? He
spends a large portion of his work in
proving the truth of what it is cus-
tomary to call by the ambiguous
name of Natural Religion ; he asserts
that Revelation, is the re-publication,
with authority, of this religion of the
reason; and in one rather striking
passage he expresses himself thus :-—
^^But it is to be remembered that
how much soever the establishment
of natural religion in the world is
owing to the Scripture Revelation,
this does not destroy the proof of
religion Irom reason, any more than
the proof of Euclid'H ElemenU is de-
stroyed by a man's knowing that he
fiJiiould never have seen the truth of
the several propositions contained in
it| nor had those propoaitioiis come
into his thoughts, but for that mathe-
matician." So opposite to this is the
view taken by our Bampton lecturer,
that according to him, there would
not only be no mathematics without
our Euclid, but (and this must ine-
vitably follow) our Euclid no longer
repeats for us any positive and in-
telligible truth; we may learn the
demonstrations by rote, or we may
apply the problems to practical pur-
poses, but their eternal veracity is
gone. What is true is not compre-
hensible, and what is comprehensible
is not absolute truth.
Our readers, we are sore, have
agreed with us in these general re-
marks; but they have perhaps doubt-
ed whether we have given a faithful
representation of the views put forth
in these Lectures. We must trespass
a little upon their patience while we
show the correctness of our state-
ment, and also endeavour to contri-
bute something towards dispersing
that obscurity which our author has
contrived to throw over the whole
subject of religious truth. Dr. Han-
sel's position (as a few extracts will
speedily show) is, that the essential
requisite to a knowledge of Grod—
that which is identical with such
knowledge— is the capacity to frame
*^ a philosophy of the Infinite." Wo
cannot irame what he and some
other metaphysicians are pleased to
call a philosophy of the Infinite-<-we
cannot comprehend what scholastic
minds have conjured up as the Abso-
lute and the Infinite"— and therefore
must for ever confess ourselves in-
capable of reasoning upon religious
truth. This is asserted again and
again. Here is one statement aa ex-
plicit as any :— ^
"If Revelation is a communioation
from an infinite to a finite intelligeoce,
the conditions of a oriticiem of Revela-
tion on philosophical grounds must be
identical with those 'which are required
for constructing a philosophy of the In-
finite. For Revelation can make known
the Infinite Being only in one of two
ways ; by presenting Him as He ifl» or
by repreeenting Him under symbols more
or lese adequate. A presentative Re-
velation implies faculties in man which
can receive the presentation ; and such
faculties will also furnish the conditions
of eonstructiag a philosophical theory of
1869.]
Dr. MmrmP^ BaaipUn Leeturm.
68
the obieet prManted. If, on the other
hand, ReTUation is merely repreeenta-
tive, the eccomey of the representation
ean on! v be ascertained by a knowled^
of the object represented ; and this again
implies the possibility of a philosophy
of the Infinite. Whatever impediments,
therefore, exist to prevent the forma-
tion of such a philosophy, the same
impediments must likewise prerent the
accomplishment of a complete criticism
of Revelation. Whatever difficulties or
eontradietions are involved in the philo-
sophical idea of the Infinite, the same,
or similar ones, must naturally be ex-
pected in the corresponding idea whiob
Reyelation either exhibits or impUea
And if an examination of the problem of
philosophy and the conditions of their
solution should compel us to admit the
existence of principles and modes of
thought, whlcn must be accepted ss true
in practice, though they cannot be ex-
plained in theory, the same practical
acceptance may be claimed, on philoso-
phical grounds, in behalf of the corre-
sponding doctrines of religion." — P. 27.
The oontradlotion in philosophy
which Dr. ICansel has to prove, and
by aid of which be is to abash and
Buenoe all who recoil firom contradic-
tion in any system of divinity, is,
that we have at the same time a
belief and a disbelief, and therefore,
at the same time, some conception,
and no conception, of what he
calls the Absolute and the lofintte.
Through what intricate paths a man
so versed in the history of philo-
sophy, and so accustomed to expose
the fallacies of others, has wrought
himself into this curions position, or
how he really can or does maintain
his two contrary truths, we are really
at a loes to explain. One thing is
noticeable, that all the stress of the
argument, and all the ingenuity <^
the lecturer, is bestowed on the
negative proposftion — the imnossi-
bility of conceiving the Infinite.
He adopts most decidedly the ex-
position of Sir William Hamilton,
that all our cognitions are of the
conditioned and the finite. He will
not allow to Scbelling and other
mysterious teachers their transcen-
dental intuitions. Very little is said
in favour of the positive proposition,
that we have a belief in the infinite.
Nevertheless having proved that the
conception of the Abeolnte and In-
finite Being is impossible, and yet
satisfied himself that this impossible
conception is an article of philoeo-
phical belief— having fixed upon the
reason this incurable contradiction
—he laoghs to soom all the objec-
tions of resUess theologians, frettsd
with the contradictions which cer-
tain systems of divinity may possi-
bly disclose to them. He has an
answer fbr all such objections. Ton
believe in an Infinite Being, and
yon can give no account of your
belief. Aiter this what do you
expect in theology but contradic-
tion? And it must be confessed
that^ in one respect, he is consistent
enough, for throughout his book he
deals out with bis right hand, and
his left hand) the most contradictory
statements. This is Dr MansePs
method of satisfying all the demands
that his subject can make upon him.
Do yon complain that his idea of
Qod resolves itself into a mere ver-
bal abstraction? — ^he pushes before
you a most vivid personality for your
devotion. Woula yon reason upon
the attributes of this personal God? —
he veils it altogether from your sight.
And after shutting ont every avenue
of philosophic or rational criticism,
he tells you, with plncid assurance,
not to limit your eoidencea of Ohris-
tianity to any one specific inquiry,
but to embrace the whole subject,
the doctrine as well as the hutory.
He seems to have established the
right to assert the most contradic-
tory propositions, and would doubt-
less protest against tiie injustice of
any criticism which did not give
him full and equal credit for opposite
and conflicting statements.
And what are these conceptions
of the Absolute and the Infinite,
which, strange to say, we ka/ee^
and wd have not? What are these
subtleties of ratiocination which are
to fix us in a state (tf self-contradic-
tion, and therefore, it seems, of im-
potent credulity ? They are the old
subtleties that, three thousand years
ago, led Indian philosophers to re-
fine upon their idea of God till they
found it impossible any longer to
conceive of Him as the Creator of
the worid. He became Brakm^ the
Absolute and Infinite, who can have
no conceivable relation to the finite,
Dri MAtmPt Btmpton Lmturm.
[J««ty,
and Brahma took the plaoe of Oretr-
tor. Men first proved the exUtence
of God from the worid, and from
their own humanity; tbej reasoned
vp to a wise and beoefioent Being,
who had pltinned, an4 therefore
prodnoed, thie great scheme of mate-
rial and mental phenomena : theT
inferred that this Being was eternal,
and of iofinite power; they next
refined opon this abstraction of an
et^-nal and infinite Being till they
demonstrated to tbemselveB that
such a Being oonld not possess the
attributes from whtoh alone they
had inferred its existence; and rea-
soning dawn from their definitions
of the Absolute and the Infinite,
they proved that the supreme God
conid have no relation whatever to
the world or to humanity. Creation
became impossible to a Being already
infinite; it was a derc^tion to a
Being already perfect. 8un)e lower
god, some avatar, some personificar
tidu of an attribute (whose appari-
tion and nature, however, it would
be impossible to explain), must be
interposed to peifomi the now de-
graded and subordinate task of crea-
tion. But if God is no longer the
Creator and Governor of tlie world'
— ^if lie has no conceivable relation
to us — if, nioreover, we do not know
Him by any attributes, as of wis-
dom. Justice, and benevolence — then
is there no God at all for us. We
have nothing left but a profound
conviction of our own utter and
hopeless ignorance. Accordingly, the
European intellect, more sedate and
better balanced, has almost inva-
riably replied to the subtle Asiatic —
**It is the infinite variety of the
finite, it is the beautiinl harmony
of organic wholes, each a harmony
in itself^ that forms the very bo^is
of my conception of the supreme
and eternal Mind. If yon bring
before me some definition of In-
finite Being which is destructive of
my conception of a Supreme In-
telligence, embracing as thought
this harmony of the universe, I
must challenge you to show me
whence you obtidned the right to
argue at all about an Infinite Being.
I have no conception of God but of
a Being possessing these attributes
of wisdom and b^evolenoe : if you
convince me that these attributes
are the mere coinage of my own
brain, I have no God at all ; I have
no knowledge left me but of the bare
earth I tread on, and the mere feel-
ings and imaginations I am pleased
or bewildered with. As to your
abstractions of the Infinite or the
Absolute-" which are at one moment
identical with tlie aZ2, and the next
moment identical with Tion-^ntit^ —
they plainly destroy themselves by
their contradictory nature ; they are
juiJt nothing at all, or mere oircattons
expressions of total ignoranoe---an
obscure formula for aUieism." We
say that the European intellect has
generally answered in this manner ;
but the Asiatic mode of thought, if
we may so describe it, has bad ita
partisans in the West, and of late it
Las been reproduced with unex-
ampled force and power by some of
onr Teutonic philosophers. Dr Man-
sel has been involving himself in
these abstruse and shadowy specula-
tions, and then has rushed into the
Oxford pulpit to tell all English
students, that if they think at all
upon theology, they will be lost for
ever in a maze of contradiction.
We refuse to walk in his labyrinth.
We wonld indicate as briefiy as we
can the position which we believe
that every mature and thoughtful
mind will take up from whence to
survey without alarm the S4>rt of
labyrinth, or rather the metaphy-
sical chaos, which the learned I)oo-
tor displays before us. We know,
and can know, God only by His
attributes: only by its attributes
do we know what we call mind or
matter. We say that the worid
manifests the existence, out of itself,
of intelligence ; we have no concep-
tion of this intelligence but as the
attribute of a being. On the other
hand, we have no conception of this
being other than of that which posses-
ses and exercises this and other attri-
butes. If, now, some metaphysician
chooees to fasten upon the abstrac-
tion of Being in itself, or of Infinite
being, he is evidently going forth
into the region of th^ nnkiiowable ;
and if he comes back from this ex-
cursion, and tellB us that of the In-
finite Being we cannot predicate
such attributes as those of wisdom
1859.]
Dr. ManteVt Bampton L$etiur^,
1(6
and beneTolence, — ^what has he done
but JQst deatroyed the only grounds
be had for thinking of such a Being
at all? We most think God as the
being who possesses these attribates,
or resign all attempt to think in
this direction, and obliterate religion
at onoe from the rational human
mind. Sooh definitions as we have
here of the Absolute and the Infi-
nite will do nothing for as; nor can
we extract a tmth oat of manifest
and incurable contradictions.
"The conception," Dr. Mansel tells
US, ** of the Aosolate and the InfiDtte,
from whateyer side we view it, appears
encompassed with contradictions. There
is a cootradictioQ in sapposing such an
object to exist, whether alone or in con>
junction with others ; and there is a con-
tradiction in supposing it not to exist
There is a contradiction in conceiving it
as one ; and there is a contradiction in
eonceiving it as many. There is a con-
tradiction in conceiving it as personal,
and there is a contradiction in conceiv-
ing it as impersonal. It cannot, without
contradiction, be represented as active ;
nor, without equal contradiction, be re-
presented as inactive. It cannot be con-
ceived as the sum of all existence ; nor
ean it be conceived as a part only of this
sum."— P. 69.
Does not the conviction at onoe
ariae to odr readers that such a con*
ception as this is the mere nnautbo-
riaed coinage of schohistio ingenuity ?
An attem|>t is made to think of the
Absolnte or the Infinite per m— of
Being, in fact, pw m, without attri-
bates—wiiich attempt we are told,
at the same time, is utterly fruitless.
It is fruitless, for every conception of
being or power that we form must
be, at the instant, ./{ntte, and our only
idea of the infinite is of an int'xhaast-
ible power, by which the finite passes
on into other forms, or may be ex-
tended, or multiplied* infinitely. The
infinite can only be thought of by aid
of the finite, and our conception of
God as truly embraces the £nite as
the infinite. What conception have
we of His infinite power, but of a
power that manifests it^lf in endless
finitei^ whether thoughts, or creations
in space? Or how is our idea of
God rendered more exalted or dis-
tinct by fastening upon this mere
abstraction, the infinite alone, and
thus rendering the conception of the
Supreme Reason impossible — render-
ing impossible any conception what-
ever? Let us see the results as de-
scribed by our present author, which '
come out from the employment of a
stringent logic on such premises an
these scholastic notions of the Abso-
lute and the Infinite. And indeed
such of our readers who have not
perused these Lectures will be impa-
tient all this time to hear Dr. Man-
sePs own exposition.
"There are three terms, familiar as
honsehold words in the vocabulary of
Philosophy, which must be taken mto
account in every system of Metaphysical
Theology. To conceive the Deity as He
is, we must conceive Him as First Cause,
as Absolute, and as Infinite. By the
First Cause is meant that which pro-
duces all things, and is itself produced
by none. By the ^ bsolute, is mean t that
which exists in and by itselt having no
necesssry relation to any other b<rin^
By the InfiniUj is meant that which is
free from all poasible limitation; that
than which a greater is incooceiyable ;
and which consequently, can receive no
additional attribute or mode of exist-
ence which it had not from all eternity.
"The Infinite, as contemplated by this
philosophy, cannot be regarded as con-
sisting of a limited number of attributes,
each unlimited in its kind. It cannot be
conceived, for example, after the ana-
logy of a line, infinite in length, but not
in breadth ; or of a surface, infinite in
two dimensions of spaoe^ bnt bounded in
the third; or of an intelligent being,
possessing some one or more modes of
consciousness in an infinite degree, but
devoid of others. Even if it be granted,
which is not the case, that such a par-
tial infinite may without contradiction
be conceived, still it will have a relative
infinity only, and be altogether incom-
patible with the Absolute. The meta-
physical representations of the Deity as
absolute and infinite must necessarily, as
the profoundest metaphysicians have ac-
knowledged, amount to nothing less than
the sum of all reality. . . . That which
is conceived as Absolute and Infinite,
must be conceived as containing within
itself the sum not only of all actual, but
of all possible being. . . .
**But these three conceptions — the
Cause, the Absolute, the Infinite— all
equally indispensable, do they not imply
contradiction to each other,wheu viewed
in conjimction, as attributes of one and
the same Being! A cause cannot^ as
56
Dr. MpmseTs Bampton Leeturst.
[Joir,
•oeh, be absoluU : the Abaolute cannot,
a9 inch, be a cause. The cause, as such,
exists ouly in relation to its effect : the
eause is a cause of the effect ; the effect
is an eflTect of the cause. On the other
band, the conception of the Absolute im-
plies a possible existence out of all rela-
tion. We attempt to escape from this
apparent contradiction b^ introducing
the idea of succession in time. The Ab-
solute exists iirst by itself* and afterwards
beoomes a cause. But here 'we are
checked by the third conception, that of
the Infiuite. How can the Infinite be-
come that which it was not from the
first? If Causation is a possible mode
of existence, that which exists without
causing is not infinite ; that which be-
comes a cause has passed beyond iis for-
mer limits. Creation at any moment of
time being thus inconceivable, th*? philo-
sopher is reduced to the alternative of
Pantheism, which pronounces the effect
to be mere appearance, and merges all
real existence in the cause. The validity
of this alternative will be examined pre-
sontly."— P. 44.
We interrupt this perfect artillery
of Bohulastio argument to etiggest
that these definitions or abstractions
of the Absolute and the Infinite may
not really belong to the " Alphabet
of Theology. ' The idea of limitless
power may, and sorely we can be
said to have tliis idea, althoogh we
cannot, of coarse, embrace all the
actual or passible manifestations of
that power. But we most continue
onr quotation. Alter some remarks
on Pantheism, which for the sake of
brevity we must omit, he proceeds : —
"Pantheism thus failing us, the lust
resource of Rationalism is to take refuse
in that which, with reference to the
highest idea of God, is speculative
Atheism, and to deny that the Infinite
exists at all. And it must be admitted
that, so long as we confine ourselves to
one side only of the problem, that of the
inconceivability of the Infinite, this is
the only position logically lenoble by
those who would make man's power of
thought the exact measure of his duty
of belief. For the infinite^ a» ineoneeiv-
Met is necessarily shown to he nofi'
existent; unless we renounce the claims
of reason to supreme authorily in matters
offaitK by admitting that it is our duty
to believe what we are altogether unable
to comprehend But the logical ad-
vantage of the atheistic alternative
vanishes, as soon as we view the ques-
tion from the other side, and endeavour
positively to represent in tbosffbt tbo
sum total of existence as a limited
quantity. A limit is itself a relation ;
and to conceive a limit as such is
virtually to acknowledge the * existence
of a coiTelative ' on the other side of it.
By a law of thought, the significance of
which has perhaps not yet been fnlly
investigated, it ie impossible to conceive
a finite object of any kind, without co»-
eeiving it as one out of many— aa re-
lated to other objects, coexistent and
antecedent A first moment of time^ a
first unit of space, a definite sum of ail
existence, are thus as inconceivable aa
the opposite suppositions of an infinity
of each. While it is impossible to re-
present in thought any object except aa
finite, it is equally impossible to ro-
present any finite object, or any^ aggre-
gate of finite objects, as exhausting the
universe of being. Thus the hvpothesia
which would annihilate the Infinite is
itself shattered to pieces against the
rock of the Absolute; and we are in-
volved in the self-contradicting assump-
tion of a limited universe, which yet
can neither contain a limit in itself nor
be limited by anything beyond ilseli"—
P. 57.
We hope that the hyi^thesia of
Atheism will meet with a more
certain fate than this of being
"shattered on the roek of tho
Absolute.'* But if Dr. Mansel forces
upon the mind a conception of
God which he at the same moment
pronounces to be inconceivable— if
he stripe God of all his attributes,
and leaves us — ^nothing! — ^it is some-
thing very like Atheism he conducts
ns to. Tt is the only Atheism known
to modern philosophy, the acknow-
ledged incapacity of the human mind
to apprehend the very first article of
theology. It is quite in vain for Dr.
Mansel, or all the doctors in Christen-
dom, to tell us it is our duty to
believe what is altogether incom-
prehensible. To carry our leluf
where all cognition^ all ideation hat
teased^ is a manifest impossibility.
We may believe in what we do not
fully comprehend — what is there that
yy^' do fully comprehend? What is
there whose relations to all other
known objects are perceived, and
stand out clearly without an ap-
parent contradiction? B»itwe must
have some object of our faith; we
cannot believe in what at the same
moment we prononnoe to be utterly
I860.]
Dr^ ManseTs Bampton Lectura.
67
inooooeiTftble. We are surprised
thftt Dr. Mansel cad repeat, as be
does, again and again, this duty to
believe the incomprehensible, with-
oQt perceiving that it is not the
partially inconiprehensible^ but the
utterly inooticeivable that he is call-
ing npon US here to believe. The
resnlts of his logic shonld have
-warned him to retrace his steps, to
re-examine his premises, to re-assure
himself upon his scholastic defini-
tions of the Absolute and the Infi-
nite : if he throws utter darkness on
the subject of theology, he cannot
restore us to h*ght by reiterating our
duty of belief. We cannot believe
when yon have shown us that we
cannot even think— cannot have any
intelligible object of faith. The
familiar case of the freedom of the
will is frequently brought forward
as an instance of a firm faith in the
incomprehensible. We believe, it is
said, in this freedom, and yet cannot
reconcile, it with the phyuioal and
psychological laws we see established
in the world. But how stands the
case ? The man who believes in the
freedom of the will has a very dis-
tinct object of faith ; he is determin-
ed in his opinion by feelings which
have a most indisputable existence;
if he is an unsophisticated man, yot
will have great difficulty in shaking
his faith, or making him compre-
hend why he should have any doubts
npon the matter. But if you call
upon him to frame some " philosophy
of freedom " — ^if you succeed in prov-
ing to him that his old faith in free-
dom is inconsistent with other and
better established truths — ^if you con-
vince him that what he thought
wair a distinct conception, is no in-
telligible conception at all, he no
longer does believe in the freedom ot
the will ; he becomes a Calvinist, and
believes with Jonathan Edwanis, or
he altogether modifies his ideas on the
subject of moral and religious respon-
sibility. Dr. Hansel has written eight
learned lectures on " The Limits of
Religions Thought,'' and it seems
never once to have occurred to him
that the limits of religious thought
most of necessity be Uie limits of
religious bel^f.
It is superfluons, perhaps, to point
out contradictions iu Dr. Mansers
philosophical statements, because it
is in contradictions that he revds ;
to establish incurable contradictions
is precisely his object. Yet we can-
not avoid noticing the quite opposite
positions which he thinks himself at
hberty to take up at pleasure on this
subject of the Infinite. Sir William
Hamilton's .Eaaap on the Uheon-
ditioned is his great authority-— or,
let us say it is the composition
which most completely expresses his
own philosophical views— and in ac-
cordance with Sir William Hamilton
he insists on the impossibility of
^tuning any such conceptions as those
of the Absolute and the Infinite.
^^ To think is to condition," therefore
the Unconditioned, or the Absolute,
is at once pronounced unthinkable.
Our author nas also more than once
enlaiged on the impossibility of the
Infinite bearing any relation to the
Finite, for it mast absorb the Finite
— ^unless by another curious process
of logic you prove (by the admitted
unity of the Infinite) tliat it is identi-
cal with noting ; in which form it
certainly cannot enter into any
known relation with the Finite.
Having pronounced these scholastic
notions of the Absolute and the In-
finite to be mere shadows — ^unreali-
ties— ^words, not thoughts — his next
most legitimate object is, neverthe-
less, to reinstate them in our plenary
cojLviction. Forgetting all that he
has said about the impossibility of a
relation between the Infinite and the
Finite, he very confidently tells us
that ^^ we are compelled, by the con*
stitntion of our minds, to believe in
the existence of an Absolute and In-
finite Being — a belief which appears
forced upon us as the complement of
our consciousness of the relative and
the finite." After asserting that there
is no thought out of the relative and
the finite, he finds this complement.
which, we presume, is a thought, and
which is a relation.
Metaphysicians have differed, and
still differ, on this abstrnse subject of
the idea we have of the Infinite. Some
of us rest satisfied with the definition
which Locke has given, and think it
sufficient for all the grand purposes
of theology. The Infinite can never
be known except as that whioh we
cannot embrace; Those who feel
58
Dt, ManuVt Bampton L06tur$$.
IJuly,
oonvinoed that we have some more
positive idea of the Infinite, and re-
gard it not as a possibility or as an
inevitable conception attached to the
Finite, may take what seems to them
higher ground. In later times the
Essay of Sir William Hamilton has
pat forth one view of the sabject
with singular power and distinct-
ness; it is the most striking com-
position that came from the pen of
Sir William Hamilton, and probably
the roost remarkable contribution to
the pliilosopliical literat4ire of Eng-
land that has been made in oar time.
We cannot here do justice to it, nor
point ont what we consider to be
its true hearing upon theology.
Those who wish to see the subject
canvassed from another point of view,
wonld do well to read Mr. Galder-
wood's Essay on the Infinite^ which
is a reply to Sir William Hamilton.
It does not often succeed, in our
judgment, in shaking the position of
the elder philosopher, but it is the
very model of an earnest, painstak-
ing, candid disquisition; and those
who have not leisure to read many
hooks, and are canons to see how
this controversy has been condncted
inonr own times, could not do better
than peruse together the Essay on
the Uhoonditioned^ and Mr. Galder-
wood's reply in his Essay on the In-
finite. What is peculiar in our Ox-
ford metaphvsician is this — t^iat
from some s jfitary altitude to which
he has reached, he embraces the
opnoaite views of hoth these essays ;
at least he so far coincides with hoth,
that at one moment he exposes the
ntter noreality of the scholastic con-
ceptions of the Absolute and the In-
finite, and, the next moment, asserts
the ineffaceable nature of such con-
ceptions : —
"The almost unanimous voice of
philosophy'* (thus runs his lucid exposi-
tion), "in pronouncing that the Absolute
is both one and simple, must he accepted
as the voice of reason also, so far as
reason has any voice in the matter. But
the absolute unity, as indifferent and
containing no attnbutes, can neither be
distinguished from the multiplicity <^
finite beings by any characteristic fea-
ture, nor be identified with them in their
multiplicity. Thus we are landed in an
inextricable dilemma. The Absolute
cannot be conceived as conscious, neither
ean it be eonoeiv*d as unoonseioiis ; it
cannot be conceived as eomplex, neitiier
can it be conceived as simple ; it cannot,
be conceived by difference, neither can
it be conceived by tiie absence of
difference ; it cannot be identified with
the universe, nei^her can it be dis-
tinguished from it'*-*?. 60.
Surely all this sufficiently proves
that this conception of the Absolute
is altogether a mistake, and to be
dismissed accordingly. Not at all :
his very object is to fasten on us all
these contradictions. A little farther
on he says : — " The whole of this web
of contradictions is woven from one
original warp and woof; namely,
the impoesibility of conceiving the
co-existence of tlie Infinite and the
Finite." And yet we have seen that
we are compelled by the constitution
of our minds to think the Absolute
and the Infinite *^as the complement
of our consciousness of the relative
and the finite," which is surely think-
ing their co-existence.
Is all this straining after impoe-
sible conceptions, all this hopeless
effort to combine the contradictory,
the indispensable prelude to the
** alphabet of Theology?" Can we
not ascend from nature and our own
consciousness np to Nature's God —
ascend to the conception of an In-
telligent and beneficent Greater?
Must we fiounder for ever in this
declared chaos of the Absolute and
the Infinite? Such has not been
hitherto the creed of Christendom.
But we must now glance for a
moment at the use Dr. Mausel makes
of the web of contradictions he has
60 laboriously woven for us.
The application of this web of
sophistries (for it is nothing better) is
found in an extension of Bishop
Butler's argument from Analogy.
Here you have in philosophy the
same contradiction that you object
to in tlie doctrines of Revelation
— the same, or still more violent.
You cannot understand how this
Infinite is both one and many — how
it is both all^ and yet related to the
Finite? Do you cavil at the Trinity?
What say yon to the Infinite de-
veloping itself in the Finite? Do
yon stand amazed at the double
nature of Ohrist? Explain to me
how the Absolate is, in one phase.
1869.]
Dr. Mcuuers Bampton Leeture$,
69
identioal with Nonentity, .and in
another the earn of all realities.
And thus he passes in review the
various questions of theology, which
we need not further partioularise, as
it is no psrt of our design to enter
into a discussion of them. He
always has a puzzle in philosophy
greater than what you find in Revela^
tion. Ought not that to satisfy yon,
or to keep you quiet at the least?
Dr. Mansel apparently overlooks a
very essential difference between the
manner in which Bishop Butler em-
ploys this argument, and the applica-
tion which he has made of it. The
Bishop draws an analogy between
portions of €rod^s revelation to which
objections have been raiseil, And
certain /aeU in the world which God
has also created, 'or in the constitu-
tion of man. About these facts it is
presnmed there could be no dispute.
Dr. Mansel extends the argument to
an analogy between the doctrines of
Revelation and a doctrine of philo^
Bophy, The opponent of Bishop
Butler could not very well reject the
facts to which the Bishop appealed,
but the opponent of Dr. Mansel may
feel himself at liberty to dispute that
medley of scliolastio dogmas, and
throw aside that farago of contradic-
tions which is here appealed to under
the name of philosophy.
But, indeed, this argument from
analogy, even when the analogy is
between undisputed facts on the one
side, and certain doctrines of theo-
logy, or certain portions of sacred
history, on the other, is open to great
abuse ; no mode of reasoning has, in
truth, been more egregiously abused,
none is so facile, and none more
fidlacious. The right application of
the argument, we are told, is not to
prove any doctrine of Revelation ; if
the doctrine could have been proved,
there would have been no necessity
for its miraculous teaching, but to
repel any objections which may be
raked against it. Dull indeed must
be that doctor of divinity who cannot
find, out of all nature and human
society, something analogous to the
ob|eoted doctrine or precept Ail
parties, all sect?, can use this argu-
ment; all doctrines, and all perver-
sioDs of Christianity, can equally
claim its support; it stands a ready
defence for every man^s orthodoxy,
and every man^s heresy. We are
not disputing that it has not its legi-
timate application, or that it has not
rendered its acknowledged service to
the cause of truth, but there is one
frequent fallacy in its use which it is
well to notice — it is this: That the
very same divine who argues for the
claim of revelation, for the need of
reveUtion, for the exalted character
of revelation, from the weakness,
error, and ourrnption of humanity,
sometimes thinks fit, the next moment,
to defend his assailed doctriDe or
precept by drawing an analogy be-
tween it and the weakness, error, and
corruption of huiiuinity. The divine
argues at his pleasure on the principle
of contra9t^ or the principle of nmi"
larUy, The worid is full of injustice —
we want a perfect justice ; the mind
of man is full of error — we want a
certain truth. Here they are. Do
you object against the revealed rule
that it is not just^ against the re-
vealed doctrine that it is not clear,
bn t contradictory ? Look around you I
What injustice has not Qod |)ermitted
in this world 1 What ob^uiity and
oontradiciion do you find in the
mind of man I Is not the God of
revelation the God also of this world I
By this process of reasoning, if it
deserve the name, the most opposite
tenets can be defended with equal
dexteri ty . The extreme Cal v i nist and
the latest Rationalist alike resort to it.
^^ Yon yearu for a divine equity, and
you do not like our doctrine,^' says
the Calvinist ; ^^ of election and repro*
bation. But open your eyes ; what
see you in the world around yon?
Here is one mao born to wealth, and
culture, and high and ennobling
occupations, and &iere is some ragged
urchin thrown out into the streets
to beg, and thieve, and lie, and starve.
What is tliis but election and repro-
bation?" But perhaps the most
curious application of the argument,
and one which may interesit Dr.
Mansel more than any other, is that
which we lately read in What is
called a Rationalistic production of
his own University. Even the Rer.
Baden Powell, in his OhrUtianity
toithout Judaism^ could not resist ^e
temptation offered by this facile mode
of defending hii doctrine of ^*4uiapta-
60
Dr, ManaeVs Bampton L&etures.
[Jdy,
tioD.** He solves the difficaltles that
beset him by the theory that io-
spired and miraoolons teaching has
been adapted at different stages to
the intellectaal and moral standard
of the times, and that like the
normal products of the hnman mind,
it has had at each epoch its requisite
measure of error and of truth. A
lay philosopher might be excused for
thinking tnat the human intellect
(from the nat'iral energies with which
God has endowed it) might be trusted
to give forth from time to time such
admixture of truth and error as was
needful for the human society ; he
might be excused for thinking that
doctrines which admit of being can-
vassed, criticised, and finally dU-
missed by the human reason, might
have originated in the uninspired
intellect ; and he would most assur;
edly object that if the miracle is to
be recognised as supporting what
proves to be error, there is an end at
once to its peculiar office as voucher
for the truth. Bnt all the murmurs
of the layman are at once silenced by
this argument from analogy. You
object that God should teach en*or
miraculously, but you see that He
teaches it, or permits it, in the
natural order of the world. Triumph-
ant logic ! You are in the dark, yon
want light, light from heaven. But
the light we bring, goes out, or gives
bewildering or perplexing guidance.
Well, were you not in the dark
before? It is an additional argu-
ment for the genuineness of our
revelation that it shares the same
obscurity to which you have been
always accustomed. Alas! it was
hseause of tliis obscurity, because of
these doubts and difficulties, and of
the imperfection of our philosophy,
that we hoped to find rest in your
divine teaching.
Dr. Hansel, it must be confessed,
has an answer prepared for us here.
The human mind, according to our
author, is so restricted in its powers
of cognition, that no divine teach-
ing whatever can enlighten it. He
has tested our faculties, and finds
them incapable of the knowledge of
God, or what is precisely the same
thing, he has tested our idea of God,
and found it a maze of contradictions.
Our author, indeed, amongst the minor
confusions to which he is attached,
labours to create a distinction be-
tween testing our faculties to know
God, and examining, so far as we are
able, the nature of the Divine Bdng.
But the distinction is one only of
words. You can test your faculties
for the knowledge of an object that is
unique — to which there is nothing
similar or analogous in the nniverse
— in no other way than by endeavour-
ing to understand that object It is
by exerting your facnlties in this en-
deavour that you discover their limits.
The result of the endeavour may be
the humiliating confession that the
object is altogether beyond our cogni-
tion, and we may then draw the dis-
tinction between pronouncing on the
existence or non - existence of the
object, and on our faculties to deter-
mine the question. But there is bnt
one mode of testing our facnlties —
namely, tJie endeavour made to com-
prehend the object. Our meaphysi-
cian frequently reminds us that the
limits of human thought are not the
limits of existence. He must be a
strange presumptuous man who
thinks they are. Bet the limits of
hnman thoughts are the limita of ex
istence far us. That of which we
have no cognition has no existence
for us. He who denies that we can
form any idea of God, denies that a
God exists for human beings. ** A
Shilosophy of religion," writes Dr.
[ansel, ^^ may be conceived either as
a philosophy of the object of religion —
that is to say, as a scientific exposition
of the nature of God: or as a philo-
sophy of the subject of Religion — that
is to say, as a scientific inqniry into
the constitution of the human mind,
BO far as it receives and deals with
religious ideas." Of the latter, to
which he professes to attach himself,
he says, " Its primary concern is with
the operations and laws of the human
mind ; and its special purpose is to
ascertain the nature, the origin, and
the limits of the religions element in
man; postponing till (lifter that ques-
tion has been decided^ the further in-
quiry into the absolute nature of GodV
As if the question could be c^eoided
in any other possible manner than
by undertaking the inquiry into the
nature of God I If you have satisfied
yourself you can fonn an idea of God,
1869.]
Lr, MdruePs Bampton Zeeturm,
61
it Is by having formed one ; if that
\ on cannot^ it is by having failed to
form one. In either ease what " fur-
ther inqairy'' can there be ?
Dr. Hansel professes to have failed,
and why has he failed? Whence
comes this lamentable resnlt — if in-
deed it be a genaine resnlt — ^in a
theologian of a Protestant Church?
Because he has turned away from
manifest truths before his eyes, to go
in search of scholastic pedantries.
We can know God only, we repeat,
by His attribntes; these attributes,
His wisdom. His creative power, His
beneficence, no mortal man ever pro-
fessed to know in their full extent ;
he believes them capable of an indnite
exaltation : this ean be his only con-
ception of their infinity. Bat our
learned Doctor, instead of fixing his
attention upon these attribntes, fastens
upon something that he calls the In-
finite, the Absolute, of which be finds
no attribute can be predicated. Of
course he sees nothing : he goes forth
into the inane, into outer darkness,
and oornes back with the cheering in-
telligence that, if we attempt to use
our own eyes, we shall be in utter
midnight.
But the most curious and most in-
felicitous portion of Dr. MausePs
Lectures remains still to be noticed.
This is where he more especially
touches on those representations and
doctrines of Scripture which ar& in-
telli^ble in themselves. Some doc-
trines, as that of the Trinity, convey
no distinct idea ; others, on the con-
trary, impress us very vividly. But
the moral attributes put forward in
Revelation as those of Grod, are not,
it seems, the real attributes of the In-
finite Being ; they are put forward for
our guidance; it is our dutv to be-
lieve in them as ^^ regulative*^ troths ;
but bow nearly they resemble any real
attribute of the Absolute and the In-
finite, is a question we cannot pos-
sibly answer. We must conclude,
from what has been determined of
the ^^ limits of religious thought," that
we are nowhere, throughout Bevela^
tion, in the presence of an intelligible
absolute truth ; or if we are, we can
never know it.*
We are enconraged to believe that
the moral representations of God may
be partly accordant with reality or
trnth. How it happens that onr
scholastic metaphysician can admit a
part knowledge of the infinite, and of
that infinite he has again and again
withdrawn from human cognition, is
what we will not undertake to ex-
plain. It is clear enough, however,
that, according to bis own exposition,
we can never know which is the part
that represents the real truth, or how
nearly it accords with reality.
Snch a doctrine as this appears to
us to destroy the very vitality of our
faith. All those representations of
Grod which kindle our emotions, and
which stir the heart of man, are more
or less delusions. We are to believe
them, because it is onr duty to be^
lieve ; they have been taught ns mira-
oolously that we should believe. A
strange duty! And a very extra-
ordinary power it is which our meta-
physician accords to this sense of
duty. We saw that where there was
no possible conception, there was still
a duty to believe. Here there is a
declared delusion, but the same duty
to believe. Accordingly, our preacher
becomes, from time to time, very
eloquent) on the moral, and, in part,
human, representations of the Deity
given us in the Scriptures ; he is in-
dignant at those metaphysicians who
would introduce into criticisms of
revelation their ** morbid horror of
what thej are pleased to call Anthro-
pomorphism." But if, fnlly impressed
with these vivid representations of
the goodness and justice of God, you
proceed to reason on them, as premises
* Archbishop King, Bishop Copleston, Archbishop Whately, and others have
expressed some subtle omnioTis upon the attributes of God, which approximate
more or less to thos« of Dr. ManseL What we call His attributes are analogies,
•nd resemblances, rather than realities. But these subtleties have been always
looked upon by the majority of divines with a wise distrust, and it would be easy
to auote a long list, especially of onr elder theologians, whidi should -include
sQcn names as Berkeley and dudworth and Clarke, who have controverted those
fisUaeions subtleties. The only legitimate way of avoidm^ an objectionable An-
thropomorphism is not to include amongst the Divine attributes any that are in-
compatible with our conception of Supreme Reason personified.
«d
Dr. ManuVi Bampt&n Leetures.
[July,
from which dedoctions may he drawn,
yon are reminded that yon are not in
the region of speculative or positive
troth. Behind this Bcriptnral repre-
sentation there lies the Absolute, with
a ** morality of the Absolute** utterly
beyond your conception. To hear oor
prencher at one moment, yoQ would
think yon were sitting under the most
devout and simple-minded of divines.
It is thus he cautigates our ** modern
philosophers when they attempt to be
wis^e above whut is written, and seek
for a metaphysical ez|)Osition of God^s
nature and attributes" : —
''Thev may not, forsooth, think of
the unchangeable God as if He were
their fellow-man, iufluenced by human
motives, and moved by human suppli-
cations They want a truer, a juster
idea of the Deity ner He is, than that
under which He has been pleased to re-
veal Himself; and they call in their
reason to furnish it Fools I to dream
that man can escape firom himself, that
human reason can draw aught but a
human portrait of (jodi They do
but substitute a marred and mutilated
humanity for one exalted and entire. .
. . . Surely downright idolatry is
better, than this rational worship of a
fragment of humanity. Better is the
superstition (tie) which sees the image
of God ui the wonderful whole which
God has fashioned, than the philosophy
which would carve f^r itself a Deity
out of the remnatit which man has mu-
taated."— l»p. 17, 20.
All this and much more which we
might quote to the same purpose,
may be very eloquent, and it certainly
seems calculated to confirm men in
their simple genuine faith. But turn
the page, and we soon find that this
metaphysician, who censures others
so indignantly for mutilating the
scriptural representation of God,
virtually destroys the whole repre-
sentation, obliterates it in itb cha-
racter of absolute truth.
^ The various mental attributes which
we ascribe to God — ^benevolence, holi-
ness, justice, wisdom, for example— can
be conceived by us only aa exi«tinff in a
benevolent, and holy, and juat and wise
Being, who is not identical with any
one of His attributes, but the common
subject of them ail— in one word, in a
Person. But personality, as we con-
ceive it, is essentially a limitation and a
relation. Our own pei-sonality is pre*
seated to us as relative and limited.
Personality is presented to as as a rela-
tion between tne conspioua self and the
various modes of His eonsciousnesB.
Personality is also a limitation; for the
thought and the thinker are distia-
guished from, and limit eaoh other."
In short, we are again involyed in
our old problem of the Infinite and the
Absolute; and as there can be no
knowledge of these in themselves, it
follows (as our author says with still
more distinctness in one of his notes)
^*that no human representation,
whether derived from without or
from within, from revelation or from
natural religion, can adequately ex-
hibit the absolute nature of God"—
can, in fact, exhibit it at all, if he
argues consistently from his own pro-
mises. It will not be snpposed, for a
moment, that Dr. Mansel abstracts this
divine perscmality from the teaching of
the Church. Hesaya very energetic^y,
"We dishonour God far more by
identif^ng Him with the feeble and ne-
gative impotence of thought, which we
are pleased to style the Infinite, than by
remaining content within those limits
which He, for His own ffood purposes,
has imposed upon us, and confining our-
selves to a manifestation, imperfect in-
deed, and inadequate, and acknow-
ledged to be so, but still the highest idea
that we can form, the noblest tribute
that we can offer. Personality with
all its limitations, thintgh far from ex-
hibiting the aheolute nature of God om
He M, IS yet truer ^ grander, more ele-
vating, more religious than those bar-
ren, VII gue, meaningless abstractions in
which men babble about nothing under
the name of the Infinite." — ^P. 85.
Kevertheless we haye all thia
•'babble about the Infinite," and it
constitutes the staple of these Lec-
tures; and strange and ominous are
the applications which the Bampton
lecturer, in his office of Defender of
the Faiib, has made of his babble, or
\Xa philosophy, of the Infinite. To
the faithful disciple of the church the
Personality of God ia indeed pnt
forward; but should the disciple
object to any part of the oIiQroh'a
representation of God, that it la not
in aooordance with tlie morality or
gvNMlness ascribed to the Diyine
Being, he forthwith withdraws that
Personality, and telb the refrao*
1859.}
Lr. ManssVa BampUm JaUuvu.
OS
tory disciple that there is an *^ abso*
lute moralitv," a morality which he
can nerer snow, belonglDg to the
Abflolate, and without knowing that
he can ne^er criticise the reveiatioQ
of God.
But we must quote the author^s
own words, for our representations
will never be credited by any one
who has not perused the Lectures
themselvee. In ethics, our philo-
flophtr treads, as may be supposed,
the ^ high *a priori road ;^' but this,
it will be observed, avails nothing
against the mystery of the Absolute.
** The Moral Sense is, like the intui-
ttons of Time and Space, an a priori law
of the hnman mind, not determined by
experience as it is, but determining be-
forehand what experience ought to be.
But it is not thereby elevated above the
eonditionsof human intelligence; and the
attempt so to elevate it is especiidly inad-
miaeible in that philosophy which re-
solves Time and Space into forms of the
human consciousness, and limits their
operation to the field of the phenomenal
and the relative.
••Thfit there is an Absolute Morality
based npon, or rather identical with, the
Eternal Nature of Ood, is indeed a con-
viction forced upon us by the same evi-
dence as that on which we believe that
God exists at aU. But what that Abso-
lute Morality is, we are as unable to fix in
any human conception, as we are to de-
fine the other attributes of the same Di-
vine Nature. To human conception it
seems impossible that absolute morality
should be manifested in the form of a law
of obligation; for such a law implies re-
lation and subjection to the authoritv of
a lawgiver. And as all human morality
is manifested in this form, the conclusion
seems unavoidable, that hnman morality,
even in its highest elevation, is not iden-
tical with nor adequate to meaf^nre, the
Absolute Morality of God."— P. 205.
The moral nature of God is sener-
ally ondentood to be one with His
wisdom and goodness. He exacts
morality from us, but if the term
moral obligation is ever applied to
God, the obligation meant is that
which is identical with the obligation
of reason. But we pass on to some
of the Bpedal applications made of
this noYel doctrine of an Ab^olnte
Morality. We will not even stop
to inquire how it comes to pass
that we are so certain that an Abso-
Inte Morality belongs to that Ah§olute
which is confessedly beyond the limits
of our cognition ; or how it is that after
showing that unr definitions of mora^
lity are inapplicable to the Abeolnte,
we can still talk of Absolute Morality
at all. Sometimes Dr. Mansel speaks
as if fragments or certain elem^its
of this Absolute Morality were
mingled np with the ordinary ele-
meats of the human conscience ; but,
of course, if this be so, they are nn-
distinguishable by us as such Absolute
Morality.
Some of the strongest applications
made of this novel invention of an
Absolnte Morality, of which we are
utterly ignorant except that it exists,
refer to the doctrines of the Atone-
ment and of Eternal Punishment;
we prefer to touch upon the latter
subject. On this topic Dr. Mansel
writes in the following strain: —
*^And is not the same conviction
of the ignorance of man, and of his
rashness in the midst of ignorance,
forced upon ns by tlie spectacle of the
arbitrary and summary decision of
hnman reason on the most myoterions
as well as tlie most awfid of €k>d*s
revealed judgments against sin — the
sentence of Eternal Punishment?
We huw not what is the relation of
Sin to Infinite Justieey—F. 220.
Nevertheless he cannot resist the
temptation of exercising his own
iogennity in the way of repelling ob*
jections, and of somewhat explain-
ing this relation.
"And it is assumed," he continues,
" that punishment will be inflicted sole-
ly with reference to the sins committed
dnring this earthly life :— that the guilt
will continue finite, while the misery is
prolonged to infinity. Are we then stf
sure, it may be asked, that there can be
no sin beyond the grave t Can an im-
mortal soul incur God*B wrath and con-
demnation only so long as it is united to
a mortal body? WiUi as much reason
might we assert that the aneels are in-
capable of obedience to God, that the
devils are ineapable of rebellion. What
if the sin perpetuates itself — if the pro-
lonsed nusery be the offspring of the
prolonged guilt f"
This spectacle of an eternal spirit
of rebellion kept up by the eternal
agony which both punishes and pro-
duces it, is one which he feels his
readers will revolt from, and which
64
Dr. MarueVt Bampton Leetura,
[July,
he is not Batlsfied with himself. But
then Dr. Hansel snggests that, after
all, *^ the real riddle of existence is
that evil exists at alV^ And again,
this qnestion of the origin of evil is
^^hat one aspect of a more eeneral
problem; it is bnt the moral form
of the eyer-recorring secret of the
Infinite." .
" Hov the Infinite and the Finite, in
any form of antagonism, or other rela-
tion, can exist t<^ether* — how infinite
power can co-exist with finite aetivitj :
how infinite goodness can co-exist with
finite evil ; how the Infinite can exist
in any manner without exhaustin^^ the
universe of reality ; this is the riddle
which Infinite Wisdom alone can solve.
When Philosophy can answer this (ques-
tion;—when she can even state intel-
ligibly the notions which its terms in-
volve,— ^then, and not till then, she may
be entitled to demand a solution of tlie
far smaller diflScnlties which she finds in
revealed religion: — or rather she will
have solved them already ; for from this
they all proceed, and to this they all
ultimately retom."— P..228.
In like manner, if the foreknow-
ledge or eternal decrees of God seem
imconipatible with the retribntive
punishment of the sinner, onr mera-
physician faintly snggests, as ^^nn
apparent escape from the dilemma,
that God's knowledge is not proper-
ly/<wtfife7KMoZ«2^s, as having no rela-
tion to time.'' But he immediately
afterwards returns to his old ground,
and to his invariable shield of de-
fence—his impenetrable philosophy
of the Infinite. "But the whole
meaning of the difficulty vanishes as
soon as we acknowledge that the
Infinite u not an object of human
thought at oUP Admirable theolo-
gy 1 Sublime and elevating Doc-
trine I Knowledge, Wisdom, Justice
and Benevolence, are unmeaning
terms when applied to the Infinite
Being!
Certain commands or special pre-
cepts recorded in the Old Testament
as having been given by God to the
Israelites, which apparently contra-
dict the broad principles of ethics,
have from a very early time been
.a stnmbling-block to the Christian
believer. It is in explanation of
these deviations from what is gene-
rally understood as the moral con-
duct demanded of tis from God, that
Dr. Mansel has put forth his utmost
ingenuity — ^bas produced (if we could
venture to say this of an Oxford
metaphysician) his most astounding
absunlity. These deviations from Uie
ethical rules God generally teaches,
are but the breaking through of the
Absolute Morality I The new and
exceptional command may be com-
pared to the pure light breaking
through some lower system of half-
illuminated clouds, better adapted in
general to human Tision and the
necessities of man.
Dr. Mansel sees a very "obviona
analogy " between the miracles of the
Old and New Testament, and diese
occasional deviations from the moral
precepts which God, in His ordinary
goveniment of the world, enforces on
His creatures. He calls them " moral
miracles." The analogy does not
appear to us very obvious. In the
ordinary miracle, God is presumed
to interpose to alter the usual se-
quence of events, to produce, for the
occasion, new sequences, new rela-
tions, or, in other words, quite new
and abnormal events. What new
event is it that is produced in the
Moral Miracle ? Are the moral sen-
timents of man supposed to be, for
the occasion, miraculously changed?
Perhaps our readers may extract
something more intelligible than we
have been able to do from the Doc-
tor's own words. We will give them
as fully as space permits. Let ns
premise that what is here said of
the difference between an occasional
command to be obeyed by one man,
or for one purpose, and a general
rule, to be obeyed by all men and at
all times, is well worth considera-
tion; it is an observation which has
been frequently made by other di-
vines ; the rest of the passage is the
peculiar and indisputable property
of the Bampton lecturer.
*' Now an appenl of this kind (that is,
on appeal to the moral sentiments of man-
kina) may be Iq^itimate or not, according
to the purpose for which it is made, and
the manner in which it is applied. The
primary and proper employment of man's
moral sense, as of his other faculties, is
not ifpeetdaiive but reffulative. It is not
designed to tell us what are the absolute
and immutable priaciples of Right, as
existing in the eternal nature of God ;
1859.]
Dr. Mant^i Bamptim Ledursi.
65
but to dtoMftt thoM relatira and tem-
ponry msnifeBtations of them, which are
jiectnary for human traioing io this pre-
sent life. But if morality, in its human
manUeatatiop, contains a relative aod
temporary, as woU as an ahsolute and
eternal element, an occasional suspension
of the human Law is by no means to be
oozifbunded with a violation of the Divine
PHndple. We can only partially judge
of the Moral Goremment of God, on the
assumption that there is an analogy be-
tween the divine nature and the human:
and in proportion as the analogy recedes
from perfect likenees^ the decinon of the
human reason necessarily becomes more
and more doubtful. The primary and
direct inquiry, which human reason is
entitled to make concerning a professed
revelation, is^ How £ar does it tend to
promote or to hinder the moral discipline
of man ? It is but a secondary and in-
direct question, and one very liable to
mislead, to ask how far it is compatible
with the Infinite Goodness of God.
*'Thus, for example, it is one thing to
condemn a religion on account of the
habitual observaoce of licentious and in-
human rites of worship, and another to
pronounce judgment on isolated acts,
historically recorded as having been done
by divine command, but not perpetuated
in precepts for the imitation of posterity.
The former are condemned for their re-
gulative character, as contributing to the
e»rpetual corruption of mankind ; the
tter are condemned on speculative
grounds^ as inconsistent with our precon-
ceived notions of the character of God.*'
(Here follows a quotation from Bishop
Butler, which, like the portion of the text
already quoted, ia not free from the ob-
jection that even the occasional precept^
if understood as a direct command from
6od,cannot be without some "regulative*'
influence.)
'* There is indeed an obvious analogy
between these temporary suspensions of
the laws of moral obligation, and that
corresponding suspension of the laws of
natural phenomena which constitutes our
ordinary conception of a Miracle. So
much BO, indeed, that the former might
without impropriety be designated as
Moral Miracles, In both, the Almighty
is regarded as suspdnding for special pur-
poses, not the eternal laws which con-
stitute His own absolute Nature, but the
created laws which he imposed at a cer-
tain time upon a particular portion of
His creaturea"— P. 241.
Oar readers, we suspect, have
Dot foaud this obvious analogy very
clear to their apprehension: God
TOL. LZXZTL
ifl aaid to msoifest Hu power !n
an established order of events
which w6 call laws of mttare ; when
He breaks this order of events, and
i&terpoees some abnormsl ezeroise
of His power, we call it a miracle.
The Creator has also ordained in
man certain moral sentiments ; is now
the moral miracle a partial soflpeo-
sioD and alteration of these sentiments,
so that certain lodividoals have eod-
denly perceived that to be right
which in the normal exercise of their
judgment, or their conscience, they
would have pronounced to be vrong ?
or does the mirade consist in some
change or altered action we cannot
follow in the Divine mind itself?
Perhaps we had better not attempt
any explanation, bat leave this
'* moral miracle ** to such exposition
as its own inventor has vouchsafed.
It may illustrate the curious poei*
tion into which Dr. Mansel has
brought himself, to observe that pre-
cisely what the Reverend Baden
Powell, in his theory of adaptation,
would describe as a oondesoending
accommodation to the ignorance and
passions of men, Dr. Maneel would
explain as the absolute morality
breaking, with roiracalous effulgence,
through that lower system of ethics
which ia condescendingly framed for
the general good of mankind. With
our philoeophen the regular and high-
est ethics of mankind is the adapta-
tion; the exceptional precept is a
fragment of the absolate morality.
God exhibits himself to us more
nearly as He is when His commands
depart from the general precepts He
gives of justice aod beneficence : we
are more certainly under some
measure of delusion when He incul-
cates our human and indispensable
morality.
Have we said enough, or extracted
enough, to justify the opinion we ex-
pressed at the commencement, that
these Lectures are neither pre-emin-
ently wise, nor are they altogether
wholesome food for the minds of men ?
Our author plunges both friend and
foe into hopeless 6bscurity. What
good is attainable by rach a feat of
logical dexterity as this? And the
logical legerdemain is only accom.
plished on the oonditioD that we per.
mit him the free use of a few abe.
6
66
Dr. MiMMePs Bampton Licturm,
IJaly;
tract terras utterly devoid of my real
meaDing. ''EzteDnon and motioo/'
some eooh verbal oonjoror might say,
*'are attribotes, and imply a sab-
atanoe in which they iohera Bat
DOW, bj poDderiog on and well defin-
ing this abstract tuhatanu or being.
I prove that it is altogether removed
from yoor cognition, and von cannot
know its attribates, and therefore
extension and motion are not really
its attribates." We ask oar conjaror,
since he has proved them not to be
real attribates, how it comes to pass
that he is talking about wbstance
at all?
It is idle of Dr. Mansel, after hav-
ing driven tiie attribates of God into
the category of « sabjective,*' or
merely ** r^golative" troths, to seek,
with mnch indignant eloqoenoe, to
re-establish oar simple genoine <h
in them. Acoordiujf; to his philoso-
phy, God has miracolonsly revealed,
not trath, bat statements which it is
for oar good to believe. How, under
his philosophy, we can even recog-
nise God as the worker of the miracle^
we cannot onderstand. Bat paesint
this over, what can be onr ^ ^'
Boder sack a repneentation, bat a
verbal assent— a virtooos bypocriiry?
It can be nothing beltw. To believe,
is to think a thing tnie: if yoa tell
OS that it is not true, we can only pre-
tend to believe. We can act, ondier
penalties, as if it were trae. Bot this
cannot last long, for the rnspidon
must occur that the penalties also
are, or may be, merely *' regiilative*'
truths, not absolate realities— not
events that will really take place,
only suppositions that it may be use-
ful to believe in. Once placed on
each an inclined plane as Dr. Hansel
glides us on, there is no logical break
that can prevent our descent into
sheer scepticism. The true reality,
we repeat, for each one of us lies in
those divine attributes manifested in
the very nature of the world and of
humanity, and from which we neces-
sarily infer the Divine Being, and
not in scholastics' notions of the
Absolute and the Infinite— which, if
they are incompatible with these at-
tributes, are at least themselves at
once convicted (by this incompati-
bility) of their own shadowy and on-
leal nature.
1859.]
The Luek qf Ladysmed€.^Part V,
67
THS LUCK 0]r LADTBUSDX.
CBAPTXB XI. --THE O0KPB8SOB.
Fob maDy days ItK>1a had lain upon
the ooaoh to whioh the had been
carried on her firat arrival at the
fortieaa^ utterly ezhaaeted io body
and spirit^ and appearing barely con*
Brioas of the anxioos oarea of her
hoeteBsea. Her Benaes had never wholly
foraakeo her; hot she remained in
that state of proatratioQ in which
Boenea and objects pafls before the
eyea and are partially nnderBtood and
recognised, bat leave the mind merely
pasBive, withoat the poUFer or the in-
clination to inqnire or reason npon
them. Her health had not actnally
Boffered from the ezposare to the
Btorm, bat the nerveB had been over-
strained while she was yet weak from
recent illness ; and it was well for her
thatOiaoomo had been compelled to
choose WiUan*s Hope as her pl^ of
shelter. Elfhild*8 cahn ezperienoe,
and the warm-hearted devotion of
Gladice, whose ibelings, once roased.
eontoed to no fatigoe and gmdgea
no ezertiooy were lar more valuable
in her case than anv resoaroes whieh
the profoondest medioal soience coold
have brought to bear. Slowly, day
by day, her eyes re^uncd their ex-
pression, and looked loqairingly from
one kind face to the other, and then
were closed with a grateful bat weary
smiles Once, rad only once» in the
dusk of the evening, Gladioe had
been told that the yeoman who had
been her escort had eaUed to make
inquiry after his lady^s health; but
before she could effect her escspe to
the caatle-haU — which she fully in-
tended to have done, in spite of her
aont'to dignified scmples— he had al-
ready received Ids answer, and was
gone. Picot, however, had several
times made his appearance. at the
fortress, and had shown a very na-
tural and praiaeworthy interest in
the Hdr traveller*B recovery ; and it
was equallv praiaeworthy that the
two ladiaa should have summoned the
forester to their presence to relieve
his anxiety by thmr personal assnr-
and perhaps equally natuial
that they should question him as to
the oiroomstances of his encounter
with the travellers on that terrible
night, when he had the good fortune
to become, in a humble sense, the
deliverer of a lady in distress. As
Picot belonged to Iisdysmede, and
therefore might be considered idmost
as an actual retainer of their own
house, it was by no means derogaUnry
—as Elf hiid was at the pains to ob-
serve, in her own and her niece's vin-
dication-r- to hold those communica-
tions with him on this interesting
subject, which it would have been
quite indecorous to have entered upon
with a stranger whose degree and
ffeneral belongings were utterly un-
known. The forester remained firm
in his account of the adventure;
which, if not strictly true, lud the
vast advantaffe which a silent false-
hood always nas over the richest in-
ventive foonlty: it defied cross-ques-
tioning, and led the originator into
no mistakes or self-oontradictions.
And when Picot once found that he
was looted upon by Giadice (whose
DoUons of the heroic, it will be re-
raembored, were soaroelv orthodox)
rather in the light of a hero, he was
careful to present the adventures of
the night to his fair questioners as
much as possible in that point of
view ; not so much, let it be said in
justice, for the sake of chuming any
undue credit to himself, as m the
hope of fixing ||eir attention upon
his own desperate exertions, and the
perils which nis courage and sagacity
had surmounted, rather than on the
previous history of the stranger lady
and her companion. So well did he
Buooeed, that he received from tibe
noble hands of Elf hild herself a cup of
wine, with a gracious intimation of her
high fiivoor and approval y to which the
younger lady added a piece of silver,
which Picot accepted with many
thanks^ and little scrapie of ooo-
Bcienoe. Even if he folt it was given
upon a somewhat overrated estmiate
of his desertBaB a hero^ he was content
68
The Luck of Lady8mede.-^Pan V.
IJaly.
to take it as the reward of TirtDons
selfdenial ia the matter of the
Italian's gold. If any one had cared
to track the forester on his return
after these visits of inqtriry, It might
have been noticed that he alwavs
met Father Giacomo either by the
river-side or in the nefghbonrhood of
his chapel at Lowcote.
However natnrally desiroos the
ladies of Willan^ Hope might be to
learn something of the history Of the
stranger who had been thns left help-
less In- their charge, their kindnes* was
mnch stronger than their curiosify.
Even when Isota had so far recovered
as to be able to express her thanks in
words, no question ever passed the
lips of Elf hild or Gladioe which conld
have implied that they songbt . any
ex[ Sanation of the circa mstanoes
which had made her their goest
Neither of them were conscious that
they were showing any peculiar deli-
cacy in this reserve, or were exercis-
ing any bat the simplest dntiea of
hospitality.
It need not be sapposed, however,
that in the privacy of their own
chamber the annt and niece felt any
obligation to silence upon so inte-
resting a subject. If their sick visi-
tor was indebted to them for her
life, they in their tnrn had very much
to thank her fbr. It would have
been not far from the troth to say of
both of them — certainly of Gladice,
and Etf hild's youth was a long time
to look back upon — that they had
never been so happy in their lives.
They had become possessed of two
things most necessary to woman's
happiness — something upon which
to lavish their l^hole bearta-fdi of
spontaneous and uncalculating love
and kindness, and something to
talk about The possible nnwortlii-
ness of the object ^ the positive mys-
tery which attached to it — were ad-
ditional points Of attraction. Instead
of sitting dreaming in the window,
Gladice was now always busy either
devising something for the comfort
of theif new charge, or inventing a&d
suggesting to her relative some in-
genious elucidation of the stranger's
history, which the elder lady usually
pronounced imposslbie, and thereby
gave her nveoe the opportnnity of
following out in her mind a new
train of conjecture for the morrow.
It was possible, also, that another
break in the isolated life of the old
/ortresB had contributed to enliven
the spirits of its occupanta, and to
make them less seofiible of the
weariness of their daily cares in the
sick-chamber. Twice there had been
visitors from Ladysmede. Onoe Sir
Godfrey had accompanied hia guett,
and passed an hoar or two io con-
verse with his fair kmswomen ; asd
again both had listened with de-
lighted attention to the stirring < in-
cidents of war told by the eioqaeot
tongue of the Crusader. The second
time 8ir Nicholas had come alone,
followed only by bis squire, and had
besought the ladies' eompany to wit-
ness the performance of a cast of fbr-
^gn hawks which he had brought
with him, and which bore a wodm-
fal reptitation. Etfhild had on this
occasion prayed to be excused ; bat
the younger lady had been delighted
to join in the sport under the aen-
eschars protection, and had retoroed
with many praises of the prowess of
the birds, and the delicate skill
shown by the knight in handiug
them. And the gallant falcons — Jin
almost priceless gift — were left at
Willan^s Hope for the Lady Gladice's
fatare delectation, to the pride and
Joy of Warenger, a keen lover of the
gentle sport, whose word of comnoD-
dation, never lightly bestowed, was
thenceforth never wanting either for
the birds themselveB or for their
noble donor.
The visits of brother Ingnlph from
the monastery had always been look-
ed forward to, -eepMBoiaUy by Gladioe,
as an agreeable distraction from the
daily roand of stitching and window-
gazing, and promenading oo the
narrow rampart, which, with the ex-
ception of occasional rides nnder
Warenger's eseort, were the ordinary
role of her life. The interval wbioh
had passed since hia last appearance
at the fortress had now bsen longer
than nsual; and when he was inh-
eted rather anddealy into their pre-
sence by Judith — as a person who
had the privilege of entrance, by vlr-
tne of his office,- in eeason and ont of
fleaaon--4iia welaoM from fafoth ladies
1869.1
The Luck of Ladysmede.^Part V.
69
WB8 profiortioDately oordUl. To
qbarrel with a Deigfabor beci^ise he
had not found it oonvenieDt to show
hiiMelf qaite flo often ae niaal, was
not 0nly repagnaDt to the uoeD-
lightened code of hoepitalitj oarrent
at the time, bat waa a Inxary which
coald Bcaroely have been afforded
Id floch a limited circle of sooietf.
When, therefore^ the good Benedio-
tioe, long ezpectedt was at last an-
DOoDoed, the warmth of his reoep-
tion waa such as almost to embarrass
his modesty. Brother Ingalph's in-
seosibility to the attractions of the
fairer sex, in any ordinary sense, waa
DO ascetic sffectatioD, or even the
resnlt of carefal self-discipline, as
with many of his order ; bat an hon-
est natofai indifference, whether to
be regarded as a merit or a defect
Probably this qualification had not
been overlooked by the superiors of
his hoose when he was intrusted
with the charge of the spiritoal in-
terests of Wilian*s Hope. Certain
it was Uiat he looked upon both
ladies with very sincere respect and
impartial admiration. He might
have beeo aware that Dame Elfhild
was the elder of the two ; if he had
ever noticed that Gladice had the
brightest smile, he had often been
heard to avouch that her auot was a
very discreet woman. His embarrass-
ment that morning arose from an-
other eanse besides bis natural mo-
deslf. Good brother logulph was
hardly Sn bis nsnal spirits, or pre^
pared to reciprocate any uaosually
sprightly greeting. There was plainly
something on his mind. He sighed
over the refection set before him
aa if it had been an act of penance,
and poored himself a second draught
of wine — contrary to his nsaally ab-
stemious habits — with an air oif re-
signed mortification. He was in
troubley and he had too little worldly
wiedom to conceal it. It was not
pcssibie that his fair entertainers
should not notice the change from
the simple cheerfulness which made
him at other times so agreeable a
visitor ; nor was it long before they
drew from him an ezplaoaUoo, In-
deed he waa very ready to give it to
those from whom he felt so sure of
sympathy.
''Alasl kind dames," said he^ <<I
have good canse to bear a sorrowful
conntenanoe; the spoilers have been
in our camp this morning, and have
made prey of us."
''What ean you mean, father?"
said Gladice in some alarm, for snch
an event as the literal sacking and
plundering of a religions boose over-
nighty was qoits within the possible
items of morning intelligence.
" His majesty King Bidard hath
laid his royal hands npon us,'* said
the monk.
*' How r' exclaimed the elder lady
-^«* the king is snrely in Palestine ?"
** Ay," reptied Ingulph ; " but
his gradoos majesty hath a long
arm. He is piqued to borrow money
of us for the war, whereas it is but
too well known we have more need
to become borrowers ourselves; and
we have been pat to sore straits to
meet his demand. I know not how
it is," continued the wortliy brother
with a distressed air — '' we pass
among men for a wealthy hoose, I
dare warrant ; and our lord abbot
keeps a very seemly state— as is but.
becoming his position, no doubt — I
mean not to gainsay it ,* but there
have been sore di£Soulties of late in
providing for oar needful wants.
Twice I have made requisition to the
abbot for parchment for oar scrip-
tbriom, and am ashamed to ask again,
and yet our work lies idle for lack of
it. It is hardly for me to say it, but
it were well that the ordering of our
revenues were somewhat better looked
to."
The most unpractical of scholars,
ignwant as an angel of all the base
debtOff*and-creditor transactions of
this oomoiercial world, Ingalph had
a little hidden conceit in a corner of
his honest heart, that he ponessed
an unrecognised talent for basiness.
On most other points none coold
have oonoeived a lower opinion of
his capabilities than he entertained
himself: had he been called to take
upon him the office of a bishop, he
would have pronounced the noh
epiioajfari with the utmost hamility
and sincerity ; but he would have
liked much to have been appointed
to some office of trust in the finan-
cial department of his convent ;
and it might safely be prophesied
that any society enjoying (he benefit
70
I%€ Luck of Ladymede.-^Part V.
[Joly,
of bi6 services in such • obaracter,
woald have been bankropt within the
jear.
*'Bnt yon were enabled, I tmst,
by some means, to provide for bis
majesty's requirements ?*' said Dame
Blfhild, who shared to some extent
the popular notion that cborchmen
were generally rich, and generally
disclaimedilt.
"< Alas I" replied the monk, <' we
have given, as X may say, of our life-
blood in his service. Nathaniel the
Jew has been in conference with the
lord abbot and the prior this morn-
ing, aod has carried off with him —
whether on pledge or sale I can-
not tell, for each as I are little con*
suited in such dealings — sundry pre-
cious things that it shames us to
have parted with— ay, if it were for
all the gold in Israel Would yon
believe it, gentle lady," be eontinued,
tumiog to Gladiee, — ^'^oor copy of
the Samaritan Pentateuch ^ there
was not another in Eogland exc^
at Canterbury, and that, as I have
heard, wants a leaf— you have heard
me speak of it-^writteu in a most
fair character, in letters of silver upon
purple vellum — well, this dog of a
Jew hath that awav with him. It
had silver embossed covers, too ; it
was the goodliest volume my eyes
ever lighted on, and was the blessed
Qaeen Etheldreda's gift to us ; well-
a-way I to think it should have fallen
into the hands of a misbeliever I"
•« Was it very choice reading, fa-
ther?'* inquired Gladioe innocently.
She had not the most distant con-
ception of what a Pentateuch might
be ; but her taste in literature, so
far as it went, had more regard to
the sobject-matter of the work than
its external attractions.
'*It was the choicest volume in
Christendom," said Ingulph, rather
pursuing his own private lamenta-
tions than replying to Gladioe.
'* You have read it yoarself, doubt*
less?** persevered the maiden, with
laudable interest and curk«ity, only
still farther excited by the librarian's
enthusiastio praises.
**Read itl" exehtimed he, ronsed
by what he considered almost an in-
sult to his lost treasure--** there was
not one amongst our brotherhood
that could pretend to read it Touog
Wolfert, the abbot's new chaplain,
professed that he knew the charao-
ters, but not the dialect ; there was
none of us could contradict him, be
that .as it may : the precentor of
Jumi6ges, when he was on a visit
with us in Abbot Aldred^s time,
said it was Syriao— aod he passed
for a fine scholar 1 Ha, hal a little
learning goes fiir in that fraternity T
and the monk laughed with iionest
delight at the impregnable front
which his darling manuscript had
presented aninst the assaults of pre-
tenders. ''Bead it?*' He did not
say quite so much, but it was in his
eyes as a maiden castle, and would
have lost something of its fair fame
and repute if ever adventurous cham-
pion could boast oC having, scaled ita
defences.
The disappointed Gladiee naked
no further questions^ and was con-
tent to think that the Pentateuch,
whatever it might be, was as great a
mystery to the learned as to herselt
But the monk could hardly leave &
subject which on that particular
momiog lay so near his heart,
*' It was said,'* he continued, ** that
there were fearful Samaritan onreea
written at the end of the volume^
against any man who should in time
to oome steal or otherwise misappro-
priate it. St. Kary vouchsafe us that
tliey fall not upon our house T*
^ We will trust th^ D»ay not, iia-
ther,*' said the lady. Curses in a
tongue which even the learned Bene-
dictine could not read, must have
seemed to her iearfal indeed.
Dame Elfbild was rather wearied
of hearing of the good father's trou-
bles, with which she ftlt lees sym-
pathy than her niece; or pabapa
she kiodly judged that the meet
efifectnai way to distract their visi-
tor*s thoughts from dwelling upon
such painful matten, was to give
him an interest for the time in some-
thing else. She announced to him
therefore the &ct — strange enough
in itself to be interesting — ^that they
had a guest now at Wiilan's Hope ;
and put him in possession of all the
particulars of her sudden arrival.
*'It might be, Gladiee,'* said sh&
turning to her niece when she had
finished her recital, <*that the lady
would be well pleased to take some
1850]
7h€ Lud qf Lad^mede.'-Part V.
71
ghostly eoQiMel with the raverend
ikther, if she knew that he were
here with us ?"
Gladice at once yolnnteered to an*
noanoe to thdr gnestthe arriTal of the
Benedictine, as an opportunity that
occurred hat seldom in their retired
position, and sought Isola's diamber
for that purpose.
Their patient showed more pro-
gresa towards convalescence that
morning than for some days. She
always welcomed Gladioe with a
pentie word and smile ; and indeed
It was not for many hours in the day
that the young mistress of the castle
left her alone, though she had pur-
nosely abstained as much as possible
mm all but the most ordinary con-
Tersation. Isola was sitting up on
her couch, with her rosary in her
band, when Gladice entered. There
were traces of tears fresh upon her
cheeks, but of this her hostess took
no notice. Briefly but kindly, and
with some little embarrassment — for
Giadice^s own devotion was very
nndemonstratire — she explained to
her the nature of Ingulph*s connec-
tion with their household, and that
he would gladly make it a part of
his duties to extend to her any com-
fort or direction which she might
requira
The pale cbeeks of the invalid
flushed brightiy, as she thanked
Gtadioe for her thoughtfbl kindness.
"Tell me," she said, alter a few
moments' thought^ as she laid her
thin hand upon her visitor's reunded
arm, with more of a caressing gesture
than she had seemed to venture upon
before— "Tell me — this Father In-
gulph, I thibk, you named him '* —
she hesitated again— ** is he one to
whom y^ would lay bare your heart
ir— if, which Heaven forbid, you had
Bin and sorrow heavy on it like
mine?" And she hid her fieuse \h
her hands.
A slight colour rose over Gladice^
cheek, but it passed away ; and when
the other looked up again and met
her gaze, the clear sweet eye and
calm brew showed no emotion.
**I know not,** she replied; "I
cannot tell : I conf^ to him always.'*
'* God keep you pure and good 1**
said the other with an almost pas-
sionate earnestness, bending down
her lips to kiss the arm she held;
•• let me not vex yon with my ques-
tions— you have confidence in him,
then?'*
*'He is an honest, good man, as I
believe^" returned Gladice, somewhat
coldly : the conversation puzzled her.
She had no especial secrets of her own
to confide to any one; she was not
Suite sure that she should choose good
father logulph for their depositary
if she had— ^r indeed any one else;
but that was a case which it would
be time enough to provide for when
it should arrive. Whatever troubles
of conscience she might have, were
only such as she could either struggle
with alone, or relieve by very gene-
ral terms of confession. She did not
know, happily for herself, the yearn-
ings of an overburdened heart to
rest its load anywhere— were it even
on a broken reed like itself — that
proffers support for the moment
*'He is honest, you say, dear
lady," said Isola, after another pause ;
'*and yon have known him long. I
would gladly see him, if yon will
kindly be my messenger."
Gladice waited only to find some
littie oflBoe of kindness to perform
for her patient, whose appeal for
advice and half- offered confidence
sh9 was uncomfortably conscious of
having felt unable to respond to
with the warmth that, mi^nt have
been expected; and having thus
made such atonement as she could
to her own feelings, she left the
chamber, and returning to the monk,
informed him of their guest's desire
to see him. He received the sum-
mons with his usual good-humoured
smile, and with little anxiety or
embarrassment. It was some testi-
mony in favour of Elfhild and her
niece that their spiritual director—
and to them his experience of the
sex had been limited' — did not ap-
pear to consider the confidential
treatment of feminine transgressions
or weaknesses as a very onerous
responsibility.
He ascended the narrow turret^
stair with an active step, and if not
with a very light heart, it was a
tender regret for the lost treasures
of his library which still affected
him, and not any unusuaHy grave
anticipations of the comfaig interview.
It
Ue Luck ^ Lady8nu(U.^Part V.
Paly,
He was abseot more ifafto an hour;
a len)<th of time which caufled eome
sarprise in the mioda of those whom
he bad left below, for each of whom
a few minntee' cooference amply
Bnffioed for all matters of oonfession
and absolation; and Gladioe began
to ezpeot his return with Bome de-
gree of painfal interest He re-en-
tered their apartment slowly, and with
an expression of troubled thought
upon his face, which Gladioe marked
at onoe, and did not connect in her
own mind with any of the tribula-
tions of the monastery. Though
Father Ingulph seemed rather to
avoid her glance, she conld not with-
draw her eyes from his countenance ;
and strange as it seemed even to
herself, she half-longed to read there
the history which but an hour since
she felt that a word of encoa-
ragement would have sufficed to
draw from Isola's own lipa But
she was silent, and did not intend to
question him even by her look. The
elder lady» less consciously interested,
did not leel bound to such scrupulous
reserve. She would have shrunk aa
naturnlly as Gladioe would, from any
thought of intrusion into the sacred
confidence between the priest and
his spiritual patient; but she could
not help hoping that the good monk
would naturally have asked some
questions which were not included
among the secrets of the confessional,
and that in this manner she might
be able partly to gratify her irresisti-
ble wish to know something of the
stranger's character and history ; a
wish which scarcely deserved the
name of curiosity, since it had been
restrained within such carefol bounds.
She had rather expected that In-
gulph would have been the first to
make some remark npon the subject ;
for the honest - hearted Benedictine
was not a^ed'to afiect taciturnity,
and was rather inclined to compen«
sate himself for the silence which his
role enjoined in the cloister, by all
reasonable indulgence of his liberty
of speech abroad. But he was silent
DOW ; and Elf hlldlB sharp eyes soon
discovered that he was ill at ease,
and embarrassed alaa It is a
woman^ privilege^ in audi circum-
itanoes to take the initiative; and
Eifhild — her desire for infonnatioii
by no means dimioisbed hy these
symptoms on his part — bolmy pro-
ceeded to interrogate him, while
Gladice listened with eyes and ears.
'* What think yon of oar lady guest,
father?"
It was a question admitting of .so
many varieties of reply, that perhaps
for that reason logulph was at a loss
to choose one. He only nttered ona
of those nniotelligible interjections
which serve to gain time.
Eifhild repeated her question.
** Alas 1 poor soul 1" said the monk,
feelingly, ^ she has much need of con-
solation ; it is well for her that she
has fallen into such gentle hands.
She has spoken much to me of your
kindness; and it pains her to have
been burdensome to you so long.*'
^*It is no burden,*' said the elder
lady with some dignity ; *' our doors
-—my niece*s, I should say — ^have ever
been open to the stranger. Be she
who she may, she is right welcome
to the shelter of our roof so long aa
she needs it,**
^'Tou know nothing, as I under-
stand," said Ingulph, '* of her miser-
able story ?*'
" We have never sought to know,"
replied Eifhild.
**She fears that she may have
seemed ungrateful; but this much I
may assure you of— what ^e con-
ceals is more for the sake of others
than her own. And she is loth, too,
to troable a peaceful life such as
yours by making known what coold
only pain and shock you."
** If we could be of any help*'— add
the younger Lidy without raising her
eyes.
** I see not how you ooold," re-
plied the monk dejectedly; **I see
little that any one oan do ; she is not
friendless, or in poverty, though in
a land of strangers — for you have
learnt that she is not English bom T"
** She spoke of Genoa as her home,**
said Gladioe ; " did yon mark a won-
drous sweetness in ber voice, lather —
such as we northern maidens never
attain tor
•< Nay," interposed the elder lady,
^ under yoor favour, my iair niece,
that is an exoeUeooe for which the
dames of our bk)od are not wont to
be so disoommended ; even if the
Norman toogoe be shriU — which I
1859.]
I%s Lutk qf Ladyrnnede.—Part F,
73
mot not— the old Britbh royal
fioase through which we claim in-
heritanoe hw a toDgoe morQ melodi-
008 even than the Southrons — ^yonr
own ancestress, the princess of
Gwent, whose name yon bear, was
better known in bardic lay as Eos
evrin — the golden niglitiogale — by
reason of her tonefal voice.*'
•Father Ingnlph had neither a
critical ear for voices, nor a happy
talent for compliment, otherwise it
would have been the easiest and
truest passible remark for him to
have made, that GIadice*s own voice
was perfection. He was content
with Looestly oonfessing that he had
noticed no peculiar modulation in
the Italian lady's tonea He might
have added in his defence, that he
had never been able to learn the notes
in the whole course of his novitiate,
and had been pronounced first con-'
tumacious, and finally incapable, by
the precentor ; and even to this da^
made souuds in choir which excruci-
ated the accomplished ears of his
brethren. Bat he might have given
a graver reason for his lack of dis-
criminatioD in tliis particular in-
stance; the matter of his penitent's
communication had been too absorb-
ing for him to pay much heed to the
voice.
*'In this poor lady's case," said
the worthy father as he took his
leave, " whatever it becomes you to
know, as touching an inmate of your
house — whatever, I may say, you
would desire to ask— she will not
refuse to tell you; nay, it seems to
me she would even wish it. Fare ye
well, noble ladies, and Saint Mary
reward you for your charitable deed."
CnAPTEfi Zn.— THE GUESTS OF RIVELSBT.
The Benedictine's thoughts, on his
homeward walk to Biveisby, had
been more busy with the troubles of
others than with his own. He had
never before been brought into such
dose contact with the bitterness of a
wounded spirit, and he was humbled
to think how little help or consola-
tion, beyond the formal language of
his office, he had been able to afford.
He was returning to the cloister,
which had been the home of his
childhood, with a strengthened con-
viction that the world was indeed an
evil place. Holier and wiser than
himself were they who had called it
so ; and he was even meditating some
litUe self-imposed penance because,
in the simple goodness of his own
heart, which hM hitherto kept him
from seeioff evil in others, he had
sometimes been led to doubt whether
that broad assertion of the world's
wickedness were wholly true. He
was more thankful than ever that
those who had the care of him (he
had never known a father) had
dedicated him to the cloister in child-
hood, and so kept him safe from what
might have been his own wayward
choice, and a secular life's temptations.
He walked slowly, and the bell
imng out for vespers while he was
yet at some distance from the monas-
tery. He stopped as the sound
ceased, and having reverently crossed
himself thrice, proceeded gravely on
his way, reciting audibly to himself
the familiar words of the office. Thus
piously engaged, he had got within
a short distance of the abbey gate,
when he was startled by a rustling
movement in the low alder- bushes
olose beside him. As he turned, a
wild-looking half-clad figure crept
out, and stood in the pathway.
Bagged and stubbly hair and beard,
eyes that glared fiercely out of hollow
sockets, and a haggard countenance
which might express either anger,
fear, or madness, made up an ap-
pearance at which the worthy monk
might well stand for a moment
aghast, and repeat the holy sign with
ea^r precaution. But it was soon
evident that the wretched object be-
fore him intended no hostile demon-
Btration ; and thongh logulph started
back again a step or two when the
man threw himself forward, and,
dropping on his knees, tried to clutch
the folds of his habit, he soon re-
covered himself sufficiently to address
the suppliant, whose gestures were
more intelligible than his words, in
a tone of kindness.
" What do you seek of me, my son V*
The man made some unintelligible
74
The Lucis qf Lady smede.-— Part V.
[July,
reply, and did not move from bis
position. Tiie monk*8 first ioipres-
sion was, that be was some wander-
ing fanatic wbo bad escaped from
the chains and tortnre in which
snch miserable beings were com-
monly kept, and tbongh not seriously
alarmed, since be appeared harmless,
he paused for a few moments to be-
thiuk himself of some approved form
of exorcism, in case be might require
it But it was really none other
than Guthwin, exhausted with hunger
and watching, wbo bad been en-
couraged by Uie sight of the monastic
garb to appeal to its wearer for help
or protection. The Benedictine rule
of almsgiving was to give first, and
to ask questions, if nera were, after-
wards ; utterly unsound political
economy, but having this advantage
over improved systems, that if the
questions were sometimes omitted,
the alms never were ; and even if the
applicant's tale were sometimes false,
the charity was always genuine. The
story which the basketmaker had to
tell was confused and unsatisfactorv,
but hunger and sufferinff spoke plainly
in every line of bis mce; and the
monk at once bid him follow him to
the monastery, where his necessities
would receive due attention. Guth-
win rudely but earnesthr expressed
his thanks, and followed his bene-
fhctor at a humble distance, yet near
enough to claim his instant protec-
tion in case of need, and casting many
a watchful look behind him, as if he
still dreaded pursuit. Old Peter,
dozing in his stone seat within the
gateway, opened his sleepy eyes wider
than usual to take cognisance of the
unsightly figure which limped after
brother Ingulph ; but the poor and
needy hsd too often crowded the
gates of Bivelsby for him to feel any
astonishment at such visitors, and
many an outcast wanderer before
Guthwin had found there food, and
warmth, and shelter. He was soon
seated in the porch of the guest^hall,
whilst his new-found friend went in
search of the kitchener to provide for
his necessities.
Gervase, the lay brother who bore
that oflSce at Bivelsby, was engaged
at the moment in earnest consulta-
tion with some of his subordinate
officials in the kitchen, and was in no
very amiable mood. He was not a
man of patient temper naturally ;
but indeed there bad been much to
try it that day. The fishermen had
come in with an unusually short
supply of what was one of the staple
resources of the community ; the
prevalent thunderstorms of late, aa
they declared, had driven the fish
into the deep waters, where no n^t
could reach them. Even the eels, —
of which the tenants of two farms
upon the river were bound to furnish
a certain number weekly, — were
not forthcoming in full tale. And
the beans for the soup, just sent in,
were villanous ; and what was worse,
it would hardly do to make any
serious complaint, inasmuch as the
last supply had not yet been paid for.
Brother Gervase was vexed to the
heart, for he was sure to be held
responsible by his brethren for any
deficiency or unsavouriness in their
daily fare. And the monks of
Bivelsby, though they had little
opportunity of becoming gourroandsi
and were well content with the
simple dietary ordered by their rule,
were marvellously nice m their dis-
crimination between good and evil in
such plain viands as they were accus-
tomed to. If a man drinks only water,
he becomes a wonderful judge of its
quality, and detects the slightest tinge
of impurity where the palate which
is used to stronger potations swallows
all alike. A musty lentil in one of
their pittances was a grievance which
called for redress : and a batch of
ill-salted fish had once well* nigh
caused a domestic revolution. No
wonder, then, if, with snch anxieties
weighing heavily on his mind, the
kitchener listened in no very patient
mood to his brother monk who eame
innocently to add to his trouble^i,
though the demand for food and
drink for a single starving man was
no very unreasonable or formidable
requisition. But it is the last straw
which is said to break the back of
the much-enduring camel : Brother
Gervase had borne much that day,
and in the matter of the beans had
heea obliged to bear it in illtempered
silence. Nor had he any great con-
fidence in the worthy librarian's dis-
cretion in selecting objects of charity.
'*A pittance for a hungry waj&rer
1859.]
Th€ L^uk of Ladymed€.^Part V.
nidst thoQ t" 8ai4 tbe vexed official ;
''mark me, good brother, far be it
from me to pat way dtght upon the
GhristiaD daty of ^magiyio^y and
for the best of reaaooa ; if matters go
on loog as they have done of late, we
may all have to fieire forth one day,
like a rascal herd of friars meDdicanty
and beg charity of oar oeighbors."
" How now, brother?" said Ingalph,
" has any new mischief befallen as 7"
•' Nay,'* returned the other, «• 'tis
nothing new for as to lack money — ^it
has been so ever since I first took of-
fice ; bat 'tis one of those evils which
time will scarcely mend ; and 'twill
be something new for my lord abbot,
and for all of ye, to find bowl and
platter set before ye empty— a con-
sammation towards which, it seems
to me, we are wending fast'
"What is the matter, brother
Gervase?" asked Simon, the sab-
prior, in a good-hamoored tone. He
had stolen down to the kitchen sor-
reptitioasly to inspect the fresh ar-
rival of fish, in which he took a very
cordial interest
•< I am seeking an answer to a very
serioas qaestion, father," said the
kitchener, eyeing him as one of the
most determined consamers on tl^
establishment *' How many days in
the week, now, do yoa consider it
possible to live apon prayers and
promises ?'*
It was a dietary on which the
sabprior coald form no opinion.
"Becaase," continaed the other,
''I am like to have nooght besides,
that I can see, to provide the house
with till next St Thomases tide.
Here m our winter store of ling and
herring not yet laid in, and the fish-
eries falling short every dav. See
here, what they bring me this after-
noon—scarce anything fit to famish
forth the lord abbot's table to-morrow,
when he hath guests of rank to dine
with him,*'
''This is a goodly fish,'' said the
sab-prior, selecting from the heap on
tbe floor a large pike which had a
plumper look than the rest, and
weighing it in his bands admiringly.
" He is lank in the withers," said
Gervase, with a glance of &is more
experienced eye, " and hath but
atoffed his maw with frogs, or some
sach vermin."
One of the cook*8 assistants took
the fish from the sab-prior*s bands,
• and performed a rapid act of dissec-
tion^ which brought forth convincing
proofs that the kitchener was correct
in bis judgment
''And what noble guests is our
reverend father expecting?^ inquired
Ingnlph.
*' Nay «r replied Gervase, "has not
Sir Nicholas le Hardi sent word that
he will come to-morrow in person to
receive our loyal contribution to his
majesty's service? and has not my
lord abbot sent to prajr that Sir God-
firev will please to ride with him?
and shall we be niggard in our hospi-
tality to such gracious visitors ?'*
*' Gertes, 'tis a piece of the Ghris*
tian rule to feed our enemies^" re*
marked Uie sub-prior.
"Tea, and good worldly policy
likewise, brother," said Gervase:
" catch your unruly beast with good
'Oats--no need to waste them on your
tame one, whom you may take by
the forelock when vou will ; but
how to feed either friends or fbes out
of an empty purse— there is a ques-
tk)n, now, which brother logulph
here, with all his lore, shall find hard
to resolve us."
"I would rather at this moment,
good Gervase," said Ingulph, "that
you would bestow something on the
poor wayfarer I spoke of ; neither
my philosophy nor thine will go far
to feed the hungry."
With a little grumbling, more af-
fected than real, the kitchener bid a
serving-boy follow tbe monk with
some broken meat for the object of
his charity.
"I will go see him eat it,*' said
brother Simon, to whom the sight
appeared to promise a little gentle
excitement
Guthwin^s eyes glared like a ftun-
ished hound's at the food set before
him, and scarcely waitiog to mutter'
thanks to his benefactors, he applied
himself to it with a power of appe-
tite which, fortunately for the kitch-
ener's calculations, was seldom seen
within the abbey walls. It was not
to be wondered at ; for ever since he
-had been in hiding from Sir Godfrey's
wrath, he had subsisted on such wild
berries as tbe thickets about the
marsh could supply, with the eggs of
^'
Tat luck of LadysmedC'-Part V.
Paly,
water-birds, and sacb of their yoaag
as he. could occasiooally catch, and
which he had made no scrapie of de-
vouriDg raw.
Brother Simon seated himself op-
posite the haogry man, and watched
his perforpiance with mach interest
and admiratiob.
** Poor soul r' said he, « 'tis a plea-
sure to see him eat 1 I will e'en go
fetch him another treocher,^ Jl^ added
good naturedly, observing how ra-
pidly the first liberal sapply was dis-
appearing.
Fror "
?rom this purpose, however, \A was
dissuaded by nis brother monk, both on
the ground that the kitchener might
fairly hold this second demand some-
what unreasonable, and on account
of the danger—to say nothing of the
sin — of such an inordinate indulgence
of appetite. At this moment, too,
one of the novices entered, and, with
a respectful salutation, informed the
sub-prior that it was time to visit the
infirmary, which was one of the pe-
culiar duties of his office. Guthwjn
looked a little disappointed, but the
hospitable monk made what amends
he could to him by filling again from
the flagon the litUe bowl which had
contained his beer.
"If you be the lord abbot, as I
guess," said Guthwin, taking breath
at last, and looking gratefully upon
the sub- prior, whose placid features
and well-fed person bore about them
a certain look of comfortable dignity
— " I could tell something it might
content yoor reverence to know."
" I am not the abbot," replied
brother Simon, simple enough to feel
innocently flattered by the peasant's
mistake — '* bat you may speak to me
as well as to him, if it be aught that
concerns our house ; I will report it
to the abbot, if there seem need.**
The honest sub-prior had not the
least intention of intercepting any
private communication; but he did
not expect that any communication
at all from such a quarter could be
of real importance. Cuthwin, how-
ever, was shrewder in his generation
than the churchman ; he was certainly
more cunning. Shaffling uneasily in
his seat, and looking from one monk
to the other, he replied, **I would
fain see the abbot himself, so please
ye both."
•' " Thou art a bold knave," said the
sub-prior, with a little snort, ex-
pressing as much offended self-im-
portance as his easy nature was
capable of; "wouldst have the lord
abbot bestow his time no better, I
warrant thee, than in listening to
every idle tale that such as thoa
bring to 4he gate?*'
But the librarian, now that he
found that his unprepossessing ac-
quaintance profe&«ed to have news
to communicate, did not choose to
have his importance underrated.
He looked upon him as a little wind-
fall of his own ; and trusting to the
known kindliness of 'Abbot Martin'a
disposition, even should the man's
desire to ppeak to him personalty
prove, as it well might, to be a mere
delusion, or a pretext to obtain more
alms, he rose from his seat, and hav-
ing bid Guthwin remain where he
was for the present, explained to the
sub-prior that he would at least go
and inform their superior of this
persevering request.
The abbot sat in his chamber, with
the young Giolio on his knee. His
hand was playing with the fair curls,
and the boy looked up to him with
a beaming smile of affection. In
many respects the little guest of
Bivelsby was greatly improved by
his new companionship. Abbot Mar-
tin had already imparted something
of his own frank and bold nature to
the young spirit, whose nngenial
childhood hitherto had fostered some
of the fioer sensibilities at the ex-
pense of those stronger qualities
which would be looked for in a boy
of noble blood. There was still
enough of the soldier under the
churchman's robes, to make him less
careful to encourage his young charge
in the clerkly learning (br which he
already showed a taste and capa-
city far beyond his years, than to
iastil into him all the nobler prin-
ciples of true chivalry which bad
formed his own early training, and
in which Giulio's^ character might
have run some risk of proving defi-
cient He bad quietly withdrawn
him as much as possible from his
dearly- loved sittings in the library
and scriptoi*ium~Hor Ingulph woald
soon have made his darling papil as
accomplbhed in the arts of the pen-
"Part V.
n
1859.] Hie Luck q\adysmede,^l
man and illamloator aa be was him^ was snccessfal ; for tbe yonnget
self; and tboagb be De?er safTered monks wbo were tbere employed al- *
him to mix alone with tbe novioes, ways considered tbat tbe portraits
the youDgest of wbom were bis elders were intended to repreeent tbe saint
by some years, yet he sent him, under himself, wbo was never known to
the special care of one of his chap- wash, and died in the odour of sane- .
lains, or some other of the fraternity tityat a bundreck and fifteen years,
wbom be could implicitly trust, to Wolfert tbe chaplain, wbo had
be instructed in all snch athletic ex- been busy as usual near tbe window,
erciscB as tbe wide precincts of tbe laid down tbe figurative weapons
abbey afforded space for, and in which with which be was busily mauling
all tbe younger brethren were per- the obnoxious canons, and replied to
mitted and encouraged to join, and Ingulph's modest knock. Tbe boy
which, indeed, at Kivelsbjr formed a sprang joyously forward when be re-
regular part of tbe monastic training, cognised tbe familiar face, and wel-
It was a source of constant regret to comed tbe librarian cordially. The
his kind protector tbat tbe present abbot could hardly have been found
apparent necessity for keeping bis in happier mood. Ingulph humbly
place of refuge unknown, if possible, stated to bis superior Cuth win's
to tbe household of Ladysmede, strange request for an interview,
made it imprudent to take him aa a *' Tbe n>an bath a wild look about
companion in tbe frequent excur- him, reverend father,** said be, *' wliich
sions to tbe distant manors and indeed is no great marvel, if bis tale
granges belonging to tbe abbey, be true tbat be bath livra tbe life of
which formed at once part of Abbot a bunted wolf some three weeks past ;
Martinis duties and bis favourite re- be bad done somewhat, if I caught
laxation ; for the doll routine of tbe bis meaning rightly, to displeasure
cloister life sometimes, it must be tbe knight of L^dysmede, his lawful
confessed,' sat heavy on an active lord and master, and deems he goes
mind. He would gladly have had in peril of bis life : well-nigh famish-
him thus acquire tbat practical dcill ed I may dare swear be was, fbr
in horsemanship (which be took care, never did I see christened man swal-
bowever, should not be wholly un- low food so ravenously : but his wit
taagbt him within the abbey bounds), is as sound, for aught 1 can see, as
and at the same time have given such churls* wits are like to be ; and
mind and body the advantage of nothing will serve him but to see
free range of ir and scene. Still, my lord abbot himself; having, as
both promised to thrive well under he professes, 'some tidings tbat may
this semi-conventual training ; and come to no other ears. Tbe snb-
the young face which now looked up prior, wbo was by, would have had
into the abbot's had lost notLioe of nim speak out, but the fellow said .
its intellectual beauty, while it nad nay ; and so I thought it but right to
gained much in healthy colour and ask your worshipful pleasure in the
Irmness of contour. Tbe somewhat matter."
quaint effect of his little monastic "He is some' bondman df Sir
habit — for it had been judged more Godfrey, say you f *
prudent to clothe him in the usual " Is or was ; fbr he swore with an
dress of the novitiate— was not ill- unseemly oath, for which I rebuked
suited to the child's regular features him, that he would enter into bond
and clear liquid eyes ; and his friend with Sathanas — praying' your reve-
the librarian, who possessed consider- rence's pardon— rather than have to
able manual skill m the higher do with Sir Godfrey again."
branches of illumination, had twice "It were as well, perhaps, that I
endeavored surreptitiously to trans- saw him, since he stands so much
fer a resemblance of his little favour- upon it,** said the abbot ; .*< bring him
ite to tbe brilliant pages of a life of hither at once, if you will."
Samt Wolstan, which was being The monk bowed and retired,
copied at that time with lavish orna- Wolfert, also, at a sign from bis su*
meat in tbe scriptorium. It could perior, withdrew from tbe chamber,
hardly be said tbat either attempt taking the boy with him. In » few
78 1 The Luck qf Ladiouds.'^Part V. [July,
miDQteg logolph retaroed aad in- JBiiger, «i4 baThig bad a kctore oo
trodaoed the basketinaker, who had laDgaage already that afternoon, he
been Bobjected to some alight iuitia- oame to an abrupt stop, which was
tory religiona discipline in the way even more emphatic, and leas objeo-
of ablation, and presented a less te- tionable.
pal»iye appearance than before. ** Ton wished to have speech of
. The monk lingered at the door, me, as I hare been told " said the
and recounted again at greater length, superior, satisfied that the oeasant
for the abbot's information, all the was now in fall possession of all his
particulars of his first meeting with powers of speech and comprehension ;
Catbwin. He had some hope that " speak if ^ou will, honestly, and
his presence might be required at witboat fear. '
the interview in the character of " Have ye a child of Sir €k>dfrey*8
interpreter ; for the peasant wore at here among ye ?" said Guthwin in a
first an air of stolid abashment which cautious voiceL**
did not promise to make his com- ^ Nay, friend," rej^ied the abbot,
munications very intelligible. He "I thought to hear somewhat from
considered also that he had a lawful thee ; it were hardly my place to
claim to a share in the forthcoming answer every wayfiarer's AqaesUons.
secret, such as it might be ; and his If that be all that I am called to
•honest face put on a look of disap- hearken to, I trow it were as well
pointment and mortification when for thee, having had food and drink,
the superior signified to him a gra- to go thy ways agiuo."
clous permission to withdraw. Guthwin regarded the speaker with
Left alone with the abbot, Guthwin a half-timid leer of low cunning ; he
appeared to employ himself at first, saw, as he thought, that the abbot
as some animals will do under simi- was fencing with him, and respected
lar curcumstances, in taking the him the more for a diplomacy which
exact relative bearings of the apart- Just came within his own powers of
ment and all its forniture, from the moral appreciation. But in fact|
floor to the ceiling. The abbot though Abbot Martin did not choose
wisely allowed him time to ' complete to answer an interrogatory put in
his investigations, and recover his such fashion from such a month,
Bdf-poBBession as far as possible, he had not the slightest thought of
merely expressing in a few brief misleading his questioner, or en-
words his pity for what he under- gaging him in a contest of evasions,
stood had b^ his sufferings. His suspicion at ,tbe moment was
** And you fear, even now, to go that Guthwin was ah emissary of Sir
back within Sir Godfrey's reach?" Godfrey's, who had procured ad-
said the abbot, judging that he would mission into the monastery, under
speak most readily of what concerned pretence of seekiog alms, and was
himself ; " you would have me plead now pursuing his inquiries with more
with the knight on your behalf, I zeal than shrewdness,
doubt not— is it not so?" The er- "Well," rejoined Guthwin, « no
rand which the man deemed of such offisnce, I beseech thee, father ; they .
importance might, he thought, after have lost him from Ladysmede — that
all, be no more than this. much is certain, for there was stir
** Gurses light on him !" said enough made about it for a while :
Gathwin, becoming eloquent in his wbeuer ye have him or no, matters
excited recollection, and gathering little to me ; if all the breed were
courage perhaps from the good cheer strangled, the earth were well rid of
of the gueaVhall, " be set bis hands them. In case the imp be not
on my woman yonder as she had amongst ye, what I have to say will
been e'en a brock or a foulmart.',' concern your reverence but little;
(He had stolen back to his hut but the talk at Ladvsmede is of
one dark and stormy night, and making search here for him."
had an interview with Swytha.) "If The abbot looked at his strange
ever I go x%h him or his again, may visitor to judge whether he was
the--" playing him false ; but GuthwinV
Bat the abbot raised a waramg features had resumed their 'nsoal
b
1859.] Tk$ Luck of \ad$fnMdi.^Part V. 79
stolid apathy, and Abbot If artia was abbot, " oonld I ooly assore DTself of
at best no keen reader of counte- thj good faith ; but why one (ach as
Dances. thee should so eooeem thyself in oor
*<And how is it, friend/' said he, matters^onless for some purpose of
" that 7on— a hunted fugitive as I thine own — I oonfiess I nndeistand
hear— should be thus acauainted with not*' ,
8ir Godfrey's intentions ?^ '' I had found a friend here in my
Then Cuthwin, taking courage at need, father," said the basket-maker,
finding himself addressed as human blinking at. the abbot with his resUess
flesh and blood— a mode of treatment eyes.
little in iashion with such of his ** True," replied the abbot thought-
superiors as he had hitherto made fully, scarcely satisfied,
acquaintance with — launched forth '* And I would go far to disappoint
into a long and somewhat confused mine enemy," added the other, and
narrative. He bad been lying hid in the glance was steady for a moment*
the swamp by the roadside when Sir gleaming with malice.
Nicholas passed that dav towards ** In Uiat I dare swear thou hast
Willan*s Hope ; and the knight, di- said truly. I do not say I trust thee,
:iog« little from the path, had but thou shalt remain in keeping
ridden so close to his lurking-place, here awhile— so will it be the safer,
that when he suddenly stopi^ and if thy tale be true, for all of ua"
called to has esquire to adjust some ''1 am ^eil content," replied
point that was wrong about his Outhwin.
horse's gear, Guthwin, not daring to Abbot Martin summoned his chi^
moTo nntil they were gone» bad over- lain from a neighbouring chamber,
beard a conversation which had then and gave him charge to see the
passed between them. Dubois had peasant safely bestowed but kindly
told his master that he had now treated. "Ajid hearken, Wolfert,
learnt for certain that it was Sir he added, " send Gaston the Angevin
Godfrey's child whom he had seen at hither."
Kivelsby : he was sorely there, he It was the name of a foreign monk,
said, and from certain informatbn rude and illiterate, but who had
whioh he had gained, he knew that served Abbot Martin in his earlier
be was in the abbot's charge, and days, and was much in his confidence
lay in his chamber; and then Sir where simple obedience and fidelity
Nicholas had laughed for joy, and were required,
said that they would surely have tl^e ''Hark ye, Gaston," said he, when
boy away on the morrow. And the the monk msde his appearance —
squire asked, would it not be well to *' take a stout palfr^ from my stable,
avoid all force, of which there should to-morrow, before daybreak, aLd carry
be no need ? for it were easy enough the child Giulio— wnom yon will find
for a trustjr few to seek the abbot's ready here in my chamber— down to
chamber while he was feasting with Morton Grange : abide there with
his guests, and poswfls themselves of him until I come or send this rinff,"
the lad without stir or difficultv. — and he showed the signet on his
And so there had been more talk finder— *' and, I need not say, be silent
between them,— much that Guthwin and discreet"
did not hear, and much that he did If silence was a sure mark of dis-
not understand or remember; but cretion, the Angevin was the dis-
what be had learnt he had thought creetest of henclmien ; for he said no
well to let the abbot know. word in reply to the superior's charge,
^ There were thanks doe for thy but made a low obeisance and with-
tidings and thy good-will," said the drew.
CHAFTBS ZIII.— COHFISSIONS, .
What logulph had said at Willan's ElfhOd's mind from those scmples of
Hope did not tend to diminish the in- true courtesy which had as yet with-
tsrest with which either lady regarded held her from entering opon any per-
tbdr goest* whilst it asrvedf to relieve sonal inquiries. In tha oonversatioQ
80
The Luck of Ladymede.--Part V.
[Jolji
\7bicl) foHowed between her and ber
niece, ebe was fertile in specnlatioos
upon a point whicb she now hoped
soon to be able to solve in earnest.
Gtadice, on the other hand, had
given np gnessiog, andf was more
than uBaally silent. Before they
parted, both had come to a resolu-
tion in their own minds, which
neither expressed in words to the
other: the elder, to take the first
favourable opportunity to obtain all
such information from Isola as she
might seem willing to give ; and the
younger, to avoid as far as possible
any confidences whicb their gaost
showed any desire to bestow upon
her. But the best and most deliber-
ate human resolutions are liable to
become the sport of very trifling
circumstances. The exacting dbmes-
tic cares of a large and hungry house-
hold—to which all interests ranked
second in the eyes of Elfhild— en-
grossed that excellent lady*8 atten-
tion for the remainder of the day ;
Judith and her subordinates were
fully occupied in clearing off some
arrears of duty under the vigilant
eye of their mistress ; and Gladice —
who, too willingly, it must be con-
fessed, left the government of her
little kingdom to any minister who
would kindly take the responsibility
—found herself the only person suffi-
ciently disengaged to attend to Isola.
She bad thought to content Jierself .
witb one or two brief visits of inquiry
to the invalid's chamber ; for she
felt that she was awkward and embar-
rassed in her attempts at conversa-
tion ; but the melancholy face lighted
np with 6uch a glowing smile at her
approach, and seemed to watch her
departure with such a regretful gaze,
that Glad ice's kind heart was not
proof against what she interpreted
into a silent pleadioff for companion-
ship, and she felt that she could not
leave the stranger alone through the
long evening. She therefore carried
with her up to the chamber that
innocent falsehood, her embroidery-
frame, and seated by the narrow
eyelet which served there for a win-
dow, it supplied her witb at least
ostensible occupation and some ex-
cuse for silence. Isola indeed
showed no inclination to trouble her
much with conversation; and after
a very few words had passed at in-
tervals, had closed her eyes, and
seemed to sleep. Gladice's thoughts
also soon wandered to the land of
dreams ; and forgetting for the mo-
ment that she was not alone, she let
her needle fall, leaving the flower,
which she had twice unpicked, to
grow, if it would, in its own rebel-
lions way, and began, as her habit was,
to sing to herself in a luw rich voice.
But her song, whether in unison wi^
ber own feelings, or from an pnoon-
scloua sympathy with the sleeper,
was not so gay as usual. It was a
chnnt which she had heard the nans
of Michamstede sing at their vespers ;
she had readily caught the sweet and
simple melody, and no one could
have found it in their hearts to be
over-critical about the Latin words.
She had continued it for some
minutes, when she started at recol-
lectisg where she was, and turning
hurri^Iy to remark whether her com-
panion was still sleeping, saw that
her eyes were open, though they
were not turned on her, and that
they "were ready to overflow with
tears. She had ceased her singing
so suddenly that Isola could not &il
to understand the cause, though the
singer tried to appear unconscious of
her emotion.
** Why did you stop ?" said Isola,
mastering her tears, and turning to
Gladice with an attempt to smile.
^ Did it soothe you ?" asked Gla-
dice, without meeting her glance ; "I
will begin again.'*
And with a less steady voice — for
she was unused to sing for others —
she resumed the chant as she bent
again over her needle.
** That is not an English melody,"
said the stranger gently, after listening
for a while in silence.
<<Is it not?" said Gladice; ^itis
very beautiful ; at least you could
hardly fail to think it so, if you had
heard it sung as I did." And she ex-
plained to her listener where she had
learned 'it
^I know it well," said Isola, turn-
ing her face from her ; *' it is an Ital-
ian chant I have sung it myself—-
very, very often."
Her companion would willingly
have let the conversation drop, but
she ielt obliged to make some kind
of reply. ** I should have bethought
me,** she said with a smile, ** before
1859.]
The Lode of Ladysmide.'-Part V.
81
I wu 80 tree to eany my poor re-
membrance of it ; they say that your
country is the land of soDg.*'
'^ Do not refase me for a conntry-
woman/' Isola replied ; ** I said that
I was half of Eogllsh blood; the
only parent I can remember wad my
sweet Boglish mother ; and I speak
yonr ]angnafi;e — or I have been falsely
told — as well as one bom in the land.
It may very well be so, for I heard
little else spoken in my infancy.
And it seems to me now — forgive
me for what I say — when I close my
eyes and listen while yon speak, as
if I had woke from some hideoos
dream, to find myself a little child
once more, and hear my mother's
English voice! Wonld God that it
coald be!" She turned her face
away again, and made no effort now
to restrain or to oonoeai her tears.
Gladiee coald but try to soothe
her with some kindly words, thougli
sihe persuaded herself that they were
grave and formal Perhaps the voice
was kinder than the words ; perhaps
the 'ear upon which they fell had
been too little used of late to any
tones of kindness; or perhaps the
<inick southern blood that mingled
io the stranger's veins overbore with
its impetuous current the common
barriers of reserve.
" i have not known how to thank
yon," said Isola, raising herself from
her couch and dashing away her
tears, and breaking into that rapid
and impassioned utterance which
was almost the only trace of her
foreign birth and education — <^ I can
never thank you — for all your gene-
rous kindness — and even more, for
the noble silence which has been con-
tent to ask no questions, and to think
no evil. Such only comes out of the
depths .of pure hearts; I had not
thought there were such angel spirits
upon earth !*'
- Gladiee had almost involuntarily
risen from her tadc, and seated her-
self OB the side of the couch, and
Isola had thrown her arm round her.
**Yoa must have been indeed un-
happy, then," she replied, 'Mf com-
mon kindness seems so strange."
And for the first time she took the
stranger's hand.
**! wonld tdl you something of
my story,'* said Isola ; *^ somethiog
VOL. Lzzm.
of my sin and of my punishment —
lest you should think me even more
tm worthy than I am."
^ I seek to know nothing," said
Gladiee hastily, and half- rising ;
*' nor have I jud^d you harshly,
even in thought ; if yon have sinned
as you say, God forgive yon! we
only know that you are in distress."
^ Nay," pleaded Isola beseechingly,
"let me speak now, if only for my
own 8«ke ; I have borne my burden
very long alone, and thought to
have borne it still ; but your kind-
ness— it has stirred feelings in my
heart which have been still for years.
I have borne scorn when I deserved
it not, because I was too proud to
speak ; and honour when I deserved
it lees,-^a harder thing to bear ; but
now I feel that I must speak— this
once !*'-^for Gladiee gave no token
of encoumgement— '* and I will trou-
ble you no more ! to yon I can speak
as I could not even to that good
priest!"
•'My aant, the lady Elfhild—"
Gladiee began, in a colder voice, and
with something of confused dignity.
** Oh no ! — to you, to vou ! Surely
She to whom I pray daily — nightly
— ^hourly, when, sinner that I am, I
dare not pray to God—has heard me,
and sent you to save me from my-
self."
Still Gladiee made no response.
'*LadyI" said the other, in an
altered tone, removing her passion-
ate clasp from Gladioe^s hand and
turning half away, while the colour
flushed crimson to her temples — ^^I
am not what you think me f
<< No ! no I" cried Gladiee, catch-
ing her hand again, and speaking
with an imploring eagerness strongly
contrasted with her former embar-
rassed tone — '* I did not mean — I did
not think — what am I in the sight
of Heaven, that I should Judge
others? Forgive me if I have
pained you for an instant! But I
have been used to live much alone,
and I eoutd not-^t least I think I
could not— open my own heart to
any one : it seemed to me, therefore,
as if I had no right to listen — and I
could give you no help; but you
shall tell me anything— everything
—what you will, if it will be env
comfort to you 1"
6
T/ie Lutk ^ Ladgtmede,—Part V.
[July,
It would have been hard to resist
the earnest voice, harder still the en-
treating eyes which now sought con-
fidence and forgifeness.
" Yes,*' said Isola quietly, without
raising her eyes — ** I said it was right
that you should listen to me ; I would
be thought neither better nor worse
than I am. Bight glad would I have
been to have carried with me, when
I go hence, your love— your esteem ;
but not eyen this, if I must wear a
mask for it— never that again V She
paused for a moment; her listener
only pressed her hand.
** There needs not to trouble you
with much of mj early life. I have
told you I never knew my father;
but he was an Italtan gentleman of
good descent My mother was Eng-
lish ; he had met with her, as I re-
member to have heard, when he was
sent upon some mission to the court
of your King Stephen. Well — she
too died soon; and we were left
alone in the world, my brother and
I ; young, and I suppose poor. He
alwajs said that our inheritance was
seized uniustly by onr kinsmen. I
cannot tell — but we were young, as
i said, and poor. We were both
given to the Church— a worthless
gift, made in a selfish spirit; let
some share of the guilt, therefore, lie
upon those who made it I So I grew
up in the cloister life, which I was
taught to look forward to as ray home
for ever. And so it might have been ;
and a peaceful and sinless home at
least, if not a happy one— but for
one thing. There was a friend of
my father's, an Italian lady of the
pure blood, as they call it, but poor
like ourselves; and for that reason,
perhaps, she was the only friend we
had. While I was little more than
a child, I was allowed often to visit
her, and I loved her verv much. In
my novitiate I was still allowed the
same permission, for the rule of onr
house was scarce so strict as some. At
last the day came when I was to
make my last profession. I said I
could have been happy enough to
have embraced the cloister for ever,
but for one thing — ^must I needs say
what it was 7 or*' —
** Kay," said Gladice, colouring and
half smiling — " leave it unsaid.''
*' The day came/' eoottniied the Ita-
lian, ^and I had miserabiie conflicta
with myself; I had to vow myself,
body and spirit, to Heaven, when I
knew and relt that I had staked all
my hopes and thoughts upon — upon
earth! but they were thoughts and
hopes I dared not breathe to others
— not even to her who had beeome
almost a seepod mother to me, I
hardly confessed ibem even to my-
self. I strove — our Holy Mother
knows how sore and earnestly I
strove 1 — to naaster my own rebel-
lious feelings, to submit myself pa-
tiently to the lot which seemed ap-
pointed for me ; but it was of no avail
Could I vow with my lips to 'fol-
low Heaven with my whole heart,'
when ray whole heart was given to
a creature of earth ? Shonhi I have
done it ?"
*' No," said Gladice in a low yoice,
when she found her«eompanion waited
for her reply.
'* But," said Isola, ^ still it v^as no
more than ray own wayward fancy—
he had never spoken t what coald I
say ? what could I ])lead for not tak-
ing the veil 1" Gladice was silent.
. *'I did not take it," coBtiooed
Isola ; '^I fled— fled to the only friend
I had, and she protected me, and
would not have my will forced. And
then another spoke r and he waa
kind and noMe, and my kinswoman
loved him, and would have bad me
wed him; and then what was I to
do? for remember, he of whom I
told you was gone now, and had said
no word ; and all men against me,
one poor helpless girL Here was the
choice laid before me — a husband, or
the cloister; and ray heart far, far
away from both — which was I to
choose ?"
'' Neither I" said Gladice, her lips
set, and her eyes flashing — " neither I"
" Nay, but, sweet U^y, what could
I do?"
** I know not," said Gladice impa-
tiently—** not that!"
*' Ay," said the other, looking at
her with a monrnfiil admiration, as
the indignant colour mounted just
high enough to enhance her beauty,
while the eye burnt and the whole
luxuriant forn panted with courage-
ous pride— "truly and bravely saidl
and, I do verily believe, brave and
trae you woald be in deed as in
TAe Lwk of Ladysmide.^Part V.
83
word-I Qod grant yoa be neTcr tried !
Bat alas ! I was too weak — I chose
the cloister."
'*WeU," said Gladice, breathing
somewhat easier,—** it was the better
choice/*
"To make myself a living lie! to
▼ow mj heart, my thoughts, my
hopes to Heaven, when my whole
soqI was sick with a k>ve sach as,
in yoar colder island, yon may be
thankful if you never know.**
** Yet it was a northern mAiden, in
the lay, that was found floating dead
in the charmed boat for the love
which she had never told.*'
** Is it even so ?" asked the Italian,
looking down into her companion's
face ; — '' but let me hasten on with
my wretched story. I took this lying
vow upon my lips— it was best, you
say — I thought it so then ; and
so it might have been, but — as a
punishment, it might be, for my false
oath to God—he came again ; once,
and, only once, we met, and I broke
my vow. I fled with the man I loved
—but as his wedded wife, remember !
Ay, start as jou well may — I, the
sworn bride of Christ, became an
adulteress to an earthly passion !
That has been my crime, vile and
black in mine own sight now as ever. I
and yet so blind am I, I know not
at this moment which was the great-
est falsehood and the deadliest sin, —
the making the vow, or the break-
ing of it 1'*
'* God forgive you !" said Gladice
earnestly ; ** you were sorely tried.**
" I was, I was I and I strove hard,
and prayed long ; but of what use
was It t My heart had been full of
that one thought even while I spoke
those awful words of profession. I
had nursed it in the cloister, like a
despair ; it seemed so hopeless that
I forgot the sin ; and now it had
overmastered me, body and soul ;
what help could Heaven iteelf give
• me r* She hid her face again, and
her whole frame shuddered with the
agony of remembrance.
-And afterwards," said Gladice,
feeling that the truest relief would
be to lead her to coutinue her story,
—-your wedded life, I fear, has not
been happy t"
•• Happy r exclaimed the other
bitterly — " was it fit that it should
be ? No — even in ray worst folly, I
never hoped or dreamed that When
ever was peace or happiness born of
falsehood ? Why should man value
the truth which has been broken to
God ? A few short weeks of fever-
ish, painful joy — ^no happiness ; a few
months more of wretched wander-
ing, coldness, and neglect ; and then
— as was but just — he left me, for
whom I had left God. Yes, lady, it
was even so ; and if it were only so,
I might have borne it, and have been
thankful that my sin had . so early
found me out ; but there was an-
other, too, who fell in my fall — my
brother, my poor Giacomo >■ ; but
I have told you all that needed to be
known ; that which touches others
I must not tell, and it were idle for
you to hear. Oh ! but you would
needs pity me, sinful as I am, did you
only know half the agony of my
thoughts sometimes I and of late more
than all, in my weakness. I have
had— whether waking or dreaming, I
cannot rightly tell— evils spirits chant-
ing in my ears the words of the vows
that have been made and broken,
and rejoicing over the souls which
I have given them V
"Nay, nay,^' said Gladice^ taking
both her hands in hers, and seeking
to calm her agitation — ** it is not so
— you do but dream — such fancies as
I have heard come oftentimes with
fever, and will pass away as vou gain
strength — think no more of them.**
Yet she felt herself tremble ak she
spoke.
"You have not asked me yet,**
said her companion, looking up,
"what it was that brought me
hiiher ?"
** I do not care to aBk, or to know ;
I think perhaps it was she to whom
you pray so often."
" Ah ! no,** replied Isola, shaking
her head and colouring again, though
the kind words awoke a faint smile
of pleasure on her face ibr a moment ;
" alas I it was the old madness still ;
I came with the hope to find him,
and look on him once more, if only
to be scorned again. I know that it
is weakness, miserable weakness, but
it is my life— and it is not sin now ;
there is but one vow left me hence-
forth to keep, even if I would ; and
though it be all they tell me— mad,
84
The Luck ^ LadymeB[e,--PaH V.
[Jalyr
self-willed, nowomaoly — I am not
wicked in this ; yoa would not tell
raesor
The reply which Gladioe woald
have made was ioterrupted by the
Toice of her tirewoman Bertha, re-
qoesting admiauon to her yoang
mistreas.
** An it pleaae yon, dear Lady Gla-
dice," said Bertha, after a respectfol
obeisance to both, ** yoar presence Is
desired below."
*'Pray thee spare ma now, good
Bertha," said Gladice, forcing herself
to smile gaily, throogh there were
tears upon her cheek ; ** what mighty
basiness is there afoot, which cannot
be compassed without my poor wit 7
Go — say what ia the truth, that I am
preparing a sleeping-dranght for this
our gnest, who has been overwearied
and restless, and that I would fain
watch here a while.'* And she moved
towards the small table on which
were disposed all Dame Elfhild's
approved medicaments. But the tire-
woman still lingered in the chamber,
castiog hesitating looks towards the
couch on which leola lay.
**It was the lady Elfhild bid me
seek you,** she said ; " there are guests
newly arrived, and her company will
bard I V content them."
•• Who is it r Gladioe asked, turn-
ing her face aside for a moment /rom
Bertha*s meaning glance.
" Sir Nicholas le Hardi hath ridden
from Ladysmede."
Bertha spoke slowly and distinctly,
lor she wished to attach some im-
portance to her words, and she was
watching their effect upon her young
mistresa with kindly interest. Bat
on this point she had no opportunity
of satisfying herself. The words had
been heard by another. Isohi had
started up with a sharp sudden cry,
and grasped Gladice^s arm convul-
sively. Bertha was alarmed, and
hurried to her assistance, quite un-
oonscioos that she herself had been
in any way the cause of the stranger's
emotion. Gladice was startled abo,
and looked in laola^s face with in-
quiring wonder, doubtful whether
her exclamation arose from a sudd«Q
spasm of pain, or from some &ncied
ttrrror of a fevered body and over-
excited mind. With an effort at
calmiKfiB, while ber grasp of the arm
she held Ughteiied even to pain, the
Italian whispered — " He hss found
me, then f
" Who ? what r cried Gladioe hur-
riedly, not sure that in the troubled
gleam of the other's eyes she did not
read insanity, yet looking eagerly to
catch her next words.
' Isola drew a long sighi and closed
her eyes again.
'*What did yon say 7" repeated
her companion.
'* One moment^and I will tell you
all." The tone wsa calm enough ;
Gladice was the most agitated now.
*' It was he of whom I spoke but
now— my husband.^'
The words were spoken very low,
but they were plain to understand.
Her listener stooped for a moment
orer the couch, and whispered —
'* Hn^h ?' Then she rose, and busied
herself for a few seconds in adjusting
the cushions upon which the sick
stranger leaned. When she turned
round, she said to her attendant in a
quiet voice, *' Go, Bertha I did I not
say that I had no leisure now T say
to mine aunt that I am needed here :
the lady, aa you see, is safiering —
I cannot leave her."
The tirewoman's ears, |is Dame
Elfhild many times complained, were
ndne of the sharpest, nor were her
mental perceptions the most acute.
She bad withdrawn to a little dis-
taace, and the few words which she
had caught of what had passed be*
tween tte others, had only served to
convey to her mind a confused and
alarmed notion of what she had be-
fore suspected, that the poor lady'a
intelleot was ^tnrbed. But die
could not help noticing the unusual
pal lour on her young mistress's face ',
and, anxious not to leave her to deal
with such a responsibility alone,
begged her permission to remain in
the chamber.
^ Leave u«, Bertha I— £d you not
hear me r
Never had her gentk lady spoken
to her so sternly. Humbled and won-
dering, the poor girl hastily with-
drew.
Then Gladice, no longer an on-
willing listener, bat pale and eager,
sought from her guest a lull explana-
tion of her last words.
*^ Sir Xidiolas k Hardi— tdl me,**
aoe said, " are yoa his wife ?*
" I am, I am, Heavea hs^ me ! He
•1859.]
ne Luck of Ladymede.—Part V.
85
boows I am 1 Hia by all the towb
with which holy charch could bind
08 1 He may deoy it; bat, lady, I
Speak the tratb— do you not believe
me?" She looked iuto Gladice's
face, and started at what she thought
die read there. *' What know yon
of him ?'' she asked abruptly, with an
eager, frightened look.
*' Nothing, I might almost say :
he is a guest with my kinsman Sir
Godfrey, of whom yon have heard us
speak. I know naught beside." She
spoke calmly, but her face was hidden
from lBola*sintenoeatiDg gaze. Both
were silent for a while ; then it was
the Italian who spoke.
•* Yes — he Lj my husband ; how I
love him, I have told you : I have
left friends, crossed seas, trampled on
mv woman's pride, borne scorn from
whom it was hardest to bear — all to
look on him once more— only to look
on him—for he hates me. I do verily
ibar," she said, shuddering, *' that my
life were hardly safe if I were in bis
power alona Now I have told jou
all, and truly ; so may God forgive
my sin 1 And you— what have you to
tell me ?"
'* Nothing r' said Gladice, raising
herself erect, and throwing back the
mass of overshadowing hair that had
escaped its bounds as she stooped
over the sufferer's couch, while she
looked straight into the other^s eyes
with a high-flushed cheek, and a
glance that seemed almost defiant —
•• Nothing 1"
Anxiously and searchiogly Isola
looked into those truthfiil eyes. The
colour mounted higher and higher,
but the steadfast look never quailed
again. Gradually the Italian's gaze
softened into a loving, trustful smile,
as she took both Giadice^s hands in
her own.
*< He is my husband," she gently
said again ; *• you will forgive me ?'*
** Forgive you ?"— and Gladice bent
her head down upon the hands that
still clasped hers, and pressed her hot
lips upon them for a moment. If
tears dropped there, they were Isola's.
" Ton will not betray me," said she,
with an appealing look to Gladice :
'*he will not know that I am here?"
*^ Be sure he shall not,^' said Gla-
dice, her head still bent — "you are
safe with us. But yon must rest
again,
ir Ni- I
go to t
now,** she continued, as she lifted her
face again, grave and calm — " I will
leave you fur a while."
As she passed out at the chamber-
door she met Bertha, who had again
been despatched in search of her.
The poor tirewoman bad never been
80 embarrassed by conflicting duties.
She could not disobey Dame Elf hild,
in whom was invested the chief autho-
rity de facto in the household ; and
she would not have vexed her dear
young mistress for the world.
"indeed, sweet lady Gladice," she
began in a humble deprecating tone,
^ I was bound to seek yon again,
chide me as you may, for Sir
cholas" —
" Sa^ I will come ; I do but
bind mme hair."
Bertha would have followed to
tender assistance as usual. *'Nay,
go, dear Bortha — 1 do not need any
help ; say that I will wait on them
presently."
Bertha was neither keen nor clever ;
but she was a woman, and she looked
after her young mistress, as she turn-
ed away, with wondering and sorrow-
ful eyes.
Grave and pale, but never in more
commanding beauty, the lady Gla-
dice, after her brief toilet, walked
into the solar where sat her good
kinswoman doing her best to make
the long minutes of delay pass lightly
to the impatient Crusader. He seemed
to have little himself to tell this
morning, and had not been listen-
ing, it IS to be feared, with quite so
much interest as courtesy demanded,
to certain incidents of the lady's own
days of conquest. But his dark
brow cleared as he glanced rapidly at
the opening door by which the maiden
entered. lie rose to greet her with
a courtesy graceful as his wont, and,
if it could be, even more respectful.
In part, it might be intentional ; but
there was an indefinite majesty abont
Gladice^s presence at that moment
which would have in itself forbidden
any more presumptuous greeting. It
was no longer the rich maturity of
woman*s loveliness which tempted
passionate admiration in every deli-
cate tint and rounded line ; it was
the pale proud beauty of a marble
Juno, livmg and moving, with a
Madonna's featnrea Before it, the
86
The Luck of Ladgmede^'^Part V.
[July;
bold gallant of the camp and coart,
the practised man of tne world, in
wboee breast the fires of youth bnmt
hardly less fiercely that they were
tempered by the craft of ripened
years, stood chastened into an^ in-
voluntary reverence. She received
the Crusader's homage as a queen
might have done, with the stately
graciousoess which repels rather than
encourages ; and though he took a seat
almost close beside her, she was as
far aloof from him as an angel. He
sought to win her attention, as be-
fore, by the wealth of converse upon
almost every subject which he was
wont to have so readily at command ;
but he felt a spell upon him, and his
tongue had lost its cunning. He tried
a lighter tone ; a softly- worded jest,
a delicately-veiled bint of flattery;
but he bit his lip with vexation as
tiie words fell forced and dead even
upon his own ear, for Gladice's face
wore no answering smile. He bent
his eyes there inquiringly, again and
again ; and though his natural tem-
per was- bitter and impatient, there
waR a tenderness in the reproachful
look too real to be a mere stratagem
in the warfare of courtship. The
eyes which he sought did not always
shrink from his; but when be met
them, they hardly seemed the same
as those in which he had so often
looked before, in whose soft depths a
mighty unwakened love had seemed
always sleeping. Their brightness
bad borrowed something of the fabled
power of the dead Gorgon. It con-
quered him; for it chilled his pas-
sion, and unnerved his self-command.
Even Elfhild, who had been obliged
to maintain a far larger share in the
conversation than she had found
necessary on former occasion^ and
who had shot a meaning look at her
niece from time to time to rebuke her
for her unreasonable silence, found her
own keen glance quail before the in-
tensity of Ghinice's expression, whicb
puzzled and alarmed her. But love, as
the elderly maiden supposed, was in its
normal state a chaos of inexplicable
contradictions ; nothing dl&mayed,
therefore, and feeling that a double
duty was required of her, she con-
tinued to talk to both with great fer-
tility of words and with the best
intentions. At last the Crusader
seemed to rally his spirit, and spoke
in an easier and lighter tone. His
Jests grew bolder, his language of com-
pliment was more decided, bis laueh
rang louder and gayer, though be
addressed himself oftener to Elfhild
than to Gladice ; and the elder lady
began to congratulate herself on hav-
ing infused a very desirable cheerful-
ness into at least one of their little
party. If the jest had sometimes
now more meaning in it than was
suited to modern maiden's ear, it
would have seemed purity itself on
the lips of Sir Godfrey or his depart-
ed friend Sir Amyas ; and Elfhild
had been too much used to such
society to affect to be over- prudish in
such points. If his eye assumed a
somewhat free and defiant look as it
rested from time to time upon Gla-
dice, Elfhild did not seem to notice
it ; and if a slight flush tinged for
an instant the paleness of the mud-
en's cheek, and showed that she was
conscious of his changed demeanour,
the knight might have read — and be
did — in the haughty lip and the in-
dignant eye which answered his, not
so much shame, as scorn and counter-
defiance. Maintftining this new tone
a while, until he had fully recovered
his ground in his own estimation, at
length Sir Nicholas rose to .take his
leave. Yet, as at parting he took
Gladice*s scarcely-offered hand, and,
bending low, raised it to his lips witji
grave and res|)ectiful courtesy, he said
some few words in a low voice, in his
old tone, and watched her face for
an answer with no freedom in his
look. Slight abrupt words they were,
to which only a look and a tone could
give cohesion or meaning. Tet pos-
sibly, had they been spoken but an
hour ago, to the ear which alone
beard them, they might have had a
wondrous eloquence. But she made
no other answer than one of those
fixed searching looks from which he
had half shrank before, and the cold
hand struggled out of his grasp.
Again the evil defiant glance, this time
with something of a fierce meaning in
it, came up into Le Hardi's fade ; but
Gladice did not notice it ; almost be-
fore the door had closed upon him, she
too had left the chamber.
1859.]
Sentimentai Phynolcgy.
87
8BNTIXENTAL PHT8IOL00T.
Om wbo fovea to shape for him-
6e1f the forms of e^nts in the dark-
ness of the fatare, might be interest-
ed and l[>Qzzled for a long time with
ihe raonentoas question, '' What is to
become of Paris 7" The prospects of
that great city seem snfficiently em-
barrassing, whether regarded from a
moral, religions, social, or political
point of Tiew. Paris will grow, and
grow, and grow, and its ramifying
railroads will act as so many arteries,
bringing the vital flaid into the great
central heart of France, and not re-
acting as veins te carry it back.
Paris will certainly become congested
again as has happened often before,
and the next time matters may be
worse than they yet have been ; the
«xplo6ion may be more tremendous
in proportion to the congestion. On
the face of things sach a danger
woqM appear to threaten London
«veQ to a greater extent. London is
larger than Paris, and expands every
day; bat that matters little. The
outward and visible increase is ap-
parent rather than real. There is no
strong attraction of Englishmen to-
wards London as there is of French- <
men towards Paris; but the forces
of attraction and repulsion appear to
correct each other. England will
never be centralised in London as
France is to a certain extent in Pari&
No one who has the shadow of a
settlement elsewhere connects the
feeling of home with our great me-
tropolis, while the true Frenchman
is at home only in Paris. His feel-
ing«> are thoee of Ovid in his exile
at Tomi, when business or health
take him away from his beloved
capital, —
^ Cum tablt flUns trtettoshna noetls \mBgo
Qu» mihi Mpremam tompos in urbe fbit"
Even in the glorious Alps of Dau-
phin^, or among the Pyrenees, moan-
tain scenery which he may revel in
withont pattbg his foot on foreign
ground, and equal to any in the
world, he feels ennuyS at a short so-
journ, and sighs for the flesh-pots of
Egypt and "gross mud -hooey of
town." It is far otherwise with the
Briton. Unless very young indeed,
nothing but stern duty will bind him
a day longer in London than he can
possibly helpL If he is an M. P., he
never nods in the House under the
infliction of a long-winded speaker,
bat his dreams are of the gorse and
4he grouse ; if he is a merchant, he
takes delight only in the a^^ociations
suggested by the name of * Change,
cursing the reality of the thing ; it' a
small tradesman, he is never hummed
into a sleepy reverie by the fiie^ in
his shop, but he dreams df the subar-
ban box whither, when times mend,
he may wend his way by rail or omni-
bus about four in the afternoon,
leaving his late custom to an under-
ling; if a mechanic, his tbonghts
through the week are of his Sunday
holiday, and the burden of his secret
prayers is that the day may be fine
to enjoy it — in fact, from the per-
petual and growing aatipathy of its
inhabitants, joined to the mia>'ma of
the Thames, London is in danger of
^disintegration, and seems in a fair
way to be transplanted piecemeal to
the several railroad stations in its
neighbourhood. It has even now,
with its furious and fevered life, borne
itself so hollow in the centre, that
proposals have been made to trans*
plant into the suburbs the metro-
politan churches to sites whither their
parishes have migrated. Paris, on
the other hand, becomes daily more
packed and compact within the new
fines of its fortifications. Its environs
are dull — what place is duller than
Versailles? St Germdn, St Denis, and
the rest, are the finest possible speci-
mens of deadly liveliness. In the
central parts of Paris and that part
of the Boulevards which is near them,
is all the motion, all the life, all the
gaiety, and we may add, to a great
extent, all the beauty. The Place de
la Ooncorde is the focus from which
France radiates — ^the central point of
that peculiarly Attic civilisation in
J. MiOHELEiL Jh V Amour. Paris: Hachette.
SerUifMntal Physiology.
iMj,
which France takes the lead of the
world. Standing there about the
foao tains, we have often been struck
with the idea that it was the boss or
** umbilicus" of the world, bearing
the same relation to modern Eu-
rope that Delphi was supposed bv
the ancients to bear to their world.
There is something singularly open
and uplifted in the situation. The
splendid vista of the Rue de Bivoli,
termiuHted by, or rather contino-
ing itself through, the Arch of the
Star, looks like the High Street of
the world, and might well be bu]>
posed to be the entrance of some
great cosmopolitan thoroughfare like
the Appian Way of old. The eleva-
tion of mountain isolated by sur-
rounding ravines seems rather to up-
lift a man* to heaven than to com-
mand earth. The elevation of the
Place de la Concorde is of that per-
fectly mundane and accessible nature,
spreading every way into the horizon,
that it seems to symbolise the all-per-
vading influence of an imperial com-
munity. We have seen an excellent
photograph of that very place, in-
cluding the fiigade of the Louvre and
the front of the Madeleine. The only
thing that struck us as unnatural
about that photograph was the entire
absence of all life ; an omission, how-«
ever, in actual fact, easily explain-
able, such photographs being gene-
rally taken very early in the morning.
No human being was to be seen,
either civil or military; no horse,
DO vehicle. One great characteristic
of the spot, and that which espe-
cially gives it its cosmopolitan cha-
racter, is the constant circulation of
motley life around it; not in the
shape of excessive crowding, as seen in
the aneurisms of the arteries of Lon-
don, but of a natural and healthy kind.
It is not to be wondered at that a
Frenchman is proud of Paris — loves
Paris ; wonders whether a dinner or
a play is to be eaten or seen elsewhere
in the world ; affects or really has a
profound ignorance of every other
place and people besides Paris and
Its inhabitants. Any one who is in
the habit of reading what we would
eall par excdknee the Cockney
Parisian literature of the day, will
see that we do not overstate this
case. The charge of Gocknejism may
be brought with great force against
much of our own popular writings.
From the fact that the workshops of
newspapers and periodicals are in
London, London sights and soonds
are obtruded too often snd forcibly
on the eyes and minds of cootribu-
tors not to affect greatly their lucu-
brations. Punchy for instance, cir-
culates everywhere where uniformly
excellent drawing and an occasional
good joke can be appreciated. Why
should almost all FunefCt illostratiooB
and jokes be drawn from London
life — we k«d almost said spawned
in the mud of the Thames 7 Is there
no fun in Yorkshire? A few more
jokes from the mining districts would
have been most acceptable. Is there
no wit north of the Tweed ?--Maga
knows better — or west of tbe Irish
Channel ? Or rather, is it not all wii
there when potatoes are plentifalt
And the g^reat Times himself is em-
phatically a Londoner, but he loves
It not The £oglish htterat0ur is %
Conckney by compulsron; he cannot
help it. He kicks against it, goes
off to Scarborough, sketches sea-side
crinolines; bat the necessity of his
craft is the mother of the inventions
of his brain, and his imagination —
though his stomach revolts at it— is
Cockney and of Cockaigne. Not so
with the Frenchman. He does not
know whether he is a Parisian by
necessity or not, so thoroughly is ho
80 by choice. He loves Paris, lives
in F^ris, breathes Paris, and sees all
the rest of the universe through an
inverted Parisian lorgneiie.
The last development of Parisian-
ism, if we may use the word, is no
less than the discovery of the new
religion of Positivism, whose revelsk
tions are to spread themselves abroad
from Holy Paris as oar now obsolete
creed did from the Juda^an Holj
Land. Christianity, forsooth, has
been tried in the balance and found
wanting. It was found so bef >re by
Voltaire and his school, but they
were content to rest in negation.
The unbelieving part of the new creed
is of course not new. Bat by the
evangelists of the Parisian Cockney
dispensation^ our religion is set aside
not as false, but as inadequate to the
advance of civilisation. Men are
assumed to have been universally
18591]
StrUitnental Physiology.
89
exoellent Obristians since the year 1
A.D., and to have practised the new
oommandmeDt to Icve one another
nntil its novelty completely wore off,
and the nniversal taste was cloyed
by the excessive sweetness of its ob-
servance. All men and women, with-
oat exception, haviosr framed their
lives Booordiog to the New Testament,
and having? found no happiness in
doing so, the New Testament is ac-
knowledged by the greatest thinkers of
the Parisian Cockney school as super-
seded, and Bionsienr Gomte is to take
the place of the Divine Saviour our
ignorant infancy used to believe in,
if not exactly as an incarnation of the
Deity (for this would have been a
little too revolting), at least as the
great apostle of deified humanity.
Fortunately for France, in the view
of the Positivists, her Christianity has
taken the Roman Catholic develop-
ment, and her temples are supplied
with the veiy images ready-made by
which Pot'itivism represents the idea
of humanity — a young woman with a
diild in her arms. The rest of the
Boman hagtology M. Comte declined,
setting np bis own, so that, in that
respect at least, he resembled Don
Juan, who
** Tum'd from grisly sainta and martyrs
hairy,
To those sweet pictures of the Virgin
Mary."
. Some sanguine Protestants may
imagine that because the Papal Chair
is at present propped up by French
bayonets, it would instantly col-
lapse if they were withdrawn, and the
mind of Catholic Europe would pre-
sent a blank sheet of paper, in which
their own ideas might be written at
will. If they had read history to any
pnrpose, they might have seen that,
on more than one occasion, the tem-
poral authority of the Pope has been
jeopardised to almost if not quite as
great an extent as it would be by any
contingent insurrection of the Boman
people. There is no reason to believe
that the spiritual power pf the Yati-
can wonld be shaken were the Pope
in exile at Avignnn. The possibility
of anything like Protestantism super-
vening in the countries at present
devotedly papal, would suppose a
higher degree of education and intel-
ligence than the people in them have
as yet attained. Be this as it may,
we cannot but think that the fact
that the insane drivellings of the re-
ligion of Atheism should have had
soy influence at all on the educated
mind of France, is a proof of the vast
power of. the Roman Catholic Church
in that country, as well as its utter
inadequacy to cope with the social
requirements of the educated classes.
While Uie thinker of France can ao-
quiesce in nothing short of the utter
destruction of aU traditional belief,
there is little hope that the middle
course, between faith and reason,
will be hit upon by the unthinking
masses. And, indera, the most eo-
thuf'iastio platform orator of Exeter
Hall would allow, at least when
apart from his audience, that it is far
tetter the people should continue to
worship the Mother of our Lord, and
believe in the Immaculate Concep-
tion, than say their prayers to their
own mothers, wives, and sisters, as
the representatives of humanity, and
have no better hope in death than
that of absorption or assimilation.
It may appear trivial to notice the
vagaries of Positivism, when speak-
ing of the current influences at
work on the literature of the day ;
but it is undeniable that, though the
movement has reduced itself to ab-
surdity in the endeavour to construct
a worship and a catechif>m, the origi-
nation of which marked, we believe,
the period of the failing of its
apostle's mind ; yet that, in its com-
mencement it has only been the ex-
pression or the natural development
of materialistic philosophy, which
has always felt at home among the
savans of France, and has existed
in a modified form in the scientific
more than the literary world of our
own country. That phase of Posi-
tivism which consists in the refusal
to believe except on scientific evi-
dence, and which rests on the posi-
tion, that though the exbtenoe of the
Unseen is possible, and even the dog*
matic disbelief in it unwarrantable,
yet that it is of no practical valne
as far as regards human action and
human happiness, has undoubtedly
exercised a very strong modifying
influence on some of the most culti-
vated minds and popular writings
90
Sentimental Physiology,
[Jaly.
both of this country and of France.
It has been far other than an obstacle
to the reception of these doctrines
that they go, to a certain extent,
hand in hand with an enlif^htened
view of Divine revelation. There is
something plausible in the view, that
the true life of a good man consists
in making the most of nature, and
enjoying to the full, consistently with
moderation, every good that the
earth affords. It is a protest against
the morbid religionism of the Middle
Ages, which worshipped asceticiom,
and esteemed sanctity to consist
chiefly in a fierce abstinence from the
good gifts of God, entirely forgetting
that <^the Son of Man came eating
and drinking,'* and disdained not to
mingle with the joys as well as the
sorrows of mankind. Bat, while the
Christian denies that the mere mat-
ter of creation can be evil, because
Gh)d has pronounced it good, and re-
ceives all His good things as blessings,
and with thaokfnloefls, the Poeitivist
knows no God beyond the material
world, though he does not deny that
He may exist, and worships alone
the facts and phenomena of nature
exactly in proportion as he himself is
able to comprehend them. In his
view, ncft belief or resignation, not
faith, hope, or charity, is the road to
virtue and happiness, but inductive
philosophy. If a man would be good
and happy, he must be scientific
himself, or be content to acquiesce in
the " dicta *' of those who are so. The
saints of this new Evangel are the
physiologists ; the bishops, priests,
and tdeacons, are the other ** ologists*'
and "logians," theologians alone
being excluded, as represenUog a
branch of knowledge wtiich is futile,
because it cannot be reduced to the
test of demonstrative science.
These remarks are necessary to en-
able the reader to comprehend the
drift and general character of a new
"Art of Love,*' which has emanated
from the pen of M. Michelet The
book is nmply entitled LAmour,
but its subject is not so precisely
** love " as marriage, and the art of
attaining and retaining happiness in
the married state. Compared with
other arts of love known to litera-
ture, it la aa innocent book, and.
though undeniably godless, its gene-
ral tendency is pure. On the other
hand, it is no more fit to be laid on
a drawing-room table in Great Bri-
tain than a random copy of the Lan-
eet. It is essentially a medical book,
and enters into medical details with
a naiveU and circumstantittlity which
is only possible in French. It is cer-
tainly a book which, though it can-
not be read aloud in mixed society, can
do no one any harm in any point of
view, for, if it is not a religious book in
any sense, it says nothing against reli-
gion, and furnishes, in fact^ by the in-
adeqtiacy of the means it proposes to
gain certain ends of human life, the
strongest possible argoments in fa-
vour of the old-fashioned creed.
Its attempt to correct the aberrations
of human passion, by falling back on
the fiicts of nature, is quite as orthodox
as, and much more logical than, the
cold philosophy of Paley, which pro-
fessed to keep men virtuous by setting
forth the extreme inconvenienoe and
uncomfortableness of vice, and the
deplorable results which are apt to
supervene on exaggerated indulgence.
As compared with another book,
which has been written in France
with professedly the same end, the
Fanny of Ernest Feydeau, it is dis-
cretion and propriety itself. No one
but the Frenchman of the most biasi
kind could possibly feel a sympathy
with the mean little wretch who is
the hero of Fanny, whose miseries
solely arise from the difficulties he
encounters in making a respectable
household miserable. Fejdeau's little
nauseous publication is a dispUy of
morbid anatomy from which h^thy
human nature must shrink back in
shnme and disgust^ and yet it is put
forth in the shape of a nouueilete to
be read by ladies on the sands of
0.-<tende, Dieppe, or Biarritz. We
may well ask what is to become of
Ptiris? As compared with Fanny^
VAmour is a healthy treatise on
physiology, and, regarded as such,
deserves our serious notice. While
it keeps out of eight the highest
motives of human action, it eoiiii-
ciates certain home truths in its pecn*
liar manner, semi-poetical, semi-medi-
cal, which it is quite as well that at
least the adult world should know.
There b an evident aasumpcion, at
1859.]
Sentimental Phfeidogy.
91
the batset, that the art of cocstaDcy
in love is Qecessarj to be Btudied,
from the weaknees of the principles
which wonid foeter it in the present
state of French, or rather, we may
hope, of Parisian society. The sal>-
ject is thas iotrodaced : —
* *' If we were to give a title to this
book, which would give in their en-
tirety its aim, sense, and bearing, it
would be this —
*' Moral Enfranchisement by means
of the Genuine Love.
** This question of love lies, im-
mense and obscure, under the depth
of human life. It supports even the
bases of it, and the first foundations.
The family rests upon love, and so-
ciety on the family. Thus love pre-
cedfs everjtbiog. As is the state of
morals, so is the state of the city.
Liberty is but a word, if the morals
are those of slaves. Here the ideal
is sought after, but an ideal which
can be realised at the present day,
not one which must be adjourned till
society becomes better. Ic is the re-
form of love and of the family which
most precede all others, and make
them possible."
Little exception can be taken to
this first statement. Why does liberty
seem hopeless in France, but that the
morals of slaves prevail there, and
the foundations of society are sapped
-in the indeOniteness and comfortless
nature of the family relations ? But
it is of France principally, and per-
haps only, that M. Micbelet ought to
speak, and here he displays, as most
Frenchmen do, an ignorance of all
the woild beyond the barriire. But
here follows a passage of more general
application, acid where we Britons
mtfy find a cap to fit ourselves : —
** One cannot shut one's eyes to the
ftct, that the freedom of the will has
undergone in these last times import-
ant modifications. The causes of this
are numerous. I will invite special
attention to two only, moral and phy-
sical at the same time, which, strik-
ing the brain directly, and enervating
it, tend to the paralysis of our moral
powers. For the last hundred years
or so, a progressive invasion of alco-
holic stimulants and narcotics has
been invincibly gaining ground, with
dififerent results with regard to difler-
ent popalations—^ here darkening the
mind, and hrretrievably barbarising
it ; there biting more deeply into the
physicsl existence, tainting the race
Itself — but everywhere isolating the
man, giving him even by his fireside
a deplorable preference for lonely en-
joyments."
There is no doubt much of truth in
this. There is always a tendency,
especially with men of sedentary pur-
suits, to drink and smoke to excess,
and the classes engaged in these pur-
suits increase in numbers with civil-
isation. We would substitute for the
science of afifection which. M. Michelet
preaches, the advice to lead a more
muscular and manly life, fur those at
an events who are able to afford it ;
for all those intensely interesting ex-
ercises which are the pride of Eng-
lishmen, with the exception perhaps
of cricket, are only for the compara-
tively rick The rest may, to- a cer-
tain extent, and under certain 'condi-
tions, take M. Michelet as an adviser.
To his general position with regard
to women we must entirely demur.
Woman, he argues, ought to be con-
sidered as a sort of holy invalid.
Man ought to accept all her vagaries
and caprices of taste and temper as
a mother would those of a child, or
rather, we should say, as the inhabit-
ants of the Yalais show indulgence
to their cretins, looking on them
as after a manner sacred. He con-
siders the ebullitions of eccentricity
and strong-mindednera, of which our
latter days hsve afforded some re-
markable specimens, as the mere cries
of pain of a suffering creature, re-
quiring the constant help of man.
The fact we know is precisely the
contrary. Strong-minded women, so
called, are only weak-minded in be-
ing illogical. No sensible man ever
disputed that woman was his equal,
on the whole — his superior in her
own province. But when she has
the misfortune to have a manly mind,
she makes the mistake of asserting
that she is man's equal in man's own
province. Of course there are excep-
tions. Female mathematicians have
been known who did not neglect
their domestic duties, surpaFsing man
in bis own province, and not neglect-
ing woman^s ; and it is said that the
King of Dahomey's corps d'Slite is no
Cable, bat that his Amazons fight as
92
Sentimental PhiyMogy.
[July,
bravely m Zoaaves or HlgfalaDders,
and with it more vimleooe aod W-
cionsnefl. The stroDg-miDded wo-
manV appeal to pablic opioion is not
a crj of paiD, as M. Micbelei asserts,
bat ao illogical asKrtioo that, be-
cause site herself cao take a mao's
place ia creation in manj things, all
other women are capable of doiog so
likewise. The beaotifol morJ of
TennyiKtn's Prtncen ought to settle
that question for eyer.
** For woman fa not oaderelopt nan,
Bot dlrerae: coaJd we maka ber as the
Bw«et loTo waro ^laln, whoaa daanat
bond la thto—
Not llk« to like, bat like In dlftoenea :
Tet In Um long jean ttkar moat th^
^S«w;
Tb« man to more of woman, abe of man ;
He gain In aweeCneas and In moral beltbt,
Nor kioe tbe wrea^llag tbewa tbat throw
the world ;
Bbe oiental breadth, nor fidl in eblldward
oare;
More aa tbe dnnblo-natared Poet each:
Till atUN> laat ahe set herself to man.
Like perfect mode onto noble worda.**
We question n^lber the high
spirit of oar native women would not
revolt at M. Micbekt's idea, tbat tbe
gentleman is to think no more of the
lady*s eboUitions of temper tban the
mother does of the two-year-old
child^s. Certainly, such a plan of
proceeding would be favourable to
matrimonial peace, and probably, if
universally curried out, obviate to a
great degree the neceasity of actioos
for legal separation ; but some ladies
would cerUtoly feel more compli*
piented by their lords condescend-
ing to quarrel with them, even as
Shakespeare, tbe greatest of all Eug-
lishmen, is said to have quarrelled
with Ann Hathaway. Besides, we
have classical authority for believing
that lovers' tiffii are the refreshment
of love. The assertion of the prin-
dple, however, gives occasion for
the style of the book to rise into elo-
quence and poetry, and we cannot
rorbear to quote the passage in
which it is embodied from the origi-
nal:—
" Les femmes et les enfaats sont une
•r>«tocratie de grace et de charme.* Le
servage du metier abaiaae rhomme et le
rend souvent 6troit et grossier. Le ser-
vage de la femme n'est que celm de la
nature; il n*eat autre que sa fiublesse,
sa souffrance^ qui la rend attendriaaante
et poetique.
'^Le Correge peignant toujoara (et
inaatiablement) dea enfimts tres-je&ne^
en moment ou la vie lait^ la vie phy-
aique et fiitale, £tant depa[ss^ laissait
apparaitre le premier rayon de leur
peu'te liberty Elle se r^velo alors daos
leora jolis monvementa aveo une in-
dicible gr&ce. L'eolaDt est gracieux
parce qu'il se sent libre et qu'il ae sent
tr^aim^, parce qu^il sait d'instinct qu'il
pent (aire tout oe qu'il vent et que tou-
jours on Ten aimera davantage. La mire
n'est pas moins admirable en ce premier
ravissement: 'Ah, qVil est vifl — ah,
qu*il est fort I — II est capable de me '
battrel' Ces sont sea cria. Elle est
heureuae ; elle radore en aes rgsiatanceSi
en aea charmantes r6voltes. ....
Est-ce quMI en aime moins aa m^re?
Elle salt bien le coDtraire. S*Q la voit
un pen Ach6e, il ae r^jette en aea bras.
Comment Tbomme, au premier 61an de
la peraonnalit^ de la femme, n'a-t-il pas
6t6 pour elle ce qu'eat la mere pour
Tenfent?"
Perhaps there is truth in the fol*
lowing remark, though it illustrates
a passage in the Aoglioan marriage-
service to which ladies are apt to
demur in practice :—
*'Ce qui tourmente la femme, c'est
bien moins la tyrannie de Tbomme que
aa froideur, bien moins d'ob^lr que do
n'avoir pas occaaon d'ob^ir assez. C'est
de cela qu'elle ae plaint Nolle barriire^
nulle protection ^trangere. Elles ne
servcnt, dit tr^s-bien Tauteur, qu'jt
brouiller les ^poux, rondre la femme
miserable. Bien ne reste entre elle et
luL Elle va a lui forte de sa faiblesse
et de son sein ddsarm^, de ce coeur qui
bat pour Inl . . .
** VoilA mi guerre de femme. Le plus
vaillant sera vainca Qu' aura mainten-
ant le courage de diacuter n'elle est plus
haut ou plus baa que Thomme. EUe ed
Urns lea deux d la fois, B en est d^elle
comme du ciel pour la terre; il est
dessous et dessos, tout autour. Nous
naquimes en elle. Nous vivons d'elle.
Nous en sommes envelopp^s. Nous la
respLrona, elle est ratmosph^re, T^lement
de notre coeur."
His experiences in this delicate
branch of human inquiry were glean-
ed, says the author, not so much
* J. P. Richter more beautifully says^ *<ThUdren are the flowers of the human world."
1869.]
Sentimental Phyekiogy.
from hi8^>wn peraonal experieDOd as
from the confesBiODS of others. His
noffitiOD as a public • instractor and
litterateur placed him in a eocial iso-
lation, the circnmstaDces of which
indaced esnfferers to put coofideoce
in him, and avail themselves of his
sympathy, as that of a kind of lay
oonfe8«or.
"Beaucoup se r^y^Urent & moi, ne
craignaient pas de me montrer dee
blessures cachees, apport^rent letirs
cceurs saignants. Des hommes totdouis
ferm^s de defiance centre la derision da
moDde 8*oavrirent sans difficoltd devant
moi (je n'ai ri jamais.) Dee dames
brillanta et mondaines, d'autant plus
malheoreuses, d'autres pieuses, studi-
euses, aust^res—le disai-je? des religi-
enses, franoliirent les vaines barri^res de
oonycnaDce ou d'opinioD, oomme on
&it quand on est malade. Etranges,
mats tres-pr^cieusep, tres-touchantes cor-
respondances que j*ai gard^es avec le soin
et le respect qa'elles mMtent"
He gave his heart and no less,
as be avers, to that crowd of moral
patients. And what was the conse-
qoence of this self-devotion? He
was rainiog the places of pablic
amusement by his moral iostruc-
tions, aud those wbo gained their
livelihoods by them actually com-
plained of him. A young man called
upon him one moruiog, entering his
study somewhat brusquely.
" Monsieur, me dit-il, excusez men en-
tree si insolite, niais vous n'en serez pas
fach^. Je V0U8 apporte uno nouvelle.
Les maitres de certains cafes, de certains
maifioiis connues, de certains jardins de
bnl^ se plaignent de voire enseignement
Leurs establishments, disent-ils, perdent
bcauconp. Les jeunes gens prcnnent la
manie des conversations sericuses; lis
onblient leurs habitudea .... Enfln, ils
aiment ailleurs Ces bals risquent
de fcrmer. Tous ceux qui gagnent
JQsqu Met aux amusemeots des ^eoles se
croient menaces d'une r6volution morale
qui, sans laute, les ruiuera"
He is scarcely self-complaisant
enongh to accept this as an unexag-
gerated statement, bat he justly ob-
servea that, if it were true that hto
moral lessons deterred the youth of
Paris from a frivolous life, be should
feel it as a great triumph. " Lo jour
on lea jeiines gens preodront des
mceurs graves, la liberty est sanvee."
The yoang man's visit caoeed him to
conceive the scheme of this work,
whose pretensions are in no less than
to be a Kind of manual of morality —
" the book of enfranchisements from
moral servitudes— the book of trne
love.*' Let ns endeavor to see bow
far this work fulfils its very exalted
aspirations. On the whole, it pro-
fesses to mend society by setting
forth, as an example, the relations of
a model husband to a model wife,
and accompanying them as an in-
visible spectator from betrothal to
the grava It begins by supposing
an impossibility in real life, forget-
ting that the gates of the garden of
Eden have been closed since the fall,
by the flaming swords of the guardian
cherubim. It begins by premising
that woman is an invalid, as com-
pared with man, and to be treated
as sach by him. Evidentlv the arti-
ficial, sedentary, exotic Farieienne
is the heroine, not the blooming lass
of tbe north, redolent of May morn-
ing, and rosy with mountain air, —
the Saxon or Scandinavian Hebe,
personifying, in ber golden prime,
I)erfect youth, perfect life, perfect
health, bound together in the cestus
of beauty. Wordsworth^s pen vas
otherwiee inspired, when he, the true
poet of nature, described the three
ages of woman. '
** She was a phantom of delight,
TV hen llret Bbe gleamed npon my sight,
A loToly apparlUon sent
To be a moment^ ornament I
Her eyee as stirs of twilight fair,
Like twIHght, too, her dusky hair;
But all thlQga else abont ber drawn
From May>iime and the cheerfal dawn ;
A dancing shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer Tiew,
A spirit, yet a Woman too I
Her household modona light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty :
A countenance in which did meet
Bweet recorda, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature^ daily food ;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles.
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and
And now I aee with eye serene.
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thonghtful breath,
A traveller between life and death :
The reason firm, the temperate will.
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and oommaod ;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With Bomethlng of an •ngel-Ugbt''
94
Sentimental Physioloffy,
tJaly,
And his 80DK to ^ Loaisa" is ai
her pffi&Q to Health and Activity.
* Thongh bv » ateklj taate betny'd.
Some wUi diflpralae the lovely maid,
With fearleM pride I say
That she is healtfaftil, fleet, and strong ;
And down the rocks can leap along
Like rivulets in May.
And she hath smiles to wrath trnknown ;
Smiley that with motion of their own
Do spread, and sink, and rise ;
That come and go with endless play.
And ever, as they pass away,
Are hidden in her eyee.
6he loves her Are, her cottace home,
Yet o'er the rooorUind wiU she roam
In weather rough and bleak ;
And, when affRlnst the winds she strains,
Oh ! might I kiM the moantaln raina
That sparkle on her cheek.
Take all that's mine ^beneath the moon,*
If I with her bat half a noon
May sit beneath the walls
Of some old cave or moeay nook.
When np she winds along^the brook
To hunt the waterfalto!^
It is excusable to quote poems
BO^well knowD that stanzas of them
have become '* household words,'*
whea it becomes desirable to impugn
by a contrasted ideal the newfaogled
theory that Woman is, or ought to be,
invested * with valetudinarian privi-
leges to entitle her to deferential
treatment from Man. Bather it is
true that the ideal Woman is the
very 'incarnation of Health ; for
Beauty is beautiful chiefly in that
it is the expression of Activity and
Life. It is a physiological fact that
the bloom on the cheek results from
the health that mantles in the veins
and shines through the transparent
skin. Beauty may be transient, but
so is Life itself; but it is coeval with
Life. Ugliness goes hand -in -hand
with decay, sickness, and death.
Beauty is Health, and, by all Uie
laws of romance, a heroine must be
beautiful, and therefore emphatically
healthy.
It is consolatory to be assured by
our French author that '* a penniless
lass,*' with or without ** a hog pedi-
gree,'^ is to be preferred to *' a lass wi'
a tocher ;'* for in real life the great
majority of charming maidens hap-
pen to be dowerless. But the negation
of the proverb, that when Wealth
comes in at the door, Love flies oat
at the window, certainly presents a
novel doctrine to the consideration
of ** persons abont to marry .^'
** I dared some twelve years ago to
put into shape that axiom which re-
ceives every day new confirmation,
< If you wish to ruin yourself, marry
a rich woman/ There is a danger
here greater than that of losing a
fortune— the danger of losing one*8-
self— of changing the habits which
have made you what you are, which
have given you whatever strength
and originality you possess. In that
which they call a good match, yoa
will become a mere appendage of a
woman — ^a kind of prince- consort or
the husband of a queen. A very
beautiful widow, all amiability and
honesty, said to a gentleman, 'Sir,
I have fifty thousand francs a-year,
quiet and ^unassuming habits. I like
you, and will do all you wish. Ton
are an old friend ; do you know any
defect in me?' — ^* Yon have only one,
madam— yon are rich.' "
The ideal fianeie ought not only,
like the candidates for an university
scholarship before the time of the
Royal Commission, to have the qua-
lification of poverty, but she must
superadd that of nationality — she
must be French.
"The German is all sweetness and
love, endued with a purity, a child-
like freshness, which transports one
to paradise. The Englishwoman,
chaste, solitary, dreamy, clingioff to
the hearth — so loyal, so sleadfast,
and so geoUe, is the ideal of a wife.
The passion of Spain penetrates to
the heart ; and the Italian, in her
beauty and her morbidezza^ her
vivid imagination, often in her touch-
ing candour makes resistance impos-
sible— one is ravished, one is con-
quered. Yet, for all this, a man
wants a soul which can answer his
by flashes of reason as well as of
affection — which can renovate his
heart by a charming vivacity, by
gaiety, by courageous sallies, words
of womsn or songs of bird — in fact,
he wants a Frenchwoman. The
Frenchwoman," he adds, " grows
handsomer after marriage, whereas
the northern maiden loses somewhat
of beauty, and often fades." He may
tell that to the^arines.
The physiological romance porsaes
1859.]
£kt^timenial PkyBMoffy.
95
its wane, throof h all (be stages of
married life, with an even teoor, in*
dicatioff that it is tme Love's own
faalt if its course does not rao
smooth to the end. The seeond
book is eoUtled '^ Initiation aod
CommuDion," expressioDS borrowed
from the Christian or the EleusiDian
mysteries, we koow not which ; bat
these cabalistic words are the iotro-
dactton to the matter-of-fact subjects
of woman as bride, wife, and mother,
lodadiog the whole management of
the nursery department To retain
happiness, the happy couple must
not be too rich, must only keep a
maid-of-all-work until the baby de-
mands a nursemaid also; the writer
beUeviog, according to the Spanbh
proverb, "Los criados son enemigoa
pagados," that a multitude of domes-
tics is fatal to domesticity. Things,
however, must be so managed, that
the hero, who is of couree a writer
of books, must not be disturbed by
the baby ; and in order that his head-
work may be effectual, the lady is to
pay partienlar attention to his diet-
ary. On the subject of gastronomy,
the style of the remarks rises into
poetry worthy of that prince of epi-
cures, Brillat Savarin. But the un-
deniable common-sense which under-
lies these remarks, showing that, as
we all know, they manage at least
culinary matters " better In France,"
is the chief merit of these passages.
'* Cookery is medicine — it is the
best of all medicines—that of the pre-
ventive kind. Thus it is the province
of the wife, who alone knows what
her husband requires, who knows his
work, his expenditure of vital force.
She alone knows and measures the
necessary reparation. In everything
which is clean and not disagreeable
to h^ — in all that does not injure
the prettiness of her hand, in that
which must be touched by the hand
itself — and, we must say it, neces-
sarily mingled with emanations of
the person (!) — it is desirable and
charming that she should operate.
Certain pastry, cakes, and creams
can only be made by one' whom one
loves with an affection of the nature
of hanger."
This ia certainly the ^'ne plus
ultra'' of epicurism, bat its exces-
sive delicacy merges into the indeli-
cate. The moral, however, is sound,
and those engaged in the education of
our young ladies would do well to
consider how far an insight into the
aesthetics of the kitchen might not
promote their happiness and that of
their husbands prospective.
As life goes on with the ideal pair,
the writer sets forth some of the
rocks on which the bark of happiness,
unless judiciously steered, is liable to
split The woman's occupations pre-
serve her eyer a woman. The man's,
on the contrary, tend to specialise the
character. He becomes in process of
time, the universal man no longer.
His profession or trade masters him,
and inflicts its stamp upon him,
whereby, though he attain to the
partienlar eminence, the general ele-
vation of nature is lowered. " He
was a man when he was in the posi-
tion of a lover ; ten or twelve years
later he is an eminent barrister, an
excellent physician, a great architect
That ia all very well. But, for the
woman, he was a far more interesting
person in being a man; that is, in
being everyUiing, in possessing the
lofty thought of the universal, the
hope without bounds, and in soaring
over every subject Now, let the
woman, who give^ happiness here be-
low, judge us with equity. What
would that man have become if he
had always soared, if he had^ not
come down to seize on the reality?
. ... So, madam, you wish for.
glory, for success; you wish that
that man distinguish himself by those
works which alone prove force. Only
you do not always take into consider-
ation the very difficult conditions, the
efforts obstinate, sometimes violent,
extreme, and I may even say desperate,
by which success is purchased.
*^0f these conditions, the hardest
for that man is that he should be
marked by the effort in the member
which he makes most use of, and
thus that his being should no longer
be harmonioua He who hammers
iron, were he even the genius of his
art, were he even a god, will infal-
libly become too high in the right
shoulder. What would you do in
such a case? Suppress in him his
art, I suppose.
'*And he who plies the foi^e in
any other department will also bear
96
SMti/Mntal Phyiiology,
[Jiily,
tbe mark of bis craft — some moral
or pb^dical deformity. Tbe most
serions is tbat the facalties whioh
irre not emplojred will suffer atrophy.
** If the artist does not take heed
of this, by oonstantiy streogtheoioff
a part till it becomes colossal, and
leaving tbe others in a state of em-
bryo, he may possibly sacceed in
becoming a monster — a sublime mon-
ster it is true.
"The man of antiquity remained
beautifal and strong, and the pro-
gress of age for him was a progress
in beauty. Ulysses, at fifty, returns
back from Troy — returns from a long
and terrible voyage where he has
suffered all that he could suffer, and
is tbe same Ulyeses, so completely so,
in fact, tbat by himself he bends the
bow which the vouog suitors can
scarcely lift His Penelope recog-
nises him by his strength, by his
beauty, at once msjeatic and In-
creased by misfortune. How should
that be so? He has kept bim^lf,
preserved himself, by the active use
of all the gifts he possessed. He
remains the harmonious man who
set out for the Trojan war.
"Now, take any modem man you
please, the best bom and the best
endowed, great in genius, in will, —
he fiods before him at twenty an im-
mense and terrible machine, the sub-
division of the drawing-frames of
arts, sciences, professions, by which
one must pass to arrive at anything.
The end of lifs is changed. Uijsses
was born to act; he acted and re-
mained beautiful. This man is born
to create; his specialty (the creating
machine) absorbs him; the work is
beautiful, and the man runs the risk
of becoming ugly."
There is a great deal of truth in
these remarks, which it well behoves
th6 man of the nineteenth century
to take to heart, that is, if he wishes
to preserve his complexion. Bat
even with a higher object, that of
living to the best of his nature, it is
well that men should consider the
best means of preserving ^^ the sound
mind in a sound body," for the good
both of the world and their own.
The mental productions of an un-
sound body can be worth very little.
The sick frame makes a sickly brain.
Now a man who sits in his study all
day, and smokes, snuflk, or chews
tobacco or opium, eschewing bis
constitutional gallop, or even his
constitutional walk, may build up
wonders of clond-Iand, but no-
thing that he writes can ever tend
to increase happiness. The Qreeks
of old were model men. Their civilis-
ation difiered from ours in that it
had its spice of barbarism In it: —
said we, from ours ? — we rather meant
from that of France, whose popular
writers assume it to be the typical civ-
ilised country of our day. No, thank
Heaven I Britot» yet are men. They
do not merely write or make speeches,
or plead causes, or heal patients, or
chant litanies, but our legislators,
lawyers, doctors, our own correspond-
ents, even our parsons (and soiaU
blame to them), play cricket and
golf, shoot, hunt, dive, row, sail
yachts, and practise many other ex-
ercises which to|tether are more than
equal to the gymnastics of the Greek.
Oar ladies will say whether or not
they preserve their good looks. Tbe fact
is that civilisation will soon become
putrescent, unless a pinch of the salt
of barbarism is coustantlv put into
it. What makes the inhabitant of
the British Isle such an excellent
settler in new and wild countries, as
M. Michelet bears witness, but that
he has retained to tbe last, in spite
of centralisation, much of the savaffC
and solitary nature ? The French-
man, on the other hand, is too highly
civilised to be happy anywhere but
in the city. If he founds a colony, he
does not spread, but remains in a
cluster like a swarm of bees. An
instance of the kind appears to have
occurred in New Zeuland, where the
French colonists, instead of wander-
ing out and taking sheep-runs,
seem to have all clustered together
at a place called Akeroa, very pretty,
very snug, and by a bay of the sea.
The same remark is applied to the
French diggers in California by Mr.
Borthwick: they preferred sinking
at an old place, where there was plenty
of company and a txLfi, to " prospect-
ing" in the wilderness, even with
the fair promise of rich reward.
As time advances in the romance
of real life painted by our author,
the French husband, will be inevit-
ably degraded in the eyes of bis wife,
1859.]
Sentinuntal Phyiioiogy.
97
unless Bhe Is a thinking woman, by
his specialty, and become a civilised
monster. Hence arise dangers to
her, and peculiar temptations to her
fidelity. One of the redeeming points
of this book is, that it protests against
the mawkish representations of life
giTen by the most popular noTclists
of France at the present day. ** Why
do oar gentlemen and lady anthors
generally take as their heroes mere
good-for-nothings (ezcnse me that
strong and just popalar expression),
idlers and children of loznry ? Why ?
Why? I ask, nnless it be for the
weakness which clings to them, in
the midst of all their fine democratic
disoonrses, for the *comme il faat*
world, for the 'gentleman' variety
of oar race. I am sorry to see in oar
times so much genias expended in
this dismal kind of novel, whose busi-
ness is to probe and exasperate our
social wounds. The novel has taught
us to weep for onrselves ; it has killed
the virtue of patience. It has gener-
alised miseries, moral deformities,
which only belong to certain classes.
lo thurtv-six millions of French
people, thirty-five are entirely ignor-
ant of that which these great artists
have painted. For all this, this mor-
bid literatare has no strong influence
on healthy minds. It renders none
diseased but those already so. It
has no great dangers for the little
household which we are describing.
The young wife, who has in early life
esci^ed being over-ripened, spoiled,
stung by the worm of mysticism and
equivocal religion, is not prepared for
the novel. A love sound, loyal, and
strong, and then maternal affection,
two powerful (lurifying agents, have
preserved her from infection. She
would not have understood Babsac,
or if she did, she would generally
have rejected him as nauseous. His
book on marriage, which he himself
calls a skeleton, she would have felt
to be a corpse. 8he will never be
gained by baseness. The female friends
who feel her pulse and would destroy
her balance, do not fail to lend her in
secret some work of Madame Sand.
Wbat^oes she see there?— that the
gallant is worth no more than the
husband. The husband is ofcen un-
worthy, in her books, but the illicit
lover is always pitiful ; nay more,
VOL. LXXZVI. 7
infamous, odious! Baymond closing
his door on the poor Indiana while
she is wandering about with no hope
of shelter but death, is most certainly
the strongest thing that could possibly
be written to scare away the thought
of unlawful intrigue.'*
Our author proceeds to offer a sort
of half excuse for these female novels.
Women are disappointed with all
men, whether husbands or lovers, as
the men of artificial civilisation are
all degraded. Women love strength,
physiual, moral, intellectual, and sigh
for its permanence in vain. The
wives of the fishermen of Granville
are not inconstant, though their bus*'
bands live a life which enforces long
absences, sometimes even running
over to Newfoundland. The reality
of life is too strong for them. Their
circumstances and occupations teach
them but too truly that '* men must
work and women must weep," to
admit any sentimental contagion into
their strong faithful hearts.
Female friends are the great ene-
mies of women, according to M.
Micbelet ; they pave the way, with
their inuendoes and gossip, for the
attacks of temptation. His model
heroine is tried, bnt does not fall, be-
cause she has the courage to make
ber husband her confidant There is
something peculiarly French in con-
sidering such an episode as a neces-
sary port of the history of married
life. Schiller, in his **Song of the
Bell," treats the subject more poeti-
cally, and introduces nothing of the
kind. The familv troubles with him
are of a different kind — ^fire, ruin, war,
and the premature death of the wife.
Micbelet, in painting his ideal house-
hold, makes the husband die first.
Not only must men work and women
weep, but men must die and women
weep. Before he comes to this he has
a chapter entitled '* the Second Touth
of Women," proving very satisfac-
torily that youth is prolonged late in
life by the assiduity of love and a
strict conformity to the conditions of
nature. There is also a beauty in
widowhood, its lacredness consisting
in a kind of worship of the memory
of the husband. <*The altar of the
just one, who has departed (viz., the
widow), remains to the new genera-
tions an object of religion. There is
98
Sentimental Phji$Mof^y.
[July,
CO yonng man who comes there but
will honour the widow. They all
find a graoefal woman, who i§ far
from recalling the lapee of time which
is suggested by the story. That
which preserves her grace is the love
of which her heart is fall, her good-
ness towards all, her sweet resigna-
tion her sympatiiy for the young,
and her wishes for their happiness.
6he is still beantifal in her tender-
ness, and in the sublime shadow which
dresses and envelops her. More
than one youth of twenty laments
that he has been bom so late, returns
to her presence in spite of himself,
retires from her regretfully, upbraid-
ing Time for amusing himself by mak-
ing such separations, and saying from
the bottom of his heart, * 0 woman,
that I might have loved.' "
We are soiry that we have been
obliged to omit> in a review of this
work, the consideration of that part of
it which is by fkr the most important
*— its medicine. and physiology. With
respect to the sodal morbidity com-
plained of by the author, perhaps it
suggests a kind of homoeopathic treat-
ment. Nothing can be said against
this part of the work. It is indeed
highly moral, but as yet it is impos-
sible to present it in a popular form
in the pages of a Brltibh periodical,
and we hope that the impossibility
may continue. It shows how far a
remedy for sodal disease can be ap-
plied by human reason, with human
nature to work upon, and so far it is
complete in itself. But by how vast
an interval is the moral philosophy
on which it rests separated from PJa-
tonism, not to say from the philos-
ophy of the Cross! Far higher is
the conception of love in the mind of
the Greek philosopher. Love exists
alone in perfection, according to him,
in the mind of God ; and it is only by
contemplating it there, to the utmost
of his power, that man can realise it
it in its truth. In the mind of Plato,
as in the minds of St Paul and St
John, there is no distinction between
the love of man for woman and nice
versAj and the great expansive feeling
which would embrace God and his
creation, in return for His love to-
wards us. But physioloffy appears
competent only to deal with this spe-
cial manifestation. The deficiency is
one that we might expect in a philo-
sophy which is of the earth earthy,
and which does not illumine earth
with a light from heaven. And now
let us come to a little moral of our
own.
If it be a fact, as M. Michelet
states — and we have no reason to
doubt his word — that persons suffer-
ing from the complications of social
life, in an artificial state of civilisa-
tion, were glad to come to him as an
amateur confessor, and recount their
mental and moral diseases, and take
advice as to their remedy, how much
does such a fact militate against
the boasted efficiency of the confes-
sional of the Church of Borne ! The
Roman system, while all-powerfol in
preserving its own omnisation, and
keeping a hold on mankind, is powers
less for the moral regeneration of so-
ciety. The natural adviser in all such
cases, as M. Michelet indicates, is the
minister of religion, whether he be
called confessor, director, or by any
other more Protestant name. But the
confessional of the Boman Church, or
its caricature in the Anglican, is ren-
dered abortive as a moral agent by
the destruction of spontaneity in the
patient, bv its being made a matter of
form, and rule, and duty ; and, se-
condly, by the inability of a celibate
clergy to understand questions affect-
ing that state of life from which they
are excluded. If Louis Napoleon
would leave the name of Great be-
hind him, and even eclipse his famed
uncle, he had much better think
no more of moves on the politi-
cal chess-board of Europe, but sit
down st^ily and quietlj^ to consider
the question whether he is not strong
enough to declare the Catholic Chur<£
in France independent of the Papal
See, and allow the cleigy of France to
marrv according to tlieir discretion,
witbdrawiog at the same time his
troops from Rome, and leaving the
Pope in the charge of his loving sub-
jects and his faithful Swiss. As he
appears to be under a constant ne*
oessity of doing something bold and
eccentric to maintam his po8iti<»,
he had better do this, and he will
glean golden opinions of all future
generations.
1859]
The Novels of Jane Austen.
99
THE K0VKL8 OP JANB AU8TEK.
Fob nearly half a oentnnr England
has poflsesaed an artist of the highest
rank, whose works have been exten-
sively circulated, whose merits hare
been keenly relished, and whoee name
is still nnfamiliar in men's months.
One wonld snppose that great excel-
lenoe and reat snccess would inevita-
bly prodaoe a load reputation. Yet
in this particular case such a supposi-
tion would be singularly mistaken.
80 far from the name of Mias Austen
being oonstantlv cited among the
glories of our literature, there are
many well-inibrmed persons who will
be surprised to hear it mentioned
among the best writers. If we look
at Hazlitt*s account :of the English
norelists, in his Lectures en the
Oomie Writers^ we find Mrs. Bad*
clifl^ Mrs. lochbald, Mrs. Opie, Miss
Bumey, and Miss Edgeworth receiv-
ing due honour, and more than is
due; but no hint that Miss Austen
has written a line. If we cast a
glance over the list of English authors
republished by Baudry, Galignani,
and Tauchnitz, we find ih^ writers
of the very smallest pretensions, but
not the author of Emma, and Man»-
fidd Park, Mention the name of
Miss Austen to a cultivated reader,
and it is probable that the sparkle in
his eye will at once flash forth sym<
pathetic admiration, and he will per-
haps relate how 8cott, Whately, and
Macaulay prize this gifted woman,
and how the English public has
bought her works ; but beyond the
literary circle we find the name al-
most entirely unknown; and not
simply unknown in the sense of hav-
ing no acknowledged place among
the remarkable writers, but unre-
membered even in connection with
the very works which are themselves
remembered. We have met with
many persons who remembered to
have read Pride and Prejudiee, or
* Mamtjidd Park, but who had alto-
gether (brffotten by whom they were
written. '*MiB8 Austen? Ob, yes;
she translates from the German,
doesnt shef* is a not uncommon
Question— a vague fhmiliarity with
the name of Mrs. Austin being upper-
most From time to time also the
tiresome twaddle of lady novdists is
praised by certain critics, as exhibi^
ing the ** quiet truthfulness of Miss
Austin."
That Miss Austen is an artist of
high rank, in the most rigorous sense
of the word, is an opinion which in
the present article we shall endeavour
to substantiate. That her novels are
very extensively read, is not an opin-
ion, but a demonstrated fact; and
with this fkct we couple the para-
doxical fact of a fine artist, whose
works are widely known and enjoyed,
being all but unknown to the English
jrablTc, and quite unknown abroad.
The causes which have kept her name
in comparative obscurity all the time
that her works have been extensively
read, and her reputation every year
has been settling itself more firmly
in the minds of the better critics,
may well be worth an inquiry. It is
intelligible how the bhize of Scott
should have thrown her into^the
shade, at first ; beside his frescoes
her works are but miniatures; ex-
quisite as miniatures, yet ioo&pable
of ever filtmg that space in th^^ublic
eye which was flllea by his kassive
and masterly pictures. But Jthoogh
it is intelligible why Soott should
have eclipsed her, it is not at first so
easy to understand why Miss Edge-
worth should have done so. Miss
Austen, indeed, has taken her re-
venge with posterity. She will doubt-
less be read as long as Englbh novels
find readers; whereas Miss Edge-
worth is already little more than a
name, and only finds a public for her
children's books. But contemporaries,
for the most part, judged otherwise ;
and in consequence. Miss Edgeworth's
name has become fkmlliar all over
the three kingdoms. Scott, indeed,
and Archbishop Whately, at once
perceived the superiority of Miss Aus-
ten to her more fortunate rival ;* but
* See the notices in IiOCKHAaT's Life of Scott; and the reviews in the Quar-
erly, Iffo. 27, by Soott, and No. 48, by Dr. Whatelt.
100
77ie Novd9 of Jane AusUn,
[July.
tbe Quarterly tells xa that ^ her fame
has grown fastest since she died :
there was do Sdat aboat her first ap>
pearaDce: the pabUc took time to
make up its mind ; and she, not hav-
ing staked her hopes of happiness on
saccess or failure, was content to wait
for the decision of her claims. Those
claims have been long established
bejond a qnestion ; bnt the merit of
first recoguifiing them belong less to
reviewers than to getoeral readers."
There is comfort in this for (authors
who see the applause of reviewers
lavished on worlu of garish effect
Nothing that -is really good can Ml,
at last, in securing its audience ; and
it is evident that Miss Austen's works
' must possess elements of indestrocU-
ble excellence, smoe, although never
*' popular," she sarvives writers who
were very popular; and forty years
after her death, gains more reco^i-
tioD than she gained when alive.
Those who, like ourselves, have read
and re-read her works several times,
can understand this duration, and
this increase of her fame. But the
fact that her name is not even now a
household word proves that her ex-
cellence must be of an unobtrusive
kind, shunning the glare of popular-
ity, not appealing to temporary tastes
and vulgar sympathies, but demand-
ing culture in its admirers. Johnson
wittilji says of somebody, '*Sir, he
manag|d to make himself public
without making himself known.^'
Miss Austen has made herself known
without making herself public. There
is DO portrait of her in the shop win-
dows ; indeed, no portrait of her at
all. But she is cherished in the
memories of those whose memory is
ikme.
As one symptom of neglect we
have to notice the scantiness of all
biographical details about her. Of
Miss Surrey, who is no longer read,
I nor much worth reading, we have
biography, and to spare. Of Miss
• Bronte, who, we fear, will soon cease
to find readers, there is also ample
biography; but of Miss Austen we
have little information. In the first
volume of the edition published by
Mr. Bentley (five charming volumes,
to be had for fifteen shillings^ there
is a meagre Dotice, from which we
draw the following details.
Jane Austen was bom on the 16th
December 1775, at Steventon in
Hampshire. Her father was rector
of the parish during forty years, and
then quitted it for Bath. He was a
scholar, and fond of general literature,
and probably paid special attenUon
to his daughter's culture. In Bath,
Jane only lived four years; but that
was enoogh, and more than enough,
for her observing humour, as we see
in NorthoHger Abbey. After the
death of her father, she removed with
her mother and sister to Southamp-
ton; and. finally, in 1809, settled in
the pleasant village of Obawton, in
Hampshire, from whence she issued
her novels. Some of these had been
written long before, but were with-
held, probably because of her great
diffidence. She had a high sta^ard
of excellence, and knew how prone
self-love is to sophisticate. So great
was this distrust, that the charming
novel, Northanger Abhey, although
the first in point of time, did not ap- / '
pear in print until after her death ; '
and this work, which the Quarterly
Review pronounces the weakest of
the series (a verdict only intelligible
to us b^anee in the same breath
Fermanan is called the best!), is not
only written with unflagging vivacity,
but contains two characters no one
else could have equalled — Henry .
Tilney and John Thorpe. Seiue and
Senstoility was the first to appear,
and that was in 1811. She had laid
aside a sum of money to meet what
she expected would be her loss on
that publication, and ** could scarcely
believe her great good fortune when
it produced a clear profit of £150."
Between 1811 and 1816 appeared her
three chefs-^'autre — Pride and Pre-
judice, Mansfidd Park, and Emma,
The applause these met with, grati-
fied her, of course; but she steadily
resisted every attempt to *< make a
Hon of her," and never publidy
avowed her authorship, although she
spoke freely of it in private. Soon
after tbe publication of Emma^^
symptoms of an incurable dedioe
appeared. In the month of May 1817
she was removed to Wincheeter, in
order that constant medical advice
might be secured. She seems to have
suficred much, but suffered it with
resignation. Her hks( words were
1859.]
7%e Navels qf Jane Austen,
101
'*IwaDt nothing but death/' This
was on Friday the 18th July 1817 ;
presently after she expired in the
arms of her sister. Her body lies in
Winchester Cathedral.
One might gather from her works
that she was personally attractive,
and we are told in the memoir that
this was the case. '*H6r statare
rather exceeded the middle height ;
her carriage and deportment were
quiet bat gracefol ; her features were
separately good ; their assemblage
produced an unrivalled expression of
that cheerfulness, sensibUity, and be-
nerolenoe which were her real char-
acteristics; her complexion was of
the finest texture — it might with
truth be said that her eloquent blood
spoke through her modest cheek;
her voice was sweet; she delivered
herself with fluency and precision ;
indeed, she waff formed for elegant
and rational society, excelling in oon-
Tersation as much as in composition."
We may picture her as something
like her own sprightly, natural, but
by no means perfect Elizabeth Ben-
net, in Pride and Prejvdiee^ one of
^ the few heroines one would seriously
like to marry.
. We have no means of ascertaining
how many copies of these exquisite
pictures of English life have been
circulated^ but we know that the
number is very large. Twice or
thrice have the railway editions
been out of print ; and Mr. Bentley's
edition is stereotyped. This success
implies a hold on the Public, all the
more certainly because the popular-
ity is '* not loud but deep." We have
re-read them all four times ; or rather,
to speak more accurately, they have
been read aloud to us, one after the
other ; and when it is considered
what a severe test that is, how the
reading aloud permits no skipping,
no evasion of weariness, but brings
both merits and defects into stronger
relief by forcing the mind to dwell
on them, there is surely something
significant of genuine excellence when
both reader -and listener fipish their
fourth reading with increase of ad-
miration. The test of reading aloud
applied to Jane Evre, which had
only been read once before, very con-
siderably modified our opinion of
that remarkable work; and, to con-
fess the truth, modified it so far that
we feel as if we should never open
the book again. The same test ap- ;
plied to such an old favourite as'
Tom Jona, was also much more \
damaging than we should have anti- |
cipat^ — bringing the defects and I
shortcomings of that much over- \
rated work into very distinct promi-
nence, and lessening our pleasure in
its effective, but, on the whole, coarse
painting. Fielding has greater vig-
our of mind, greater experience,
greater attainments, and a more ef-
rective mise en scene, than Miss
Austen ; but he is not only im-
measurably inferior to her in the
highest department of art — the re-
presentation of character— he is also
inferior to her, we think, in real [
hnmour ; and in spite of bis '^ con-
struction," of which the critics justly
speak in praise, he is inferior to her
in the construction and conduct of
his story, being more commonplace
and less artistic. He has more in- i
vention of situation and more vii^onr,
but less truth and subtlety. This is
at any rate our individual judgment,
which the reader is at liberty to
modify as he pleases. In the course
of the fifteen years which have
elapsed since we first read Emma,
ana Mansfield Park, we have out-
lived many admirations, but have
only learned to admire Mis3 Austen
more ; and as we are perfectly aware
of tohy we so much admire her,
we may endeavour to communicate
these reasons to the reader.
If, as probably few will dispute,
the art of the novelist be the repre- .
sentation of human life by means of
a story ; and if the truest representa- ,
tion, eflbcted by the least expendi-
ture of means, constitutes the highest
claim of art, then we say that Miss
Austen has carried the art to a point
of excellence surpassing that reached
by any of her rivals. Observe we
say "the art;" we do not say that
she equals many of them in the m-
terest excited by the art; that is a
separate question. It is probable,
nay certain, that the interest excited
by the Antigone is very inferior to
that excited by Black-eyed Susan.
It is probable that Unde Tom and
Ihed surpassed in interest the An-
tiquary or Ivcmhoe. It is proba-
102
The Novels of Jane Auiten,
IJaly,
ble that Jane Eyre produced ft far
greater excitemeot than the Vicar
of Wakefield. Bot the critic jodUy
disregards these ferrid dements of
Immediate soccess, and fixes his at-
teotion malnlv on the art which is
of eternal snbstaDoe. Miss Aosten
has nothing fervid in her work&
She is not cajxabie of producing a
profound agitation in the mind. In
many respects this is a limitation of
her powers, a dedaction from her
claims. Bat while other writers
have had more nower over the emo-
tions, more vivid imaginations, deep-
er aensibilities, deeper insight, and
more of what is properly odled in-
vention, no novelist has approached
her in what we may style the " eco-
nomy of art,*' by which is meant the
easv adaptation of means to ends,
with no aid from extraneous or sa-
Serflaons elements. Indeed, para-
oxical as the jaxtaposition of the
names may perhaps appear to those
who have not reflected mnch on this
subject, we venture to say that the
only names we can place above Miss
Austen, in respect of this economy of
art, are Sophocles and MoliSre (in Le
Miianthrope). And if any one will
examine the terms of the definition,
he will perceive that almost all de-
fects in works of art arise from ne-
glect of this economy. When the
end is the representation of human
nature in its familiar aspects, moving
amid every-day scenes, the means
most likewise be famished from
evexy-day life: romance and impro-
babilities must be banished as rigor-
ously as the ffrotesque exaggeration
of peculiar diaracteristics, or the
representation of abstract types. It
is easy for the artist to choose a ob-
ject from every-day life, but it is not
easy for hitn so to represent the cha-
racters and their actions that they
shall be at once lifelike and interest-
ing; accordingly, whenever ordinary
people are introduced, they are either
made to speak a language never
spoken out of books, and to pursue
conduct never observed in life; or
else they are intolerably wearisome.
But Mira Austen is like Shakespeare :
she makes her very noodles inex-
haustibly amusing, yet accurately
real, we never tire of her charac-
ters. They become equal to actual
experiences. They live with us, and
form perpetual topics of comment
We have so personal a dislike to
Hrs. Elton and Mr& Norris, that it
would gratify our savage feeling to
hear of some calamity befalling them.
We think of Mr. Collins and John
Thorpe with such a mixture of ludi-
crous enjoyment and ansry con-
tempt, that we alternately lonff and
dread to make their personal ac-
quuntaoce. The heroines— at least
Elizabeth, Emma, and Catherine
Morland— are truly lovable, flesh-
and-blood young women ; and the
good people are all really good, with- {
out Deing goody. Her reverend j
critic in the Quarterly truly says,
''She herself compares her produo-
tions to a little oit of ivorjr, two
inches wide, worked upon with a
brush so fine that little effect is pro-
duced with much labour. It is so:
her portraits are perfect likenesses,
admirably finished, man^ of them
^ms ; but it is all miniatnre-pidnt-
10^ ; and havins; satisfied herself
with being inimitable in one line,
she never essayed canvass and oils;
never tried her hand at a majestic
daub." This is very true ; it at once
defines her position and lowers her
claims. When we said that in the
highest department of the novelist's
art— namely, the truthful representa-
tion of character— Miss Austen was
without a superior, we ought to have
added that in this department ehe
did not choose the highest range;
the truth and felicity of her delinea-
tion are exquisite, but the characters
delineated are not of a high rank. She
belones to the great dramatists : but
her dramas are of homely common
quality. It is obvious that the na-
ture of the thing represented will
determine degrees in art Raphael
will alwavs rank higher than Ten-
iers ; Sophocles and Shakespeare will
never be lowered to the rank of
Lope de Yega and Scribe. It is a
greater efibrt of genius to produce a
fine epic than a fine pastoral ; a great
drama than a p^fect lyric. There
is far grater strain on the intellec-
tual efSrt to create a Brutus or an
Othello, tl)an to create a Yicar of
Wakefield or a Squire Western. The
higher the aims, the greater is the
strain, and the nobler is success.
1859.]
The Novels of Jane Austen,
103
These, it; may be said, are traisms ;
and 80 they are. Yet they need re-
statement from time to time, be-
caose men constantly forget that the
dignity of a high aim can not shed
lustre on an imperfect execution,
thoogb to eome extent it may lessen
the contempt which follows npon
fidlare. It is only saooess which
can daim applause. Any fool can
select a great snbjeot; and in geoh
eral it is the tendency of fools to
choose snbjects which the strong feel
to be too great If a man can leap
a five-barr^ gate, w^appland his
agility ; bat if he attentt it, withoat
a chance of success, tfaf mud receives
him, and we applaud the mud. This
18 too often forgotten by critics and
artists, in their grandiloquence about
''high art" No art can be high
that is not good. A grand subject
ceases to be grand when its treatment
18 feeblCi It is a great mistake, as
has been wittily said, '* to fanciy
youmlf a great painter because you
ptaint with a big brush ;" and there
are unhappily too many big brushes
in the hand of incompetence. Poor
Haydon was a type of the big-brush
school; he could not paint a small
picture because he could not paint
at all ; and he believed that in cover-
ing a vast area of canvass be was
working in the grand style. In every
estimate of an artist's rank we neces-
sarily take into account the nature of
the subject and the excellence of the
execution. It is twenty times more
difficult to write a fine tragedy than
a fine lyric; but it is more difficult
to write a perfect Ivric than a toler-
able tragedy ; and there was as much
sense as earcasm in Beranger's reply
when the trsgic poet Yiennet visited
him in prison, and suggested that of
course there would be a volume of
songs as the product of this leisure.
M Do you suppose," said Beranger,
** that chansons are written as ei^y
as tragedies ?**
To return to Miss Austen : her de-
lineation is unsurpassed, but the
diaraotera delineated are never of a
lofty or impassioned order, and
therefore make no demand on the
highest faculties of the intellect
8nch genius ss hers is excessively
rare ; but it is not the highest kind
of genius. Murillo's peasant boys
are assuredly of far ||[reater excellence
than the infant Ohnsts painted by all
other painterci, except Raphael; but
the divine children of the Madonna
di San Sieto are immeasurablj^ be-
yond anything Murillo has painted.
Miss Austen's two-inch bit of ivor^
is worth a gallery of canvass by emi-
nent RA.'b, but it is only a bit
of ivory after all. '* Her two inches
of ivory," continues the critic re*
oently quoted, *'ju8t describes her
preparations (br a tale in three vol-
umes. A viUage— two families con-
nected together — ^three or fbur inter-
lopers, out of whom are to spring a
liUle traeaseerie ; aAd by means of vil-
lage or country-town visiting and gos-
siping a real plot shall thicken, and
its < rear of darkness' never be scatter-
ed till six pages tMfinU The
work is all done by half-a-dozen
people ; no person, scene, or sentence
IS ever introduced needless to the ,
matter in hand : no catastrophes, or
discoveries, or surprises of a grand
nature are allowed — ndther children |
nor fortunes are fbund or lost by
accident — ^ mind is never taken
off the level surface of life — the
reader breakfests, dines, walks, and
gossips with the various worthies,
till a process of transmutation takes
place in him, and he absolutely fancies
himself one of the company. ....
The secret is. Miss Austen was a
thorough mistress in the knowledge
of human character ; how it is acted
upon by education and circumstance,
and how, when once formed, it shows
itself through every hour of every
day, and in every speech of every
person. Her conversations would
be tiresome but for this ; and her
ronsges, the fellows to whom may
met in the streets, or drank tea
with at half an hour's notice, would
exdte no interest ; but in Miss
Austen's hands we see into their
hearts and hopes, their motives, their
struggles within themselves ; and a
sympathy is induced which, if ex-
tended to daily life and the world at
large, would make the reader a more
amiable person; and we must think
it that reader's own fault who does
not close her pages with more charity
in his heart towards unpretending, if
prosing worth ; with a higher esti-
mation of simple kindncBS and sin-
104
The Nbvds of Jam Austen,
[J«ly.
I
cere good-will ; with a qoickeoed
seDse of the daty of bearing and for-
bearing in domestic iDtercoaFse, and
of the pleasore of adding to the little
comforts even of persons who ere
neither wits nor beauties.^' It is
worth remembering that this is tl^e
deliberate judgment of the preseiit
Archbishop of Dablin, and not a
careless verdict dropping from the
pen of a facile reviewer. There are
two points in it to which especial
attention may be given : first, The
indication of Miss Austen's power of
representing life; and, secondly, The
indication of the effect which her
sympathy with ordinary life pro*
dacea We ehall touch on the latter
: point first; and we do so for the
: sake of introducing a striking passage
> from one of the works of Mr. Gteorge
Eitot, a writer who seems to us in-
ferior to Miss Austen in the art of
. telling a story, and generally in what
we have called the <^ economy of art ;"
bat equal in truthfulness, dramatic
ventriloquism, and humour, and
. greatly superior in culture, reach of
; mind, and depth of emotional sensi-
1 bility. In the first of the Scenes qf
* Clerical Life there occurs this apo-
logy to the reader : —
'^The Eev. Amos Barton, whose sad
fortunes I have undertaken to relate,
was, you perceive^ in no respect an ideal
or exopptional character, and perhape I
am doing a bold thing to bespeak your
sympathy on behalf of a man who was so
very far from remarkable, — a man whose
virtues were not heroic, and who had no
undetected crime within his breast; who
had not the slightest mystery hanging
about him, but was palpably and unmis-
takably common place; who was not
even in love, but had had that complaint
favourably many years ago. * An utterly
uninteresiing character P I think I hear
a lady reader exclaim— Mrs Farthincrale^
for example, who prefers the ideal in
fiction; to whom tragedy means ermine
tippets, adultery, and murder; and
comedy, the adventures of some person-
age who is quite a * character.'
*'But, my dear madam, it is so very
large a majority of your feUow-country-
men that are of this insignificant stamp.
At least eighty out of a hundred of your
adult male fellow-Britons returned in the
last census, are neither extraordinarily
sflly, nor extraordinarily wicked, nor ex-
traordinarily wise; their eyes are neither
deep and liquid with sentiment, nor
sparkling wiUi suppressed witticisms;
they have probably had no hairbreadth
eecapee or thrilling adventures; their
brains are certainly not pngnant witili
genius, and their passions have not
manifested themselves at all after the
fashion of a volcano. They are mmply
men of complexions more or lees muddy,
whose oonversation is more or less bald
and disjointed. Yet these commonplace
people — many of them — bear a oon-
science, and have felt the sublime prompt-
bg to do the painful right; they have
their un8poke]#8orrows» and their sacrtd
joys ; their heatls have perhaps gone out
towards their first-born, and they have
mourned over the irreclaimable dead.
Kay, is there not a pathos in their veiy
insignificance, — in our comparison of
their dim and narrow existence with the
glorious possibilities of that human
nature which they share ?
" Depend upon it, you would gain un-
speakably if you woT^d learn with me to
see some of the poetry and the pathos
the tragedy and the oomedy, lying in.
the experience of a human soul that
looks out through dull grey eyes, and
that speaks in a voice of quite ordinary
tonea''
But the real secret of Miss Austen's
success lies in her having the exqui-
site and rare gift of dramatic creation
of character. Scott says of her,
** She had a talent for describing the
involvements, and feelings, and cha-
racters of ordinary life, which is to
me the most wonderful I ever met
with. The big bow-wow strain I can
do myself like any now going ; but
the exquisite touch, which renders
ordinary commonplace tilings and
characters interesting, from the troth
of the description and the sentiment,
is denied me. What a pity such a
gifted creature died so early I"*
Generously said; but high as the
praise is, it is as much below the real
excellence of Miss Austen, as the
" big bow-wow strain" is below the
incomparable power of the Waverley
Novels. Scott felt, but did not de-
fine, the excellence of Miss Austen.
The very world ••describing" is alto-
gether misplaced and misleading.
She seldom describes any thing, and is
not felicitous when she attempts it
* LocCHART : Life of <Sboti, viii 292. Compare also vol. x. p. 143.
1859.]
The NwbU of Jane Avsterk
105
j^ut iiMtead of descrifiiont the common
and easy resoorce or ooyelista, she has
the rare and difficult art of dram/atio
presentcUion : instead of teUiog us
what her characters are, and what
they fed, «he presents the people^
and they reveal themselves. In this
she has never perhaps been surpassed,
not even by Shakespeare himself. If
ever living beings can be said to have
moved across the page of fiction, as
they lived, speaking as they 8poke»
and feeling as they kit, they do so in
Pride mui Prejudice, Emma^ and
Mansfidd Park, What incomparable
noodles she exhibits for oar astonish-
ment and laughter I What silly,
goodnatnred women \ What softly*
selfish men ! What lively, amiable,
honest men and women, whom one
woold rejoice to have known 1
Bat all her power is dramatic
power; she loses her hold on us
directly she ceaees to speak through
the persona ; she is then like a great
actor off the stage. When she is
making men and women her mouth-
pieces, she is exquisitely and inez-
baostibly humorous ; bat when she
speaks in her own person, she is apt
to be commonpUioe, and even pros-
ing. Her dramatic ventriloquism is
sneh that, amid our tears of laugk-
ter and sympathetic exasperation at
foIly» we feel it almost impossible
that she did not hear those very peo>
pie utter those very words. In
many cases this was doubtless the
fact. The best invention does not
consist in finding new languege for
characters, but in finding the true
language for them. It is easy to in»
TBit a language never spoken by any
one out of books ; but it is so far
from easy to invent — ^that is, to find out
— the language which certain charao*
teiB wonld speak and did speok, that in
all the thousands of volomea written
since Richardson and Fielding, every
difficulty is more frequently over*
oome than thai. If the reader fails
to perceive the extraordinary merit
of Miss Austen's representation of
character, let him try himself to
paint a portrait which shall be at
once many-sided and interesting,
without employing any but the com-
monest colours, without calling in
the aid of eccentricity, exaggeration,
or literary *^ effects ;'' or let him
carefally compare the writings of
Miss Austen with those of any other
novelist, from Fielding to Thack-
eray.
It is probably this same dramatic
instinct which makes the construc-
tion of her stories so admirable. And
by construction, we mean the art
which^ selecting what is useful and
rejectmg what is superfluous, ren-
ders our interest unflagging, be-
cause one chapter evolves the next,
one character is necessary to the
elucidation of another. In what is
commonly called ^^plof' she does
not excel. Her invention is wholly
in character and motive, not in situ-
ation. Her materials are of the
commonest every - day occurrence.
Kdther the emotions of tragedy, nor
the exaggerations of farce, seem to
have the slightest attraction for her.
The reader's pulse never throbs, his
cnrioeity is never intense ; but his
interest never wanes for a moment.
The action b^ins ; the people speak,
feel, and act ; everything that is said,
felt, or done tends towards the en-
tanglement or disentanglement of the
plot ; and we are almost made actors
as well as spectators of the little
drama. One of the most difficult
things in dramatic writing is so to
construct the story that every scene
shall advance the denouement by
easy evolution, yet at the same time
give scope to the full exhibition of
5ie characters. In dramas, as in
novels, we almost always see that
the action stands still while the
charact^s are being exhibited, and
the characters are in abeyance while
the action is being unfolded. For
perfect specimens of this higher oon«
struction demanded by art, we would
refer to the jealousy-scenes of OUul"
io, and the great scene between
C^imdoe and Arsino^ in Le Misan-
thrope; there is not in these two
marvels of art a verse which does
not exhibit some nuance of charac-
ter, and thereby, at the same time,
tends towards the full development
of the action.
So entirely dramatic, and so little
descriptive, is the genius of Miss
Austen, tnat she seems to rely upon
what her people say and do for the
whole effect they are to produce on
onr imaginations. She no more
106 The Novdi qf Jam AuMttn. [July,
thinks of deseriblDg the physical ap- pathy. Other writers have wanted
pearance of her people than the dra- this element of popularity, bnt they
matist does who snows that his per- have compensated lor it by a keen
sons are to be represented by living sympathy with, and power of repre-
actors. This Is a defect and a mis- sentmg, the adventaroos, the roman-
take in art : a defect, because, al- tic, sod the pictoiesqae. Pasrioa
though every reader most necessarily and adventare are the souces of cet"
oonjnre up to himself a vivid image tain saceess with the mass of man*
of people whose characters are so Idnd. The passion may be coarsely
vividly presented ; yet each rc»der felt, the romance may be ridicnloos,
has to do this for himself withont bnt there will always be foand a
aid from the anthor, thereby missing large majority whose Bympathies
many of the subtle connections be- will be awakened by even the coars-
tween pbjBical and mental organisa- est daubs. Emotion is in its nature
tion. It is not enough to Iw told sympathetic and uncritical : a spark
that a young gentleman had a fine will ignite it Types of villany never
countenance and an air of fashion ; or seen or heard of out of books, or oiT
that a young gentlewoman was hand- the stage, types of heroism and
some and elegant As far as any virtue not less hyperbolioaU are
direct 'information can be derived eagerly welcomed and helUvtd in by
from the authoress, we might ima- a public which would pass over with-
gine that this was a purblind world, out notice the subtlest creations of
wherein nobody ever saw anybody, genius, and which would even reMnt
except in a dim vagueness whidi the more truthful painting as dis-
obscured all peculiarities. It is im- turbing its emotional enjoyment of
possible that tf r. Collins should not hating the bad, and loving the good,
nave been endowed by nature with The nicer art which mingles goodness
an appearance in some way herald- with villany, and weakness with
ing the delicious folly of the inward virtue, as in life they are always
man. Yet all we hear of this fatu- mingled, causes positive distress to
ous curate is, that ^he was a tall young and uncultivated minds. The
heavy - looking young man of five- mass of men never ask whether a
and* twenty. His air was grave and character is true, or the events pro-
stately, and his manners were very bable; it is enough for them that
formal." Balzac or Dickens would they are moved ; and to move them
not have been content without mak- strongly, black must be very blade,
in^ the reader ue this Mr. OoIIios. and white without a shade. Hence
Miss Austen is content to make us it is that caricature and exaggeration
hM>v) him, even to the very intrica- of all kinds — inflated diction and
cies of his inxaid..iQ^ It Is not daubing [delineation — are, and al-
stated whether e^e was shortsighted, ways wiU be, popular : a certain
but the absence of all sense of the breadth and massiveness of effect
outward world — either scenery or being necessary to produce a strong
personal appearance — is more re- impression on all but a refined audi-
markable in her than in any writer ence. In the works of the highest
we remember. genius we sometimes find a br^tb
We are touching here on one of and massiveness of effect which make
her defects which help to an explan- even these works popular, although
ation of her limited popularity, espe- the qualities most highly prized by
cially when coupled with her defi- the cultivated reader are littie ap»
ciencies in poetry and passion. She predated by the public The
has littie or no sympathy with what Jliad^ Shakespeare and MoliSre,
is picturesque and passionate. This Dan QvmoU and Faustt affect the
prevents her from paiotiog what the mass powerfully ; but how many
popular eye can see, and the popular admirers of Homer would prefer the
heart can feel. The struggles, the nawet^ of the original to the epi-
ambitions, the errors, and uie sins of grammatic splendour of Pope ?
energetic life are left untouched by The novelist who has no 'power of
her ; and these form the subjects broad and masnve effect dan never
most stirring to the general ^m- expect to be successful with the
1^59.]
The Niovdg of Jane Austen.
107
matpablic. He majgain the snf-
mges of the highest mincte, and in
coarse of time become a classic; but
we all know what the popufartfy
of a classic means. Mira Ansten w
such a novelist Her sabjects haye
little intrinsic interest ; it is only in
their treatment that they become
attractive; bat treatment and art
are not limy to captivate any except
critical and refined tastes. Every
reader will be amnsed by her pio-
tnres, becaose their very trotii car-
ries them home to ordmary exp^i-
ence and sympathy ; bat this amnse-
ment is of a tepid natore, and the
effect \b qoickly forgotten. Part-
ridge expressed the general senti-
ment of the public when he spoke
slightingly of Garrick's "Hanfiet^"
b^nse Garrick did jost what he,
Partridge, would have done in pre*
senoe of a ghost ; whereas the actor
who performed the king powerfally
impressed him by sonorous elocution
and emphatic gesticulation : that was
acting, and required art; the other
was natural, and not worth alladbg
to.
The absence of breadth, picturesque-
ness, and passion, will also limit the
appreciating audience of Hiss Aus-
ten to the miall circle of cultivated
minds ; and even these minds are
not always capable of greatly relfeh-
Sng her works. We have known very
remarkable people who cared little
for her pictures of every-day life;
and indeed it may be anticipated
that those who have little sense of
humour, or whose passionate and in-
surgent activities aemand in art a re>
flection of their own emotions and
struggles, will find little pleasure k
such homely comedies. Ourrer Bell
may be taken as a type of these. She
was utteriy without a sense of hu-
mour, and was by nature fervid and
impetuous. In a letter published in
her memoirs she writes^ — ^ Why do
Jon like Miss Austen so very much ?
am puzsled on that point ... I
had not read Pride and Prejvdke
tUl I read that sentence of yours, and
then I got the book. And what did
I find ? An accurate daguerreotyped
portrate of a commonpIiM» face ; a
carefully - fenced, highly - cultivated
garden, with neat borders and deli-
cate flowers; but no glance of a
bright, vivid physiognomy, no open
country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no
bonny beck. I should hardly like to
live with her elegant ladies and gen-
tlemen, in tiieir elegant but confined
houses."* The critical reader will
not fail to remark the almost con-
temptuous indifiference to the art of
truthfhl portrait-painting which this
passage indicates ; and he will under-
stand, perimpB, how the writer of
such a passage was herself incapabte
of drawing more than characteristics,
even in her most snccessfhl efforts.
Jane Eyre, Rochester, and Paul Em-
manuel, are very vigorous sketches,
but the reader observes them from
the ouUidc^ he does not penetrate
their souls, he does not know them.
What is said respectioff the want of
open country, blue hfll, and bonny
beck, is perfectly true ; but the same
point has been more felicitously
touched by Scott, in his review of
Emma: ^Upon the whole," he says,
**the turn of this autbor*s novels
bears the same relation to that of
the sentimental and romanUo cast,
that cornfields and cottages and mea-
dows bear to the highly-adorned
grounds of a show mansion, (ht the
rugffed sublimities of a mountain
laniucape. It is neither so oaptivat*
ing as the one, nor so grand as the
other ; but it affords those who fre-
quent it a pleasure nearly allied with
the experience of their own social
habits." Scott would also have loudly
repudiated the notion of Miss Aus-
ten's characters being ** mere daguerre-
otypes." Having himself drawn
botn ideal and real characters^ he
knew the difficulties of both ; and he
well says, " He who paints from U
heau idealt if his scenes and senti*
ments are striking and interesting,
is in ftjgi^At measure exempted from
tiie difficult task of reconciling them
with the ordinary probabilities of
life ; but he who paints a scene of
common occurrence, places his com-
position within that extensive range
of criticism which general experience
ofi^s to every rcMcr. . . . Some-
thing more tnan a mere sign-post
likeness is also demanded. The por^
* Life of CharhUe Bronte, 11 64.
108
Tlu Nbvda of Jam Austen.
[j-if.
trait most have ipirit aod character
as well M resembltDoe ; aod beiog
deprived of all ti^aii according to
Bayefi, goes to ' elevate and Borprue,'
it mast make amends by displaytDg
depth of knowledge and dexterity of
execution.^*
While defending our fevonrite, and
giving critical reasons for our Ukiog,
we are far from wishing to impose
that preference on others* If any one
frankly says, *'I do not care about
these pictures of ordinary life : I
want something poetical or roman-
tic, something to stimolate my ima'
gination, and to carry me beyond the
oirde of my daily tbooghts," — there
is nothing to be answered. Many
persons do not admire Wordsworth,
and cannot feel their poetical sympa*
I thies aronsed by waggoners and
I potters. There are man^ who find
I no enjoyment in the Flemish pictarea,
bat are raptoroos over the frescoes at
I Manich and Berlin. Individual tastes
do not admit of dispute. The ima-
gination is an im{>erioas ihculty, and
demands gratification ; and if a man
be content to have this faculty sti-
mulated, to the exclusion of all
other faculties, or if only peculiar
works are capable of stimnlating it,
we have no right to object Only
when a question of Art comes to ble
discussed, it must not be confounded
with a matter of individual feeling;
and it requires a distinct reference
to absolute standards. The art of
novel-writing, like the art of paint-
ing, is founded on general principles,
which, because they have their pys-
chological justification, because they
are derived from tendencies of the
human mind, and not, as absurdly
supposed, derived f^om ^^ models of
composition," are of universal ap-
plication. The law of colour, for in*
stance, is derived from the observed
relation between certain colours and
the sensitive retina. The laws of
oonstruction, likewise, are derived
from the in^tariable relation between
a certain order and succession of
events, and the amount of interest
excited by that order. In novel-
writing, as in mechanics, every ob-
struction is a loss of power ; every
I Buperflttous page diminishes the ar-
tistic pleasure of the whole. Indi- ]
vidaal tastes will always differ ; bat
the laws of the human mind are uni-
versal. One man will prefer the
humorous, another the pathetic ; one
will delieht in the adventarons, an-
other in u\e simple and homely ; bat
the principles of Art remain the same
(ot each. To tell a story well, is
quite another thing from having a
good story to tell. The constroction
of a good drama is the ^me in prin-
ciple whether the subject be Anti-
gone, the Misanthrope, or Othello;
and the real critic detects this prin-
ciple at work under these various
forms. It is the same with the deli-
neation of character: however vari-
ous the types, whether a Jonathan
Oldbuck, a Dr. Primrose, a Blifil, or a
FalstaS — ideal, or real, the principles
of composition are the same.
Miss Austen has generally but aa
indifferent story to tell, but her art
of telling it is incomparable. Her
characters, never ideal, are not of
an eminently attractive order ; but
her dramatic ventriloquism and power
of presentation is little less than ma^
vellous. Maoaulay declares hia opin-
ion that in this respect she is second
onl^ to Shakespeare. *' Among the
writers," he says, '' who, in the point
we have noticed, have approached
nearest the manner of the f;reat mas-
ter, we have no hesitation .m placing
Jane Austen, a woman of whom Eng-
land is justly prond. She has given
us a multitude of characters, all, in a
certain sense, commonplace — all such
as we meet every day. Yet they are
all as perfectly discriminated from
each other as if they were the most
eccentric of human beings. . . .
And all this is done by touches so
delicate that they elude analysis,
that they defy powers of description,
and that we only know them to exidt
by the general e£fect to which they
have contributed.'^'*'
The art of the novelist consists ia
telling the story and representing
the characters; but besioes these,
there are other powerful though
extraneous sources of attraetion often
possessed by novels, which are due
to the literary talent and cultnre of
the writer. There is, for example,
• Art on " Madame D'Arblay," Min. Rev., voL Ixxvil p. 561.
1859.1
The IfineU ^ Jom Au$tm*
109
the power of desoiiptloi), both of
scenery and of character. Many
novels depend almost entirely on
this for their efibct It is a lower
kind of power, and oonseqnently
mnch more frequent" than what we
have styled the art of the novelist ;
vet it may be very paissant in the
bands of a fine writer, gifted with a
real sense of the pictaresqne. Being
very easy, it has of late become the
resonroe of weak writers; and the
prominent position it has nsarped
lias tended in two ways to prodace
weariness — ^first, by enconraging in-
competent writers to do what is
easily done ; and, eecondly, by seduc-
ing writers from the higher and bet-
ter method of dramatic exposition.
Another source of attraction is the
general vigour of mind exhibited by
Xhe author, in his comments on the
incidents and characters of his story ;
these comments, when proceeding
from a fine insight or a large expe-
rience, give additional charm to the
story, and make the delightful novel
a delightftil book. It is almost
superfluous to add, that this also
has its obverse; the comments too
often painfully exhibit a general
weakness of mind. Dr. Johnson re-
fused to take tea with some one
because, as be said, " Sir, there is no
vigour in his talk." This is the
complaint which must be urged
against the majority of novelists :
thq^ put too much water in their
ink. And even when tbe talk is
good, we must remember that it is,
after all, only one of the side-dishes
of tbe feast AU the literary and
phik)60phio culture which an author
can bring to bear upon his work
will tend to give that work a higher
value, but it will not really make it
a better novel To suppose that
culture can replace invention, or
literature do instead of character, is
as erroneous as to suppose that
archaeological learniog and scenical
splendour can raise poor acting to
the level of fine acting. Yet this is
tbe oommon mistake of literary meo.
They are apt to believe that mere
writing will weigh in the scale
against «rtistic presentation ; that
comment will do dntv for dramatic
revdation ; that analysiog motives
with philosophic skill will answer
all the tmrpose of creation. But
whoever looks closely into this mat-
ter will see that literature — that is,
tbe writing of thinking and accom-
plished men— is excessively cheap,
compared with the smallest amount
of invention or creation ; and it is
cheap because more easy of pro-
duction, and less potent in effect
This is apparently by no means the
opinion of some recent critics, who
evidently consider their own writing
of more merit than humour and
invention^ and who are annoyed at
the notion of '* mere serialists,'* with-
out "solid acquirements," being re-
garded all over Europe as our most
distinguished authors. Yet it may
be suggested that writing such as
that of the critics in question can
^be purchased in abundance, whereas
humour and invention are among
tbe rarest of products. If it is a
piufnl reflection that genius should
be esteemed more highly than solid
acquirements, it should be remem-
bered that learning is only the
diffused form of what was oimm in*
vention. ••Solid acquirement" is
the genius of wits, which has become
the wisdom of reviewers.
Be this as it may, we acknowledge
the great attractions which a novel
may receive from the general vigour
and culture of the author ; and ac-
knowledge that such attractions form
but a very small element in Miss
AuBten*s success. Her pages have
no sudden illuminations. There are
neither epigrams nor aphorisms,
neither subtle analyses nor eloquent
descriptions. She is without grace
or felicity of expression; she has
neither fervid nor philosophio com-
ment Her charm lies solely in the
art of representing life and character,
and that is exquisite.
We have thus endeavoured to
characterise, in general terms, the
quatities which her works display.
It is less easy to speak with suffi-
cient distinctness of the particular
v7orks, since, unless our readers have
these vividly present to memory (in
which case our remarks would be
superfluous), we cannot hope to be
. perfectly intelligible ; no adequate
idea of them can be given by a re-
view of one, because the *• speci-
men brick" which the noodle in
no
Tk4 IfotiU if lame Austen.
IJrfj.
HierocleB thoaght sufficient, and
which really does soffioe in the case
of rnanj a modern novel, woold
prove no specimen at all. Her char-
acters are so gradoally nnfolded, their
individaallty reveals itself so nata-
rally and easily in the coarse of
what they say and do, that we learn
to know them as if we had lived
with them, bat cannot by any single
speech or act make them known to
others. Aant Norris, for instance,
in Mansfidd Park, ib a character
profoundly and variously delineated ;
yet there is no scene in which she
exhibits herself to those who have
not the pleasurable disgust of her
acquaiotance ; while to those who
have, there is no scene in which she
does not exhibit herself Mr. Collins,
makinff an offer to Elizabeth Ben*
net, formally stating the reaaons
which induced him to marrv, and
the prudential motives whicn have
induced him to select her, and then
adding, ''Nothing now remains for
me but to assure yon, in the most ani-
mated language, of the violence of
my affection. To fortune I am per^
fisctly iodifierent, and shall make no
demand of that nature on your
father, since I am well aware that it
could not be complied with ; and
that one thousand pounds in the
Four-per- Cents, which will not be
yours till after your mother's de-
cease, is all that you may ever be
entitled ta On that head, therefore,
I shall be uniformly silent ; and yon
may assure yourself that no ungen-
erous reproach shall ever pass my
lips when we are married;" and
after her refusal, persisting in accept-
ing this refusal as only what is nsnal
with young ladies, who reject the
addresses of the man they secretly
mean to accept, *' I am therefore by
no means discouraged by what you
have just said, and shall hope to
lead you to the altar ere long;*'—
this scene, ludicrous as it is through-
out, receives its exquisite flavour
from what has gone before. We
feel morally persuaded that so Mr.
Collins would spei^ and act The
man who, on taking leave of his
host, formally assures him that he
will not fail to send a "letter of
thanks" on his return, and does
send it, ia jost the man to have
made this declaration. Mrs. Elton, in
Emma, is the very best portrait of a
vulgar woman we ever saw: she ia
vulf^ in soul, and the vulgarity ia
indicated by subtle yet unmistak-
able touches, never by coarse Ian*
ffuaffe, or by caricature of any
kind. We will quote here a bit oif
her conversation in the first inter-
view she has with Emma Woodhouae,
in which she ifdeavours to be very
fascinating. It should be {^remised
that she is only just married, and
this is the wedding-visit She in-
dulges in '* raptures" about Hart-
fleld (the seat of Emma's father), and
Emma quietly replies:—*
<« < When you have seen more of this
country, I am afraid you will think you
have overrated Hartfield. Surrey is foil
of beautiea'
*' ' Oh I yes, I am quite aware of that
It ia the garden of England, you know,
Surrey is the garden of England.*
•**Ye8; but we muat not rest our
claims on that diatinction. Many coun-
ties, I believe^ are called the garden of
England, as well as Surrey.*
" * No^ I fency not,* replied Mrs. Elton,
with a most satisfled smile. ' I never
heard any county but Surrey called ao^'
" Bmma was silenced.
" ' My brother and sister have promised
us a visit in the spring, or summer at
fartheat,' oontinaed Mrs. Elton; 'and
that will be oar time for exploring.
While they are with us, we shall explore
a great deal, I daresay. They will have
their barouche-landau, of course, which
holds four perfectly ; and therefore, with-
ont saying anything of our carriage, we
should be able to explore the different
beauties extremely wefl. They would
hardly come in their chaise, I think, at
that season of the year. Indeed, when
the time draws on, I shall decidedly re-
commend their bringing the baroudie-
landau; it will be so very much prefe^
able. When people come into a beauti-
ful countiy of this sort, you know, Mias
Woodhouse, one naturally wlahes tiiem
to see as much as possible; and Mr.
Sackling is extremely fond of exploring.
We explored to King's-Weston twice last
summer, m that way, moet delightfully,
just after their first having the barouche-
landau. You have many parties of that
kind here, I suppose^ Ifiss WoodAiouse^
eveiy summer? *
'* ' No ; not iomiediately here. We are
rather out of distance of the veiy strik-
ing beauties whidi attract the aortof
puties you speak of; and we are a veiy
1859.]
n$ ITcveU df Jane Awttn,
HI
goaet set of people^ I balieTe; more de-
posed to stay at home than engage in
Bchemes of pleasure.
" ' Ah I there is nothing like staying at
home for real comfort Nobod/ can be
more deyoted to home than I am. I was
quite a proyerb for it at Maple Groye.
Manj a time has Selina saidj when ^e
has been going to Bristol, ** I really can-
not get this g&l to moye fix>m the house.
I absolutely must go in by myself though
I hate being studc up in the barouche*'
landau without a companion; but Au-
gusta, I belieye, with her owu good will,
would neyer stir beyond the park paling."
Many a time has she said so ; and yet I
am no advocate for entire seclusion. I
tiiink, on the contrary, when people
shut themselves up entirely firom so-
ciety, it is a Yery bad thing ; and that it
is much more advisable to mix in the
worid in a proper degree, without living
in it either too much or too little. I per-
fectly understand your situation, how-
ever, Miss Woodhouse (looking towards
Mr. WoodbouseX 70^ fiitber^s state of
health must be a great drawback. Why
does not he try Bath? — Indeed he
should. Let me recommend Bath to
you. I assure you I have no doubt of
its doing Mr. Woodhouse good.*
** ' My father tried it more than once,
formerly, but without receiving any be-
nefit ; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare-
say, is not unknown to vou, does not
conceive it would be at all more likely
to be useful now.*
" ' Ah I that'll a great pity ; for I assure
yon, Mias Woodhouse^ where the waters
do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief
they give. In my Bath life, I have seen
such instances of it I And it is so cheer-
fol a placo, that it oould not fail of being
of use to Mr. Woodhoose's spirits^ which,
I understand, are sometimes much de-
pressed. And as to its recommendation
to yoiAf I iancy I need not take much
pains to dwell on them. The advantages
of Bath to the young are pretty generally
understood. It would be a charmiDg in-
troduction for you, who have lived so
secluded a life ; and I could immediately
secure you some of the best society in
the place. A line firom me would bring
you a little host of acquaintance ; and
my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the
lady I have always resided with when in
Bath, would be most happy to show you
any attentions, and would be the very
person for you to go into public with.'
" It was as much as Emma could bear,
without being impolite. The idea of her
bebg indebted to Mrs. Elton for what
was called an ifUrodudum^-oT her KOing
into publk; under the auspices of a friend
of Mis. Eltom's-^probably aome vulgar,
dashing widow, who, with the help of a
boarder, just made a shift to live I^The
dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield,
was sunk indeed!
** She restrained hersel? however, lirom
any of the reproofs she could have given,
and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly ; ' but
their going to Bath was quite out of the
question ; and she was not perfectly con-
vinced that the place might suit her bet-
ter Uian her father.* ^d then, to pre-
vent furUier outrage and indignatk>n,
changed the subject directly.
^' 'I do not ask whether you are mui^cal,
Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's
character generally precedes her; and
Highbuiy has long known that you are
a superior performer.*
''*Ohl no, indeed; I must protest
against any such idea. A superior per-
former I — ^very far from it, I assure you :
consider ih>m how partial a quarter your
information came. I am doatingly fond
of music — passionately fond; and my
friends say I am not entirely devoid of
taste ; but as to anything else, upon my
honour my performance is mediocre t(r
the last degree. Tol:^ Miss Woodhouse,
I well know, play delightfully. I assure
yon it has been the greatest satisfaction,
oomfort, and delight to me, to hear what
a musioEil society I am got into. I abso-
lutely cannot do without music; it is a
necessary of life to me; and having
always been used to a veiy musical so-
ciety, both at Maple Grove and in Bath,
it would have been a most serious sacri-
fice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E.
when he was speaking of my fhture
home, and expressing bis fears lest the
retirement of it should be disagreeable ;
and the inferiority of the house too-
knowing what I had been accustomed to
— of course he was not wholly without
apprehension. When he was speaking
of it in what way, I honestly said that
ihe world I could give up— parties, balls,
plays— for I had no fear of retirement.
Blessed with so many resources within
myself the world was not necessaiy to
me, I could do xery well without it.
To those who had no resources it was a
different thing ; but my resources made
me quite independent. And as to
smaller-sized rooms than I bad been
used to^ I really oould not give it a
thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal
to any sacrifice of that descriptioa Cer-
tainly I had been accustomed to every
luxury at Maple Grove ; but I did assure
him that two carriages were not neces-
sary to my happiness, nor were spacious
apartments. " But,'* said I, " to be quite
honesty I do not think I can live withou*^
112
Vie Novels of Jane Ayuien,
[Jniy,
something of a mtisical society'. I con-
dition for nothing else; but, without
music, life would be a blank to me." *
"*We cannot suppose,* said Emma;
smiling, 'that Mr. Elton woold hesitate
to assure you of there being a very
musical society in Highbury ; and I hope
you will not find he has overstepped the
truth more than may be pardoned, in
consideration of the motive.'
*' ' No, indeed, I have no doubts at all
on that head. I am delighted to find
myself in such a circle : I hope we shall
have many sweet lltUe concerts together.
I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I
must establish a musical club, and have
regular weekly meetings at your house,
or ours. Will not it be a good plan f If
we exert ourselves, I think we shall not
be long In want of allies. Something of
that nature would be particularly desir-
able for fne, as an inducement to keep
me in practice ; for married women, you
kaow— there is a sad story against them,
in general They are but too apt to
give up music.'
^ " * But you, who are so extremely fond
of it — there can be no danger, surely?'
" 'I should hope not ; but really, when
I look around among my acquaintance,
I tremble. Selina has entirely given up
music; — never touches the instrument,
though she played sweetly. And the
same may be said of Mrs. Jeffereys— Clara
Partridge that was — and of the two
Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James
Cooper; and of more than I can enu-
merate. Upon my word, it is enough
to put one in a fright. I used to be
quite angry with Selma ; but, really, I
begin now to comprehend that a married
woman has many things to call her
attention. I believe -I was half an hour
this morning shut up with my house-
keeper.'
"*But everything of that kind,* said
Emma, * wHl soon be in so regular a
train — ^
•' • Well,' said Mrs. Elton, laughing, 'we
shall see.' **
Oar limits force ns to break off in
the middle of this conversation, b«t
the continuation is equally hamorons.
Quite as good io another way is Miss
Bates with her affectionate twaddle.
Bat, as we said before, the characters
reveal themselves; and in general
reveai themselves only in the course
of severd scenes, so that extracts
woald give no Idea of them.
The reader who has yet to make
acquaintance with these novels, is
advised to b^in with Pride and
Frejudiee or Mansfield Park; and
if these do not captivate him, he
may fairly leave the others nnread.
in Pride and Prejudice there is
the best sto^, and the greatest
variety of character : the whole
BeAae( family is inimitable : Mr.
Bennet, caastic, quietly, indolently
selBsh, bat hononrabie, and in some
respects amiable; his wife, the per-
fect type of a gossiping, weak-headed,
fussy mother ; Jane a sweet creaiore ;
Elizabeth a sprightly and fascinating
flesh - and - blood heroine ; Lydia a
pretty, but vain and giddy girl ; and
Mary, plain and pedantic, studying
'* thorough bass and haman nature.**
Then there is Mr. Collins, and Sir
William Lucas, and the proud foolish
old lady Catherine de Bough, and
Diu-cy, Bingley, and Wickham, all
admirable. From the first chapter
to the last there is a MLccession of
scenes of high comedy, and the
interest is nnfiagsing. Manffidd
Park is also singularlj^ fascinating,
though the heroine is less of a
ikvonrite with us than Miss Austen's
heroines usually are ; bat aunt Norris
and Lady Bertram are perfect ; and
the scenes at Portsmouth, when
Fanny Price visits her home after
some years^ residence at the Park, are
wonderfully truthful and vivid. The
private theatricals, too,- are very amus-
ing ; and the day spent at the Rash-
worths' is a masterpiece of art If
the reader has really tasted the
favour of these works, he will need
no other recommendation to read and
re-read the others. Even Persua-
sion, which we cannot help regarding
as the weakest, contains exquisite
touches, and some characters no one
else could have surpassed.
We have endeavoured to express
the delight which Miss Austeo^s
works have always given us, and to
explain the sonrces of her success
by indicating the qualities which
make her a model worthy of the
study of all who desire to understand
the art of the novelist. But we have
also indicated what seem to be the
limitations of her genius, a6d to ex-
plun why it is that this genius,
moving only amid the quiet scenes of
every-day life, with no power over
the more stormy and energetic ac-
tivities which find vent even m every-
1859.]
77ie Change of I^nistry^What next 7
113
day life, can never give her a high
rank among great artists. Her place
is among great artists, bat it is not
high among them. 8he sits in the
HoQse of Peers, bat it is as a simple
Baron. The delight derived from
her pictares arises from oar sympathv
with ordinary characters, oar relish
of hamoar, and oar intellectoal plea-
sore in art for art's sake. But when
it is admitted that she never stirs
the deeper emotions, that she never
fills the soul with a noble aspiration,
or brightens it with a fine idea, bat,
at the atmost, only teaches ns charity
for the ordinary failings of ordinary
people, and sympathy with their
goodness, we have admitted an ob-
jection which lowers her claims to
rank among the great benefactors of
the race ; and this snfficiently ex-
plains why, with all her excellence,
her name has not become a hoosehold
word. Her fame, we think, mast en-
dare. Sach art as hers can never
grow old, never be superseded. Bat,
after all, miniatares are not frescoes,
and her works are miniatares. Her
place is among the Immortals ; bat
the pedestal is erected in a qaiet niche
of the great temple.
THE CHANGB OF MINI8TBT — WHAT NEXT 7
A CHAicaE of Ministry has taken
place, at a critical time in the afiairs
of this country and of Europe, and
under circamstances not only sin-
gular in the history of politics, but
suggestive of grave difficulties in the
future government of the country.
The Factions have rallied again for a
groit battle, and, by an insignificant
majority, have won it. It is just a
year ago since they attempted a si-
mUar combination, and notably fail-
ed. The pitched battle which they
then fought with the Ministry on
the question of the Oude proclama-
tion terminated in one of the most
hnmfliating disoomfitures that ever
overtook an Opposition. It was the
first grand attempt of the Whig
chieft to replace themselves in office.
At that time they had only been a
few months on the shady side of the
House, and the pressure of adversity
had Dot yet tamed their spirit into
acquiescenoe with the humiliating
deinands of the Badicals. Hence
their failure. It is a fact which we
do not seek to deny that the various
sections of the House who style
themselves *' liberals*' outnumber,
though only by a small majority, the
Conservative party. But between
certain sections of the Liberals there
is to be found a wider discrepancy
of opinion than exists between one
or two of those sections and the
GoDservatives. At least sach was
th« case. On the qaestion of Be-
VOL. LZXXVI.
form, the Peelites and " old Whigs,"
who now support Lord Palmerston,
were almost as much opposed to Mr.
Bright and the Badicals as the Oon-
servatives are ; and even the Bussell-
ite section repudiated with disdain •
the extreme view of the party of Lev-
ellers. But as these rival sections of
the Whig party, though united, fell
far short of the strength of the Con-
servatives, and could not regain office
without the co-operation of the Radi-
cals, Jt became the policy of the
latter to keep their Whig friends in
Opposition until the hunger for of-
fice should starve them into more
'* advanced" viewa A year ago this
rf«ult had not taken place. The
Whigs still imagined that, as wont^
the Badicals would follow them un-
conditionallv, rather than bear to
see the Conservatives in power.
But the Radicals had increEtsed their
strength, and would no longer act
as the mere " toil" of the Whigs.
They knew their power, and al-
though perfectly impotent of them-
selves to form an Administration,
thejr resolved to bend others to
their will by adopting the tactics
of obstruction. After another
vear's waiting, their tactics have
been crowned with success. The
Whi^, whose hanger for office is
notorious, have been starved into a
surrender. They have at length
stooped to purchase the co-operation
of the Radicals by an abnegation of
8
114
The Change qf MmistrY — What next 7
[July,
their own t)rinciple8. The coalition
which three weeks ago overthrew the
OoDBervative Ministry, involved the
death of the old Whig party. Hence-
forth the WhigB of 1832 are extinct ;
or — as in the case of Earl Grey and
Lord Normanby — they are to be
foand fighting on the side of the
Gonfervatives. So goes on the march
c^ democracy. Rather than endare
a farther exclusion from office, both
Lord Palmerston and Lord John
Russell have, agreed to accept the
terms of alliance offered by Mr. Bright ;
and the result is a motley coalition
which has won a party triamph which
it cannot follow up, and which can-
not fail to be iDJurious to the best
interests of the country. What but
peril to the constitution can result
from the wholesale apostacy of the
Whigs to the cause of democracy 7
What but disunion and a fresh crisis
can be expected from a coalition which
professes to unite Bright or Cobden
with Palmerston, and Gladstone and
Sidney Herbert with Lord John Bus-
sell? What but grievous detriment
to the national interests can result
from the premiership of Lord Palmer-
ston, who repudiates the neutrality
of the late Government, and gives an
open adhesion to the ambitious policy
of the French Emperor ? The Whig
chiefs have always been great in con-
ooctiug coalitions, not one of which
hitherto has ever prospered ; but on
the present occasion they have out-
done themselves in this respect, and
have produced the most combustible
of mixtures, which the least friction
will explode, and whose explosion
will cast fresh discredit upon our
system of constitutional government
For the last eight years the old
Duke*8 question, ** How is the Qneen^s
Government to be carried on?*' has
every twelvemonth been acquiring a
more startling significance ; and after
the vote of the 10th ultimo, and the
miserable Coalition Cabinet which is
itfl consequence, every thoughtful
mind will naturally ask with anxious
foreboding, What next 7
The manner in which the factions
accomplished this success requires a
word of comment To sajr that a
hurried vote of want of confidence in
the Ministry was the most adroit
move for the Opposition, is only giv-
ing the chiefs of the factions credit
for knowing how best to play their
game. It was simply a struggle for
office, and they chose the most ad-
vantageous ground for fighting the
battle. There was no real prei^ent
for moving such a vote of want of
confidence. The motion of Sir Robert
Peel after the dissolution of the Par-
liament of 1841 is no parallel caee.
The Ministry of Lord Melbourne had
received a signal defeat in 1839, yet,
refusing either to dissolve or to re-
sign, it continued in office for two
whole years, receiving fresh defeats;
and when at length it did appeal to
the country, it was upon a vote of
censure carried in its own Parliament
by those who had originally
been its supporters. The issue of
that appeal was to give an im-
mense accession to the ranks of the
Opposition ; and therefore Sir Robert
Peel, by moving a vote of want of
confidence, was only giving effect to
the verdict of the country. The late
Ministiy held a very different posi-
tion. On taking office, they found
themselves face to face with a Par-
liament elected under the premier-
ship of Lord Palmerston, but in
which, nevertheless, they oonatitoted
the only party strong enough to form
a Government; and when they a|H
pealed to the country on their very
first defeat, the result of the appeal
was to give them twenty- five new
votes, and to take as many from the
Opposition. If, then, it was not re-
quisite for the Opposition to move a
vote of want of confidence in the last
Parliament, there was infinitely lees
ground for them to do so in the new
one. But the growing confidence of
the conntry in the Conservative Gov-
ernment was one of the very reasons
why the Opposition were so anxioos
to cut short the career of their an-
tagonist& And a hurried vote at the
outset was the best means for accom-
plishing their factions purpose. All
sections of the Opposition were
smarting from the effects of the dis-
solution ; and it was an adroit move
to take advantage of that irritatioa
while it was k^nly felt A vote of
want of confidence was. also the best
means of securing unanimity amongst
the jarring elements of the Opposition.
They all styled themselves liberalB ;
1859.]
The Change of Ministry-^What next 7
115
and tills motion, appealing to them
nnder the common name of Liberals,
caJIed upon tbem to eay whether
they wonld prefer to have a Con-
seryative Ministry or a Liberal one.
The threat was thus held over the
beads of all the members of the
OppoflitioD, that if any one did not
support snch a motion, he woald
thenceforth be ostracised, and repre-
sented to his constitnents as a traitor
or renegade. And in this way many
members were hooked into voting
against the ministry against their own
convictions and previous confessions ;
so that the debate presented the
carious anomaly of some members
speaking in favour of the Ministry,
yet ending by saying that they must
vote against them 1 This harried
vote, too, at the very outset, was a
coofenion that the chiefe of the
Opposition despaired of finding any
actual and definite ground of fault
against the Mioi^try. Had they
really believed that the Ministry had
blundered in foreign policy, or would
blonder in domestic legislation, they
woald have waited for the produc-
tion of the promised papers in the
one case, or for the commission of the
actual blunder in the other. But
tbey were hopeless on the latter
point, and excessively anxious to fore*
stall the other. A debate on the
foreign policy of the Government,
after the production of the papers,
would at once have cut the ground
from nnder the feet of the Opposi*
tion, by showing to the country that
the endless charges of blundering
which the Liberal journals had been
publishing against the . Government
were pure fabrications, and that, in
fact, never at any time were difficult
Begotiations conducted in a more
masterlv manner — as in the sequel
we shall show. The grand object of
the Opposition leaders, we repeat,
was to forestall inquiry, and obtain a
verdict against the Ministry before
the facts of the case were known,
and while Parliament and the public
were still under the influence of the
calamnies disseminated by the Liberal
press. Yet what, after all, was the
result of those skilful tactics and un-
scrupuloos proceedings? Their vio-
toiy was a vurtuid defeat The ma-
jority of 39 which they bad in the
former Pariiament dwindled down
to only 13. In one of the very fullest
Houses on record they only mustered
323, while the Conservative muster-
ed 310 —a narrow majority for the
Liberals at the best, but one entirely
neutralised by the fact that, whereas
the Conservatives are a compact
phalanx, the Liberals are composed
of four incongruous sections (PaJmer-
stonians, Peelites, Bussellites, and
Radicals), never for a- week in com-
plete harmony, and often at open
discord with one other.
In the very speeches by which they
sought the overthrow of the late
Government, the irreconcilable differ-
ences of opinion which prevful in the
camp of the Liberals were clearly
manifested. For example, in regard
to that most important of all ques-
tions at present — namely, the policy
of this country with respect to the
war— we find Mr. Bright sneering at
the militia and rifle -corps, and de*
Dounciog the additions to our fleet :
an indication that he and his fk-iends
will press their Quaker delusions
upon the new Ministry with might
and main. We find him, too, giving it
as his deliberately-formed conviotion
that the French are a singularly
peaceful people, who have not the
least desire to do anything unfriendly
to this country, — an opinion in whicn
few will concur, and which strikingly
recalls to memory the similar state-
ment of belief on the part of Mr.
Cobden only a few weeks before the
outburst of the sanguinary revolution
of 1848. Mr. Bright^ too— for (xace
agreeing with Lord Palmerston —
sympathises with France in her at-
tack upon Austria; although it
would be curious to know by what
process he reconciles this opinion
with his out-and-out principle of
peace and non - intervention. He .
thinks it right for France to begin a
war of ambition, yet denounces on
our part any precautionary measures
of defence. Sir James Graham,
again, although bitterly opposing the
Government, praised them for the
very measures of defence which Mr.
Bright, in his narrow wisdom,
thought fit to denounce. Lord
Palmerston, who made the poorealt
apnearanoe he ever did in his life,
altliough unable to deny the practi-
116
Ute Change of Ministry^What next ?
[July,
cul atility of those eoergetio measares
of defence, bo gradged the Minifltry
the credit of having made them, that
he cavilled at it as an QDCODStita-
tional Btep, for which no precise or
Bofficient reason had been assigned.'*'
And while Lord John Bassell and
Mr. Bright confessed that the war
was unavoidable, Lord Palmerston,
with a recklessness of assertion never
surpassed, maintained that it was
wholly attributable to the blun-
dering of the Ministry I To such
shifts was he reduced in his effort to
make out a case against the Govern-
ment Moreover, at the very time
that Lord Palmerston was openly
sympathising with the French Em-
peror, and repeating in a modified
form the desire which he expressed
at Tiverton, namely, that Austria
should be driven out of Italy
before the year's end — his for-
mer colleague, the Duke of Argyll,
was emphatically declaring in the
Upper House that it was absolutely
necessary that members of the Gov-
ernment should in all their speeches
main tain an impartial tone to both
of the belligerent patties. "The
noble Earl (Ellenborough) has said
that in order to make our mediation
effectual in Europe, we must be armed
at home" — a position which even his
captious Grace could not deny had
been ably assumed by the Conserva-
tive Government; "but," continued
his Grace, "another necessity is im-
posed upon them — namely, that they
shall maintain at least some show of
impartiality of opinion." Lord Pal-
merston, at tiie close of the debate,
must have been yery much shocked
to learn how he and his expectant Lord
Privy Seal bad been knoekiog their
heads together. It were tedious to
exhibit all the extraordinary diversi*
ties of opinion which marked the
speeches of the Liberals in this debate :
but what else could be looked for,
when the Opposition chiefe were not
only fbndamentaliy at variance with
one another, but had no common
ground of truth to go upon?— each
forging fictions of his own wherewith
to assault the Ministry, and r^;aia
the sunny side of the House.
" I know perfectly well,*' said Roe-
buck at Milford Haven, «*that there
is no party so admirable in the use
of calumny as the Whig party ; and
everything that calumny can desire,
or that lying can supply* will be
adopted by that party.^' No better
instance of the absolute oorreotneas
of this description of the Whigs could
be found than the recent speeches of
their leaders in Parliament and the
vocifierations of their organs in the
press. Two sentiments were very
strong in this country on the subject
of the war. One of these was a
sympathy for the cause of Italian in-
dependence, and a oonseqaent dislike
of Austria. The other and still
stronger feeling was one of deep-
rooted suspicion towards Louis Na-
poleon, and a vivid distrust of the
good understanding and manifest co-
operation which exist between him
and the Czar. These feelings proceed
from radically opposite views of the
main point to be attended to in the
present war. The first regards the
war only as it afifects Austria and
the Italians, and thinks no more of
British interests than if we belonged
to another planet The second and
• " The course which they pursued," said Lord Palmereton " was an unconstitu-
tional course, because to add materially to our naval and military establishments;
when Parliament was not sitting, unless they were called upon to do so by some
overruJiog necessity, is not a measure consonant with the spirit of the constitution.
Now, what that overruling necessity was we have not heard." How very ignorant
the noble Viscount can make himself at times! The Times^ which certainly has
no bias against Lord Palmerston or in behalf of the late Government, takes a very
opposite view of the matter. *' There is no parallel," says the leading journal, " to
be found for the condition of the British navy at the moment. It had never, as Sir
John Pakington said, been reduced to such a point before ; and when, therefora at that
crisis of accidental weakness, a terrible European war burst forth at our very doors^
it was the bounden duty of Ministers to throw precedents to the winds, and see that
the State took no harm. That was their duty, and th^ discharged it Theypoux^d
a reinforcement of 1300 shipwrights into our dockyards ; they raised our fleet ftom
28 to 40 sail-of-the-line, and they added 10,000 men to the naval forces of the coun-
try. All praise to them for their vigour and deciBion.''^2))ine9, June 13.
1859.1
Tke Change of Miniitry^What next 7
117
far jaster Bentimeot of the popular
mind looks primarily to our own
interests: it wholly disbelieves the
professions of the French Emperor,
and regards the present war simply
as the first step in the carrying oat of
those Napoleonic plans which have for
their oonsammation the hamiliation of
England. Bat however radically in*
eompatible these different views of
the war are, the Whigs, when they
opened their costomary batteries of
ealamny, resolved to tarn both these
phases of the popular sentiment
against their opponents. To meet
the popular sympathy fi>r the Ital-
ians, they charged the Ministry with
having throughout the negotiations
fiivoured Aostria and menaced France
and Sardinia. To meet the still
stronger sentiment of suspicion in
regard to the ulterior designs of
France and Russia, they declared
that the Ministry had been wholly
duped, and had been culpably igno-
rant of the impending crisis; that
they had been overreached by the
French diplomatists, and believed
tlmt peace would be preserved, where-
as war was a foregone conclusion of
Napoleon III. AH tbroagh the time
of the elections, the Liberal journals
rang their peals of calumny, ding-
dong, now advancing the one of these
incompatible ctaTgaB, now the other.
The Whig chiefs in Parliament
played the same game. Eagerly
rn^hing into the debate before the
contents of the Italian despatches
oottld be known, Lord Palmerston,
on the first night of the discus-
sion, had the unscrupulous temerity
to repeat these calumnies as the
grand charge against the Ministry.
^'It is quite plain,*' he said,*' that
the Minbtry were ignorant of the
real state of affairs ; that they were
uninformed as to what was going, on ;*
that they were under a delusion as
to the intention of the different
parties." He also charged them in
the strongest and most explicit terms
with having unduly favoured Austria
throughout the negotiations, and
with having held out nothing but
menaces to France and Sardinia.
** Tbe course they parsued," he said,
*^ brought on the war, while a dif-
ferent course wonkl have prevented
it . . Up to the very last moment,
their belief was that if they could only
frighten France from hostilities by
holding it out to Europe that in the
event of war breaking out they wonld
be found acting on the side of Aus-
tria, peace would be preserved and
war would be avoided.^' No wonder
that such daring calumnies, openly
advanced in the British Legislature,
should have elicited shouts of indig-
nant repudiation from the Ministerial
benches. The unscrupulous game
succeeded for the moment, and the
Factions won the prize of oflfice for
which they had shown themselves
ready to abandon so many principles
and invent so many calumnies. Bat
already those calumnies are refuted
and their effects dispelled ; and when
Parliament resumes its deliberations,
it must do so with the indignant and
humiliating conviction that a wrong
verdict has been wrung from it by
duplicity and chicane, and that the
men who so duped it are now her
Majesty's Ministers I
That the volume containing tbe
diplomatic correspondence of the
Government on the Italian question
should be immediately laid on the
table of the House, was promised
on the very first night of the ses-
sion ; and although the Liberals
thought fit to shut their eyes to
this until they had accomplished
their ends by defeating the Govern-
ment, that correspondence has now
been carried to every reading-
room and fireside throngh the me-
dium of the newspapers, so^ that
the public are now in a position to
judge of the matter for themselves.
In that big volume of 400 pages, the
negotiations are set forth with an
unreserved fulness, which id exceed-
ingly rare, and which of itself speaks
well for the manly confidence of the
late Ministry in the goodness of their
cause. Such confi<]bnoe is amply
justified. Instead of being blind to
what was coming, it appears that
even hef&re New Year's JDay, when
the French Emperor gave overt signs
of bis wish to quarrel with Austria,
the British Government had descried
the symptoms of coming troubles, —
had counselled Austria to do all she
could for the improvement of the
internal condition of Central Italy ;
and informed her that, in tbe event
of war. Great Britain would not help
her, but would . strictly maintain a
118
The Change qf Ministry —Wltot next ?
[July,
position of neatrality.* In accord-
ance with the astute policy of the
French Emperor, he had invited
Lords Palmerston and Clarendon to
Gompidgne in December last, and,
when there, had, we doabt not,
flonght to talk over both of them
into approbation of his meditated
intervention in Italy. Lord Palmer-
ston— the ostentatious approver of
the coupd*etat and the author of
the Oonspiraey Bill— testified his con-
tinued devotion to Louis Napoleon
by adopting his ideas on this occa-
sion also, and now openly advocates
them in the British Legislature.
Lord Clarendon appears to have
thought differently. He made no
appearance whatever against the
Ministry on the 8th June, and not
improbably--like another Whig diplo-
matist, Lord Normanby — he entirely
dissents from that approval of the
Napoleonic policy which finds favour
with Lord Palmerston. However
that be, certain it is that, on return-
* ing from Oompidgne, Lord Clarendon
felt it to be his duty to apprise Lord
Malmeebnry of the suspicious projects
entertained by the French Emperor,
and in which it had been attempted
to secure his own complicity. In
despatch No. 5, addressed to Lord
Cowley at Paris, Lord Malmesbury
(Jan. 10) thus alludes to the communi-
cation made to him by Lord Claren-
don, and earnestly deprecates any re-
course to arms : —
" FoRBiow OmcK, Jan. 10, 1869.
"My Lord, — Her Majesty*8 Govern-
ment have heard from your Excellency
vriih deep concern, that the state of the
relations between the French and Aus-
trian Courts is of a nature so unsatisfac-
torj, that in your own opinion, and that
of the public of FrL..ce, it might at any
moment lead to a still further and more
fatal estrangement The speech of the
Bmperor to If. Hiibner, on New Tear's
Bay, increased the general alarm, which
has extended to this countiy. . . .
''Her Majesty's Gk)vemment must
state to your Excellency that, in the
evident ill-humour displayed recipro-
cally between France and Austria at this
moment, they can conceive no great
national question or interest involved
which can reasonably cause such a feel-
ing. No portion of the territoiy of
either is threatened by the other; .no
commercial privileges are asked or re-
fused by either ; no point of national
honour is at stake in either country. . .
''I am aware from the conversation
which Lord Clarendon held lately at
Compile with the Emperor, and
which his Lordship repeated to me, that
&is Imperial Majesty has long looked at
the internal state of Italy with interest
and anxiety. It may be, although I
have no reason for believing such is the
case, that he imagines that in a war with
Austria, and having Sardinia as an ally,
he may play the important part of the
regenerator of Italy. If so, the treaties
of 1816 must be effaced, for such a re-
distribution of territory could not be
effected without the consent of the par-
ties to those treaties. But those com-
pacts have insured to Europe the longest
peace on record, and, in the opinion of
Her Mijesty's Government, still answer
their original purpose in maintaining the
balance of power.
*'I would not^ however, have your
Excellency believe that Her Majesty's
Government are indifferent to the just
discontent which affects a large portion
of the Italian populationsi. Yet it is
not in a war between France and Aus-
tria that their relief is to be found. Such
a war may bring about a change of mas-
ters, but assuredly it will not give them
independence, and without indepen-
dence, hberty is hopeless."
Having earnestly impressed these
wise views npon the cabinet of the
Tuileries, Lord Malmesbnry (Janu-
ary 12) wrote an equally explicit
declaration of opinion to our Ambass-
ador at Vienna. In that despatch he
says: —
"Your Lordship will frankly tell
Count Buol that, should such a struggle
as we deprecate be the result of the pre-
sent estrangement between Fiance and
Austria, England would remain a neutral
spectator of the contest . . .
'* Her Migesty's Government, sympa-
thising, as they unquestionably do, with
the siSferings of the Italian population,
would gladly lend their best efforts to
produce an amelioration in the existing
state of things. Bat they know that
such amelioration can never be effected,
with any certainty of permanency, by-
war. It may produce a change of mas-
• The correspondence is only given from the beginning of the year, but thfs
previous correspondence is referred to and described in despatch No. 8 of the pub-
lished series, addressed by Lord Kalmesbury to our ambassador at Vienna.
1859]
Tke Changs of Ministry^Wliat next ?
119
ters, but it wUT not confer independence :
St maj, perhapa, contribute to the eleva-
tion of some fortunate individuals, but
it will insure the diflorganisation of the
whole Bodal system, and indefinitelv re-
tard the material improvement of the
Italian population.
"On the other hand, Her Majesty's
Government entertain but little doubt
that if Austria and France — the former
an Italian, and both Boman Catholic
States — laying aside mutual suspicion,
were to join heartily with a view to pro-
mote, by peaceful means, the regenera-
tion of Italy, their combined ii&uenoe
would speedily effect a change in the
present unhappy state of affairs, and
contribute to establish confidence be-
tween rulers and their subjects. . . .
"As the common friends, then, of
both parties, and as sincerely desirous
of the welfare of the Italian people, Her
Miy'esty's Grovemment entreat the two
Imperial Courts to lay aside their ani-
mosities, and to act in peaceful concert
for that important object''
Could anything be more master-
ly and statesoianlike than theee de-
^atches addressed to the two iotend-
iog belligerents? Bat obserye. In
his speech against the Ministry Lord
FalmerstOD roundly and repeatedly
charged them with having patronised
Austria and menaced France. ** Their
idea was," he said, **that if they
could only hold langnaffe hostile to
France and Sardinia, and patronistog
towards Anstria, they wonld pre-
serve peace.'' The despatches, wbich
were to be immediately laid before the
House, and are now published, prove
that the charge which he maae so
noscrupnloasly has not a shadow of
foundation. The despatches prove
that the British Goveroment pressed
moderation upon the Austrian Gov-
ernment quite as much as upon the
French;, so much so, indeed, that
the Austrian Minister complained
that it was not right to bear so
hardly upon Austria, a power whose
only wish was to keep out of war.
Lord Loftos who communicated the
above dispatch to Count Buol, thus
describes what followed : —
"Count Buol expressed himself as
fully sensible of the kind and friendly
motives which had moved her Majesty's
Government to offer their advice and
counsel at the present critical moment,
and he appreciated the cordial and shi-
cere interest which they evmced for
Austria. But he could not conceal from
me his fears, that the opinions set forth
hi your Lordship's despatch might pro-
duce more harm than good if these same
views and opinions had been likewise
expressed at Paris and Turin. ' In fact,'
said his FiXcellency, *I regret that you
have read that despatch to me ; I regret
also that it has been written. I^' con-
tinued Count Buol, ' you wish to preach
peace and to prevent war, address your-
self with firmness to France and Piedr
mont We are not meditating war ; we
shall not be the aggressora Tell the
Emperor Louis Napoleon that Great
Britain will not passively look on if his
Majesty should commence hoetiUtie&
Say to hun that should he take such a
course it will be at his own risk and
peril. On the other hand, warn King
Victor Emmanuel that Kngland will not
sanction an^ act of wilf^il aggressioii,
undertaken m full peace, by Piedmont
against Austria. If Great Britain is pre-
pared to hold this language^ no war will
arise."'
Indeed, so fkr from the French
Government considering itself men-
aced bv any threats of British in-
terventioo on the side of Austria, it
appears that, on the outburst of war,
the Cabinet of the Tuileries actnally
applied to our Government to co-
operate with it in the struggle I A
more arrogant piece of hypocrisy was
never actol even in the history of
diplomacy. Lord Malmesbury's re-
ply (May 5) is so full and masterly a
statement of the views and policy of
the Government, that we regret its
length forbids us to quote it at length.
We can only give the noble EarFs
ooDclosioos. He says : —
"Viewing iapartially the conduct of
both Austria and Sardinia in regard to
Italy, and lamenting most deeply the
spirit by which both have been actuated,
her Majesty's Government can, never-
theless, have no doubt as to the course
which it befits them to pureoe in the
present emergency.
" The British Qovemment have always
recognised as a sacred rule of intema-
tion^ obligation, that no country has a
right authoritatively to interfere in the
internal affairs of a foreign State, or,
with a sound policy, long withhold itf
acknowledgment of any new form of go-
vernment which may be adopted and
established, vrithout territorial usurpa-
tion or absorption, by the spontaneous
widi of its people.
120
The Cfliange of Ministry —What next ?
[July
" The British Government have shown,
for a long series of years, how steadily
they have observed these principles, arid
ihey eerioMy cannot depart from them en
the present ocoaaion, . . .
** The Government of (he Emperor of
the French appears to anticipate that^ not-
withstanding the abhorrence unth which
her Afajesty^s Government contemplate
the coming war^ and the vahie which
they attach to the principle of non-inter-
ference, they wiU yet 6« brought to co-
operate widi France on (he present occa-
sion. The Imperial Government has
had too many proofs, of late years, of
the anxiety of the British Government
to act together with them in all mea-
sures calculated to lead to the general
advantage of nations, to suppose that It
is otherwise than with sincere regret that
her Majesty^s Government feel themselves
preetuded, by every consideration, from
associating themseHives with fVance in the
present struggle. They believe that that
struggle will be productive of misery and
ruin to Italy, aud, so far firom accelerat-
ing the development of freedom in that
country, will impose upon it a heavier
burden of present ruin and future taxa-
tion. . . .
" The aimost tmanimous feeling of the
JBritish nation at this moment is one of
disapprohatum of the present war, and
an anxious desire to avoid any concur-
rence in its progress. . . .
"Her Majesty's Government will watch
with the utmost attention the various
phases of the war; and if an opportunity
should present itself for {heading the
cause of peace and recoDcilia(jpn, they
will not wait to be invited, but will at
9nee tender themsdves as meobiators, in the
sincere hope ^lat their offer may be ac-
cepted and lead to peaee,^
And on the previous day the Fo-
reign Secretary thus repeated his
annoancenent to the Court of Berlin
of that policy of strict oeatrality
which the British Qovenmeot was
reeolved to adopt :—
** As ihr as England is concerned there
are no immediate interests which neces-
ritate any direct action on her {not, and
her Majesty's Government feel it to be
fteir duty to maintain a strict neutrality
hetwee'h e be Oigerents. This is also the
f^ing of the people of England, said it is
obvious that any other course at present
. would tend to complications which can
* feiroely yet be foreseen."
These despatches entirely rebut
Lord Palmerston's charges against
the late Ministrv, and place the new
Premier himself in a dilemma frooa
which he will find it difficult to e3e-
tricate himself. They prove th«t
ever since December, wfa^n Palmer-
ston was closeted with Louis Napo-
leon at Gompidgne, the British Min-
istry were alive to the impendiag
danger, and exerted themselves to
the uttermost to ward it off. '* Cer-
tain it is," wrote Lord MaUnesbnrr
on the I3th January, "that botb
France and Austria, are looking foi^
ward to and preparing for the day
when their armies shall stand ia
hostile array against each other on
the plains of Lombardy." Th^y fore-
saw the storm while as yet the cloud
00 the horizon was no bigger than a
man's hand, and before last year was
ended they were at work to prepare
for it So masterly are these de-
spatches of Lord Malmesbury, that he
who runs may read in them the er-
cellenoe of the foreign policy of the
late Ministry. Their publication has
at once brought down the whole scaf-
folding of calnmdes by which the
Whig chiefs climbed back into power.
Even the Times, devoted to Liberal-
ism though it be, makes frank and
free admission of ^is, and renders to
the ex-Ministers their meed of praise.
''The correspondence to which we
now have access," says the leading
journal, '* dissipates one illusion. It
is now perfectly clear that the war
which France is waging against
Austria is no sudden and upforeseea
struggle, precipitated by imprudence
or wounded pride on either side.
... It cannot be doubted by any
one who reads these papers, that Iks
extension of French influence by the
expulsion of the Austrians from Italy
is a settled policy of the Second Em-
pire^ and was resofted upon ^ prior to
and independent of any recent de-
monstrations in Italy,'* ♦
In this opinion we entirely concur.
It is preasely what, four months
ago, we gave reasons for believing to
be the case. A warlike intervention
in the affairs of Italy was a fore-
^ne conclusion with Napoleon IIL
It was the same also with Sardinia.
Before^ Istof Januaiy the BriUah.
* See leading artide in the Ihnes of 14th June.
1859.]
Ihe Change of Miniatry^What next 7
121
GovOTomeDt felt it neoeBBary to re-
monstrate with Sardiota oa the war-
like spirit which its Kiog and Mia-
iflten were fostering, and which coald
have bat one object and eod-^^ rap-
ture with Austria^ Oo this point it
18 well to give the vondict of a fiaa-
tral or anti-GonservatiTe anthority of
each emineDoe as the leading jonr-
naL The Times (Jnoe 14). in an edi-
torial article on the Italian despatches,
thus narrates and comments : — ** As
it appeared to her Majesty's Ministers
— and, indeed, to the world generally
— ^tbat Victor Emmaoael was dis-
posed to make the discontent of his
aeighboars a pretext for extending
his own possessions, Sir James Hod-
800, under the directions of Lord
Malmesbary, remonstrated strongly
with the Sardinian Government. * To
this both Gonnt Oavonr and the Kins
replied that no cause of offence had
been or would be given b^ Sardinia
to her neighbors. His Majesty added
that the political horizon was threat-
ening, bat, as far as he was concerned,
the House of Savoy would pursue its
old coarse of loyalty to its engage-
ments; and while he regretted cer-
tain matters in a neighboaring State,
he had no hesitation in saying that
neither intrigue nor revolution would
ever be countenanced by his country.
Count Cavour said, that if people ex-
pected that Sardinia was going to
declare war they were likely to be
disappointed.' So much for Royal
and Ministerial assurances. While
the K ing was declaring that he would
countenance neither intrigue nor re-
volution, the marriage of his daughter
had been arranged, and the enrol-
ment of refugees from every State of
the Peninsula was about to begin."
This duplicity, we regret to say, was
quite in keeping with the act of
treachery by which the same Govern-
ment oommeooed its attack upon
Aostria in 1848. When Napoleoo
UL, who had himself been carrying
on extensive military preparations
for some time previously, chose to
make it a subject of complaint to
Lord Cowley that Aostria was re-
inforcing her troops on the Sar-
dinian frontier, his lordship made
the very natural and cogent reply,
that he " could not forget that in
1848 Goant Buol, being then Aus-
trian Minister at Turin, received the
most solemn assurances firom the late
Kiog, Charles Albert, that there was
no intention of attacking Lombardyi
whereas, when his Majesty gave these
assurances, orders had been actually
expedited to the Sardinian troops to
march and pass the frontier. It was
not astonishing that a Government
of which Count Buol is a member,
with a recollection of this act of
treachery, should take care that Aus-
tria was not again surprised.*'*
The project of this Italian war waa
first sketched out when Count Ca-
vour visited the French Emperor at
Plombieres last autumn; and the
pear seemed ripe, and the arrange-
ments were oonsummated by the
marriage of Prince Napoleon with
the Xin^ of Sardinia's daughter, in
the beginning of the present year.
Immediately after, and in consonance
with the former of these events, the
French Government commenced to
make demands upon the Court of
Vienna in regard to the affairs of
Italy — as soon appeared, not with
the object of obtaining a peaceful
solution of the problem, but m order
to find pretext for a rupture. " The
matter stands thus," wrote Lord
Qovfl^y, describing the state of mat-
ters when he went to Vienna —
'* France had made certain proposi-
tioDs to Austria, to which counter-
propositions had been offered ; but
Austria had never been able to ob-
tain the opinion of the French Go-
vernment upon these latter. She
had more than once asked for that
opinion ; and it remained with the
French Government to take the next
step.'^t But Napoleon III. would not
take that step ; and the aversion of
the French Cfovernment from any
action in common with Austria, in
order to efl^t reibrms in Central
Italy and the Pope's dominions, was
deariy expressed by Goant Walewski
in one of his interviews with Lord
Cowley. It better suited the Mae-
chiavellian policy of Napoleon III. to
prepare for war, than to oontinae the
' See the blue-book, despatch Na 24. f Despatch 106.
122
7%« Change of Ministry'^Wkat next 7
[July.
negotiatioos which it lay with him
to resume.* And an open rapture
might actaally have ignited imme-
diately, if the BrittBh Government
bad not promptly, and with masterly
tact, interpoeed, by directing Lord
Oowley to obtain f^om the French
Emperor a categorical statement of
hi8 demands, and thereafter proceed
to Vienna in the interests or peace.
Anstria had no motive for war. Her
whole circamstanoes and interests
coanselled peace. Self-defeoce alooe
would compel her to draw the sword.
Every statesman in Enrope knew
that ; and her conduct was in ac-
cordance with it— as these despatches
show. The following extracts give
the gist of Lord Oowley*s accoont of
his mission to Vienna :—
"TiiiarA,JrafHsA9,186S.
" My Lord, — ^Being on the eve of leav-
ing VicDDa on my return to England, I
am about to give your Lordship in this
despatch a general summary of the re-
sults of the oonfldential missiou with
which I have been charged. ...
"Count Bttol has shown throughout
the discussions which I have had with
him a sincere desire to avoid the extremi-
ties of war, and to meet the wishes and
advice of her Majest.v*s Government, as
fiur as he thought he might do so without
compromising the national honour of
Austria I may add, that similar feel-
ings were evinced by the Emperor. . . .
[After stating that Count Buol assent-
ed at once to the proposal for the evacua-
tion of the Papal States by the French
and Austrian forces^ Lord Cowley pro-
ceeds :J ** With respect to the reforoas of
administration to b« introduced into the
Roman States, Count Buol expresses him-
self willing either to resume the negotia-
tion which had been commenced with
the French Government upon that sub-
ject in 1857, but afterwards allowed to
drop by that Government and not by
bim, or to fiUl back upon the recom-
mendations made by the five Powers to
the Pope in 1831-32.
" 1 come now to the fourth point men-
tioned in your Lordship's instructions—
namely, the abrogation or modificataoa
of the Austro-Ittdian treaties of 1847.
Even on this point, on which Austria is
naturally more sensitive than any other,
I leave Count Buol not only prepared to
act with moderation and forbearance with
regard to the actual execution of those
treaties, but disposed to examine whe-
ther they may be replaced, with the con-
sent of the other contracting parties^ by
some other combination, which, while
relieving Austria from the necessity of an
interference the responsibility of which
is fully felt, would not risk the chance
of the Duchies becoming a prey to revo-
lution and anarchy. . .
"Count Buol said that Austria re-
spected the right of all sovereigns and
nations to model their own institutiona
There was much of which he could not
approve in the oonatitotion of Sardinia^
but he had never attempted to interfere
with it On the same principle he bad
refrained, and would still continue to
refbain, from all intervention in the in-
ternal affairs of other Italian States.^ . .
" Before quitting altogether the sub-
ject of the separate treaties, I may men-
tion that Count Buol considers the secret
article in the Austro-Neapolitan treaty
of 1816, which binds the King of Naples
not to alter the institutions of the king-
dom without the permission of Austria,
to be a dead letter. . .
*'I have the satisfaction of adduig, in
conclusion, that great as is the irritation
which, it cannot be denied, exists at this
moment against the Emperor of the
French, the Emperor of Austria and lus
Gk)vernment would accept, with a sincere
desire to bring them to an honest con-
clusion, any overtures for a reconcilia-
tion with France, the acceptance of which
would not be incompaUble with their
honour.**
Oould Austria have done more
than this? Was not Lord Oowley
right to be satisfied with the conduct
of the Coart of Vienna ? In fact,
everything that the French Emperw
demanded or conld demand was con*
ceded. Lord Cowley's mission was
entirely successful. And if it was
rendered of no avail, tiiat was purely
* Louis Kapoleon would neither resume the negotiations, nor yet allow the
British Government officially to interfere *' Her Majesty's Government,*' wrote
Lord ^almesbury to Lord Cowley, *' offered the co-operation of this oountiy, as &r
as it oould be afforded with advantage, for bringing about an improvement in the
social condition of Italy. To the sincere regret of her Migesty's Government—^
regret that has been increased by subsequent events— Count Walewskl informed
your Excellency, on the 14th of January last^ that he did not thmk the moment a
favourable one for executing their purpose.**
1859.]
ITie (Aangt of Ministry^ What next 7
123
ind entirely tbe doing of the French
Emperor. He was bent upon war ;
and when thui canght in the net of
peace 80 tkilfally worked by the
British Government, he immediateljf
eonght a pretext to escape from his
own pledges and professions. . He
found pitifal refage in the proposal
for a Congress, made by Bossia ;
and which proposal, the Bossian
Government now informs ns .(see
Prince Gortschakoff's circnlar) was
made ^ in order to tmet the ufUha
ef the French Gwernment /** So
tbe game went on. France threw
all obstacles in the way of ne-
gotiations, and Sardinia continoed
her policy of provocation — doing
BO to tlie length of violiting her
treaty with Anstria, and bon-
stitating a caerts belli by openly en-
rolling Austrian deserters in her
army. For several yean past Sar-
dinia has been cmahing herself with
taxes in order to engage in this war
o( aggrandisement Already her taxa-
tion amounts to the enormous pro-
portion of 54 per cent of the annual
wealth of the country ; whereas in
Modena (one of the states which she
is going to iiberate by incorporating
with herself I) the proportion is not a
tenth of that amount, or only 5 per
cent What the financial pressure
on Northern Italy will be after the
expenses of this war are added to its
present burdens, is frightful to con-
template. Poor Italy I '^ever the
slave of thoee who make her free 1"
"It was an evil hour for herself
and for Europe," wrote Lord Malmes-
bnry when the war broke out, '^ that
Sardinia lent herself to dreams of
ambition and aggrandisement, and
forgetful of the little sympathy thown
in 1848 by the Milanese lor her cause,
and their ingratitude for her gallant
actions, she has provoked the war in
which she is now engaged. By
violating her treaties of extradition
with Austria ; by fostering deserters
from her army ; by rallying in Pied-
mont the disaffected sptrits of Italy ;
by menacfaig speeches against the
Austrian Gk>vernment, and by osten-
tations deolarationa that she was
ready to do battle as the champion
of Italy against the power and influ-
ence of Austria, Sardinia invoked the
storm, and is deeply responsible to
the nations of Europe. Her Ma-
jesty's Government saw this danger-
our policy with apprehensions which
have now been realised, and they
cannot forbear from remarking that
the first and immediate effect of the
war which it has caused has been the
suspension of constitutional govero-
ment'itt Sardinia itself."
If there be 6ne man in this conn-
try responsible for the present war
— and there is one — that man is Lord
Palmerston. By the sentiments
which he ^pressed, and the politi-
cal blunders which he committed,
eleven years ago, he prevented a last-
ing solution of the Italian question
then, and sowed the seeds of future
war. Why did not so tremendous
a convulsion as the Italian revolu*
tion and war of 1848 lead to a per-
manent settlement of the afikirs of
Italy ? Why were so many thou*
sands of lives wasted then, and why
bso much blood and treasure being
sacrificed now ? Chiefly because,
eleven years ago, Lord Palmerston
threw atoay the golden opportunity ;
an opportunity not merely within
his reach, but absolutely placed in— >
nay, eagerly thrust into — his hands.
And yet he would have none of it I
He blundered, and the hour passed ;
and when his eves at length opened
to the truth, and he implored to have
the opportunity back again, he found
that his own folly and insensate pre-
sumption had put it for ever beyond
his reach. As the dread sequel of
that folly and presumption, we have
the present war. Let us recall thoee
iiusts of 1848. At that time France,
torn by internal revolution, could
take no part in the struggle going on
in Italy. Enghind, free and strong
at home, was mistress of the situa-
tion. She alone could interfere with
decisive effect in the contest between
the Italians and Austria : her power
was so acknowledged that she held
in her hands the scales which weigh-
ed the fortunes of both parties. At
the height of the contest it needed
not the landiuff of a single red-coat
regiment on de Italian shores — it
needed not the blockade of a single
port of Austria or of Sardinia. The
poeition of England, as related to
that struggle, was omnipotent She
had but to speak the word— if that
124
77ie Change of Ministry— What next f
[Joly,
word were spokea at the rii^ht time
— and her will was law. Yet when
the golden opportanity was offered
to her, pressea upon her, Lord Pal-
merstOD pot it aside. At the very
outset of that contest, when the vast
military strength of Austria was stiU
nnimpaired, and when not a whisper
of iDsarrection was yet heard in loyal
Hungary, a special message came
from the Court of Vienna to Lord
Paimereton, offering to place at his
disposal the entire kingdom of
Lombardy if England would inter*
pose as mediator in the strife.
Then indeed might the Italian ques-
tion have been settled. But after
ten days* delay, his lordship replied
that his Government would not in-
terfere unless Austria would consent
to give up Venice also ! The Aus-
trian Government, which then held
the whole Venetian ground with a
fine arniy and impregnable fortp, re-
fused. If they were to lose everything
by the fortunes of war, they could not
possibly lose more than Palmerston
80 presumptuously demanded. In
despair of meditation, Badetzki was
ordered to draw the sword : in a few
weeks the Sardinian and Italian
forces were driven like chaff before
the wind ; the old warrior dictated
his terms within a march of Turin ;
and the Italian question stood again
as before. In vain did Lord Palmer-
ston then implore Lord Normanby
ionr ambassador at Paris) to get the
French Government to persuade
Austria to repeat the offer which she
had previously made to him. Aus-
tria had been forced by Palmerston
to brave the. risks of war ; she had
braved them, and had won, — and the
golden hour for mediation was past.
We now know what his lordship's
deliberate blunder has cost Europe.
*'It is impossible,'' said Sir James
Graham, speaking a year after the
event, ''to say what has been the
effect of that act of the noble Vis-
count. My belief is, that the insur-
rection of Hungaiy was the conse-
quence, and, what I regret as much
OS any man, the intervention of Bua-
sia— the interference of that country
to crush the Hungarian insurrection
having thus been rendered necessary.
. . . And has the noble Viscount pro*
moted the cause of Italian liberty by
the coarse he has pursued T Pieo-
mont was twice in one year at the
mercy of the invading army of Aus-
tria. Rome is in possession of the
French army. Lombardy is under
the military rule of Austria. Venice
was reconquered. And we cannot
forget the daring exploits in Naples,
which the noble Viscount was so
anxious to uphold."
Sidney Herbert, the new Minister
of War, was another fierce critic of
Palmer8ton*s Italian policy in 1848 ;
and as Lord Normanby and others
who then supported Lord Palmerston,
have been forced to declare against
him now, the best wish that can be
formed for the new Premier is, that
he will get on better with his old
enemies than with his old friends I
It was not, therefore, merely the de-
votion which Lord Palmerston has al-
ways shown to the French Empenv
that pointed him out to the latter as
the best agent for bringing round
the British Government to favour
this French intervention in Italy.
In 1848 Lord Paimereton had offi-
cially stated, when applied to by
Austria, that the Italian question
must be left to the arbitrament of
the sword ;* and not yet three yean
have elapsed since he made a naval
demonstration against Naples, which
proved not only an offence, but a
laughing-stock to Europe, as the
French Emperor reduced it to a
mere abortive parade. Napoleon
IIL, with his own plans for the
future already chalked out, wished
to get the British Government com-
mitted to the principle of armed in-
tervention in Italy, but had no in-
tention that such intervention should
* In a despatch to our Ambassador at Vienna (August 1848), Lord Palmerston
then said : — "I have to say that a question so important in itself and so mixed
up with national feeling and with traditional policy as the question whether Austria
shall or shall not retain a portion of her Italian poesessioDS, has seldom been
decided simply by negotiation and without an appeal to arms ; and it seems now
to have become inevitable that the fortune of war must, to a certain degree at least,
determine the manner in which this question between Austria and the Italians is
to be settled.''
1859.]
The Change of JUinistry^What next 7
125
then take pkoe--8eeiDg that /or Mm
the pear was not yet ripe ; and that,
moreoveTi he parposed that all the
glory and advantage of such inter-
TenUon shonld accrue to France, to
the ezdnsion of England. Palmer-
•ton has gone all lengths to favonr
this second Napoleon. He showed a
culpable haate in congratulating the
JDictator after the covf-d' etat ; and in
n^leeidy expressing his earnest ap-
St)val of that even^ he did what no
ritish minister was entitled to do,
and what no other British Minister
woald have done. Again, at the Con-
gress of Paris, did not Lord Palmer-
aton's envoy, and the representatives of
France, withont any wamiog, sign a
treaty compelling Belginm to modify
her free press according to the de-
mands that might be made upon her
by the Government of France ? A
most despotic measure, by which
Napoleon III. and Lord Palmer-
ston consummated their entente cor-
dials at the expense of the law of
nations. A pretty pair of Libertv's
champions I Tlie Conspiracy £lili
was a natural sequel to such con-
dact : and if that ** sacrifice " also was
not made to propitiate the French
Emperor, it was no fault of him who
was then, and again is, the Pre-
mier of this free country. It was
by no accident, therefore, that, when
Napoleon had matured his plans for
the present war, he sent for Lord
Palmerston to Compi^goe, to secure
once more his powerful assistance in
cajoling the British nation. How
faithfully his Lordship has acted up
to his engagements there made, is
written in all his actions— alike in
his speeches and in his intrigues —
during the last ten weeks. His
policy 18 not neutrality even in words.
He makes no secret of his enmity to
Austria, and his love for Napoleon.
" 1 hope the Austrlans will be driven
out of Italy before the year is done,"
he says. And at the same time he
derides the idea that we have any-
thing to fear from France, and in-
vites us to accept as the basis of our
future policy an unhesitating reliance
upon the good intentions of the
ESecond Napoleon. Is this a^man in
whose hands the fortunes of England
can be safe 7 At such a crisis in the
affaira of Europe, and when the true
character of the Napoleonic policy
has at length begun to manifest it-
self, can the British nation give its
confidence to a statesman who, both
by bis past policy and recent pledges,
has so closely nnited himflelf with
the French Emperor, and now openly
eulogises the policy by which the
latter is paving the way to ulterior
designs? For the last six months
Napoleon III. has been counting upon
the accession of Lord Palmerston to
Sower ; and the French journals
ave never ceased to clamour for this
event, as the best thing that could
happen for French policy. Barely
two months ago, when the elections
in this country were jost concluding,
the Fays, (Prince Napoleon's organ),
in one of its castomary assaults upon
the Conservative ministry, rejoicingly
expressed its hope that Lord Pal-
merston would soon be again in
power, and that he would "repair
the fault '* committed by his prede-
cessors. « Everything," it continued,
** seems to lead to the opinion that
the return of Lord Palmerston to
power is near at hand ; but we will
speak of him as freely as of his
antagonists, and say— 'What great
or good thinjp; can a Whig Minister
come to perform, unless it be to re-
pair the fault committed, by the
Tories?' . . . A Whig Minister
may in a few days save the Continent
from a dangerous crisis, strengthen
the alliance of France and England,
and calm Eorope with a word. If it
is not for this great and noble end
that Lord Palmerston desires to re-
gain power, we cannot understand
his ambition." We hope the Brit-
ish nation will understand his
ambition too. It is on no slight
ground that Lord Normanby now
withdraws from the Minister with
whom he so long co-operated, and
earnestly warns the country, **Do
not place at the head of the Govern-
ment a Minister who has expressed
sentiments inimical to rights which
we have ourselves by treaty con-
ferred." The author of the Conspiracy
Bill has made many sacrifices of the
national honour and interests to pro-
pitiate the Emperor of the French;
and now he demands this one propi-
tiation more— that the free heart end
justly aroosed spirit of the British
The Change of Minitiinf^WhiU next 7
126
Dation shall fold thensdres op in
blank apathy and accept himself
again as Premier.
This new Coalition cannot last It
contains within itself the seeds of its
own speedy dissolnUon. The two
years which, to its own great detri-
ment and hnmiiiation, the nation ac-
corded to the Coalition of 1852, will
with this new Coalition be consider-
ably shortened. The Bossian war was
the natural coneeqoenoe of the former
Coalition : who can folly tell what
will be the ultimate conseqnenoe of
the present one ? When Lord Derby
was expelled by the Liberal factions
in December 1852, the Czar Nicholas
rejoiced, sent his coogratnlations to
his ancien ami the Premier, and be>
^an to get his troops in hand for the
invasion of Tarkey. When the fac-
tions again triumphed, three weeks
ago, the French and Russian am-
bassadors openly rejoiced as they de-
scended from the gallery of the House ;
and Louis Naf>oleon has already,
doubtless, sent his congratulations to
the author of the Coospiracy Bill on
his restoration to power. But the
British public regard the new regime
with coldness and suspicion. The
new Ministry, it is true, are liberals,
and their predecessors were Con-
servatives; but it is something
deeeper than party-politics that now
occupies the mind of the nation. On
[July, 1859.
the memorable night of the 10th
ultimo, when the Ministry had been
defeated and the House was breaking
up— even at that late hoar crowds
thronged every avenue to the House ;
and for whom did those crowds re-
serve their special marks of fiivoor!
Disraeli, the fallen Minister, the
representative of the defeated Gov-
ernment, was loadly and warmlv
cheered ; while Lord John BusseU
was hiipsedl The time has gone by
when the public will be blindly led
by party-names; and a critical period
has commenced in the history of this
country, when the nation will refuse
to tolerate the triumph of heteroge-
neous iiEU)tions at the expense of Uie
public good. Lord Derby retires
from office honoured by an eztraordi*
nary mark of his Sovereign's favourt
and two others of the Cabinet have
been justly distinguished by unusual
proofs of the Boyal esteem. The
country ratifies that verdict of ap-
proval. The Factions triumphed by
a stolen suocessL The Ministry was
expelled without being heard. Bat
the truth is already becoming better
known ; and we are confident that
ere a year elapse the Coalition will
have ended in disgrace, and the eyes
of the country will turn again to the
Conservative chiefo as its safest
leaders in the hoar of danger.
S«WVt.A, OE KING'S EVIL,
is a oonstitutional ^sease, a oomxption of the blood, by which this fluid becomes vitiated, weak
and poor. Being in the circulation it pervades the whole body, and may burst out in disease on
any part of it No organ is free fixim its attacks, nor is there one which it may not destroy.
Tlie scrofulous taint is variously caused by mercurial disease, low living, disordered or unhealthy
food, impure air, filth and filthy habits, the depressing vices, and, above aU, by the venereal in-
i otion. Whatever be its origin, it is hereditaiy in the constitution, descending " from parents to
children unto the third and fourth generation;" indeed, it seems to be the rod of Him who saya^
' I will visit the iniquities of the fathers upon their childr^i.''
Its effects commence by deposition from the blood of corrupt or ulcerous matter, which, in the
lungs, liver, and internal organs, is termed tubercles ,* in the glands, swellings ; and on the am-
tiioe, eruptions or sores. This foul corruption whidi genders in the blood, depresses the energies
'if lilb, 80 that scrofulous constitutions not only suffer firom scrofulous complaintB^ but th^ have
ikr less power to withstand the attacks of other diseases; consequently vast numbers perish by
disorders which, although not sorofolous hi their nature^ are stiU rendered fhtal by this taint in
the system. Most of the consumption which decimates tiie human fhmily has its origin directly
in this scrofhlous contamination; and many destructive diseases of the liver, kidneys, brain, and,
indeed, of all the organs, arise l]rom or are aggravated by the same cause.
Oqo quarter of all our people are scrofiilous; their persons are invaded by this lurking infec-
tion, and their health is undermined by it To cleanse it from the system we must renovate the
bl.xxi by an alterative medidne, and invigorate Jt by healthy food and exercise. Such a medi-
cine we sapply in *
cohfouhd extract of sassafabilla,
the most effectual remedy which the medical skill of our times can devise for this everywhere
prevailing and fatal malady. It is combined from the most active remedials that have been dia-
i.overed for the ezpux^gation of this foul disorder from the blood, and the rescue of the system
fri ra its destructive consequencea Hence it should be employed for the cure of not only scro-
fila. but also those other affections which arise fh>m it, such as Eruptive and Son Diseases,
St. Anthony's Fzsb, Boss, or Ertbipblas, Pihfles, Pustules, Blotches, Blains, and Boils,
Ti MORS, Tetter, and Salt Bheum, Scald Heap, Ring Worx, Bheuv atism, Stphilitic and
Mercuelil Diseases, Dropst, Dyspepsia^ Debilitt, and, indeed, all Complaints arising
*'KOii VmATED OR Impure Blood. The popular belief in '* impurity of the dtood" is founded in
rath, for scrofula is a degeneration of the blood. The particular purpose and virtue of this Sar-
uparilla is to puril^ and regenerate this vital fluid, without which sound health is impossible in
antiminated constitutions.
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: tliLve propertiefii the uivalid who is bowed down with pain or physical debility is astonished
0 ti!;d his health or energy restored by a remedy at once so simple and inviting.
Not only do they cure the every-day complaints of everybody, but also many formidable and
>i iiiLrerous diseases. The agent below named is pleased to furmsh gratis my American Almanac,
niainiDg certificates of their cures and directions for their use in the following complaints .
C (ienessy ffear&naj^ Beadach^ Stomachy yausea, Indigestumj Fain in
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:!aints arising from a low state of the body or obstruction of its fhnctions.
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LA(;KW'6ot)'S
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Vn nrvvT
AUOrST, J Mil,
Vot. LXl
COK
"Rtt tc(at or 1*.^ -P^it VI
t«Aiii» or TO* KswEitAn
FnjiaTA,— I
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iiwij lij «;Gr mitnPt^ tiu^in i£. lU j^Mttiii
BLACKWOOD^S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. DXXVI.
AUGUST, 1869.
Vol. LXXXVI.
U>iri>ON KXHIBinOl^S— -COMFUOT OF THS SOHOOLa.
Thb serene heaven of Art i» rent
asunder by dyil war. The walls of
London Exhibitions are now, as it
were, the battle* field upon which is
foogbt out the ambition and the oon-
flicdng theories of hostile schools.
The times in which we live are criti-
cal. This present moment woold
seem, indeed^ the turning point whence
either promised hopes may meet with
true fulfilment, or threatening fears
lead to still worse disaster. Much
probably, however, will depend upon
the praise or the censure which the
public voice shall award to the works
submitted to its verdict. For our-
selves, we can fortunately confide in
the cakn judgment of the educated
people of this country, whose final
and collective opinion, now at the
close of the London season, has been
already sufficiently pronounced. Who
has not heard tlie exclamations— we
had almoBt said the execrations — of
the eager crowd of curiosity gathered
round the gaunt gravediggers of Mr.
MilUus? In like manner, we believe,
such works as the ^* Return from
MarstonMoor," by Mr. Wallis— "Too
Late," by Mr. Windus— and "The
King's Orchard," by Mr. Hughes-
have for three long months attracted
curioiuty only to incite disgust or
proToke to ridicule. Again we re-
peat we have full confidence that the
VOL. LZZXVI.
verdict of the British pnblic will be
pronounced on the side of sobriety,
sanity, and the modesty of nature.
For a while the multitude may be
misled. Wild eccentricity— even the
unaccustomed strangeness of gross
mannerism — may for 'th4 moment
attract the public gaze, but in the
end we again find devotion centre
round the names which have loi^
been worshipped — admiration again
revert to those works of the old true
English school, which admits of pro-
gression while it decries revolution,
and is now and ever content to walk
humbly with nature, and submit to
the teachings of an ancient wisdom.
Thus, after the sensation of a not
unpleasing paroxysm, does the mind
again revert to its accustomed haunts
— «eek gratefnl repose in the grey
stiUness of a Oreswick landscape, or
find recruited health in the breezy
spray of a Stanfield shore. In com-
pany, too, with Mr. Roberta, we de-
light to row on the canals, and visit
the palaces of the sea-girt cily, now,
as in days of old, ere 7%e SUmes
qf Venice had reared their phantom
forms, and with mirage vapourings
misled the world. The world of na-
ture and of human nature is ever
new, and yet ever old ; and thus the
corresponding world of art ever wan-
ders into new phases, and then asain
9
128
London Exhihitian$^ Conflict of Hu SchooU,
[Aug.
reverts to aecafltomed paths. We
have wandereil, indeed, widelj and
wildly ; aod now, if we mistake not,
the ever-reoorring reaction will onoe
again set in. As critics, it now be-
comes oar duty more carefnlly to
mark the ebb and the flow of the
warring tide, and especially to keep
good gaard over those great land-
marks and beacons which have so
long and so well served for goidance
and saved from shipwreck.
The Boval Academy for the past
season will, in fatare years, be held
iUustrioas for a mediocrity among
the mnltitade, redeemed onlv by a
startling eccentricity among the row.
Year by year we again deplore the *
absence of some of the greatest names.
It is now long since Sir Charles East-
lake has adorned the walls of the
Exhibition by that tender yet qaeen-
like beanty, cangfat from the clime of
Italy and the art of Venice. Madise,
for the present year, enten an ap-
pearance only by a small and unim-
portant work, "The Poet to his Wife,"
— "what a heaven on earth we'd
ittake it! '* Herbert, engaged on his
great commission for the Houses of
Parliament, givee earnest of a coming
master- woi^ only in a heartfelt study
of" The Magdalen." In like manner,
Ward, more full^ engrossed by his
laboun at Weetminster, finds time to
s^d to Trafalgar Square but one small
yet faultless work. Frith recruits
himself with leii^ure after his great
labour of "The Derby," and pays
but minor tribute to art and litera-
ture in the small yet speaking por-
trait of "Charles Dickens in his
Study." Webster is wholly absent,
and Mulready is not at his best ; and
thus is it that portraits "of a gentle-
man," pOTtraits " of a lady " — ^tributes
to vanity, wealth, and mere position
— ^nsurp the place of higher art, and
give to the Academy more than ever
Uie aspect of a shop. Great works
doubtless there are, which must fall
under our detailed examinadoa, at-
testing ^hat our good old English
school has been and still is. Mon-
strous works, likewise, will call for
our special notice plainly but sadly
showiug to what excess of follly the
new school has fallen — ^to what dire
results felse doctrine has betrayed
men onoe rich in healthfbl genius.
From the Academy of oils to the two
Galleries of water-colours the tran^-
tion and the contrast is agreeable.
Mr. Buskin probably, is the only man
in England who, on entering these
two Exhibitions, could venture to
assert that "the Water-Colour So-
cieties are in steady descent." He is
naturally the only man who desires
to see the extravagance of his own
special views pushed to a consistent
and uniform absurdity. On the walls
of the Academy, year after year, he
lovingly dotes over the childish de-
tail, the puerile conceits, the distem-
pered colour, and the morbid &ncy,
which, under his fostering care, have
at length reached the utmost limits
of endurance. From this merciless
persecution of the eye loving tran-
quillity and decorum, refuge may
still happily be found within the
more sheltered retreats of water-
colour art. Even the French, strange
to say, can teach us lessons of mo-
deration and propriety. We shall
presently ask the reader to step into
the small galleir of French art, if
only to show that the best colour
is often the most subdued — ^that the
greatest strength may yet be found
in the simplicity of repose — the near-
est approach even to the infinity tX
nature in a suggestive generality and
a pervading breadth. Never wss
there a time when English art was
so distracted. Every Exhibition is
as a house divided against itself.
The conflict of schools, the dvil war
of opposing parties threaten the em-
pire of Art with hopeless anarchy.
For ourselves, we will not declare
peace where there can be no peace.
We proclaim a war, we preach exter-
mination by the sword against those
enemies of all that is lovely in art,
who have ruthlessly mutilated the
fair form of beauty, and drsgged it
through the dirt.
Let us seek, however, if only for a
moment, the blessed repose of peace
as we contemplate the works of
honoured men s^ill content to dwell
in the sobriety of simple truth. Eng-
land, a gem of gentlest ray set in an
emerald sea, an Eden of green fields,
and shady paths, and happy homes,
has ever given to English art her
heritage of the sylvMi landscape, her
empire of the stormy sea. Mr. Cres-
1B59.1
Lo/ubn Eih$bUion$-'Coi^ia qf the SohooU.
189
wick in bis "Coming Smnmer,*^ a
ri?er ford, a nutio wooden bridge,
cattle in tbe eool stream, a- Tillage
ebnroh and farm nestling in tbe trees,
gires OB onee more tbat quiet peaoe-
All natnre wbicb lies so near to oar
best affections. ''Under the Old
Bridge,** too, a sketoher's and a fibb-
er's hsont, ivy-grown, tree-embower*
ed, pebble-strewn, is anotber example
of that simple and nnadomed truth
which puts to shame the gaud and
the mannerism of masters eager only
for notoriety. Mr. T. Danby, like-
wise, a name honoured for the father's
sake, claims a landscape deservedly
bung full upon the Hne^ belonging to
the old and the good sohocil, coming
in direct descent from the now much-
ttbused OUmde Lorraine. ^ Hills and
Dales in Wales," a calm retreat, shot
out in solitude from the clamour of
the crowded world, a scene of un^
dulating heights rich in the golden
robes of autumn, placnd in the gentle
glow of evening sky, trees gracefully
symmetrical, slumbering in the twi-
Hght of the sinking sun, casting soft
shadows, in which peaceful sheep
repose, maka together a simple yet
beanteous pastoral, which speaks of
the love which dwells in nature.
Of Mr. Lee, a name not without
honour, we would say little. His
^ Bay of Biscay," a large pretentious
work, claiming attention chiefly by
its size and prominent position, has,
in its feeble literal handling, in its
opaque and leaden colour, nothing in
comoion with the dash and the roar
and the i^ory of an Atlantic storm.
In his ''Coast of Cornwair' again^
we have nature in action and motion,
treated by a painter emphatically
vrithoat emotion— « fhiitless attempt
to build up grandeur out of an inr
finity of feeble laborious detail ; one
example, among many, of a man who
has lost the cluiraoteristics belonging
to bis original manner under the old
school, without gaining as a recom-
pense that illusive imitation which is
the boast and the privilege of the
new. Mr. Witherington must like-
wise be classed among the Academi-
cians who belong to the past. His pic-
ture of '' Wharfedsle," like the works
of the last-named psinter, shows
natnre in a certain garb of academic
propriety, with ail that is unruly and
rough tamed down to the sober lim-
its and lines of careftilly-balanced
landscape-gardening. One of the
greatest evils incident to the present
management of the Boyai Academy
is the prescriptive right possessed by
every member, whatever be the merit
of his pietnres, to the choicest places
upon the walls of the Exhibition, ex-
dudinff men and worlu who rightly
claim honour and distinction.
We can boast of no artist more
thoroughly English than Mr. Stan-
fleld— so vigorous in ftiand, so manly
in sentiment, so wedded to ooesn lira
of stormy wave and rocky coast
His (ttctore of the year, "A Maltese
Xebec on the Rocks of Procida," the
island and castle of Ischta in the
distance^ has all tbe characteristics,
of his better works. The dashing,
foaming sea, the shipwrecked crsA
driven upon the rocky shore, storm-
clouds hurrying across the sky,
gulls buffeting against tbe wind, the
castle hanging from the rock, the
snow lyins upon the distant moun-
tain, are elements of the grand and
the terrible, as when natnre enacts a
tragedy. But tbe ways of nature are
so manifold, the walks of an so
diversified, tnat we place no restric-
tive limits upon sut^jeot, manner,
or treatment 8tanfield is admirable,
but fortunately, after all his labours,
natnre is still unexhsusted. Out of
her infinite store cunle the storm and
tbe calm, the grey of morning, the
glow of sunset; each man, according
to his vision or his need, takes and
appropriates all that he can ; and
yet nature, like the infinity of space
or tbe boundless realms of time,
lies still betors the artist and the
poet, offering new and exhaustless
treatiure. Thus is it that year after
year, on entering our Exhibitions, we
eagerly seek wliether any new and
gifted man has opened tor us a fresh
delight, penetrated more deeply into
untold mysteries, caught more of the
pathos, the Joy, or the sorrow, which
dwells in evening skies or autumn
glow. A National Art, we take it,
as a National Chnroh, shunning all
sectarian narrowness, must embrace
every aspect of the truth, and each
phase of varied intellect a National
Art must be broad as the universe,
progressive as science, expuuive as
J
130
London SMbitunu-^Corflkt of the 8ehooh,
[Aug.
civilisation, ▼aried and manifold as
the workings of the horaan mind.
We rejoice, therefore, when fhmi'
time to time new schools arise, and
nnaccnstomed phenomena tell of some
iresb development. If we admire a
Olaade, a Ponsein, or a Salvator Rosa
of apast age, we wonld not se^ to limit
onr modem men to those days of com-
parative ignorance and inexperience.
Even in art, we stand npon the shoal-
den of the Past, and can now see at
least faHher, if we do not always act
better. The once narrow sphere of
art, at all events, is widened. Madon*
naa and Holy Families are no longer
the limits of the sacred and the lovely
in human natore. The whole field
of history, with its noble deeds of
patriotiffln and valour, all tiiat In
man is great or in woman is gentle,
mav now be brooght within* the
widened embrace of modem art
Thns that fresh schools shoold from
time to time arise, we hold to be in-
evltalde. That conflict and battle
should ensue, we believe to be but
tiie condition* of progresdon. Only
of this one thing let us be zealous,
that in the battle now raging, troth
may not be worsted.
We shaU have occasion to show
that reputations have been already
wrecked, and that the present course
of events threatens with 6irther dis«>
aster. Yet we believe it must be
admitted by all candid observers,
that the new school has been produc-
tive of some benefit. £ven the pre-
sent Exhibition, given up to extra**
vagant excess, contains some works
of comparative moderation, marked
by that trathfnl, close study of nature,
which n^cessarilv brings commensu-
rate reward. The works of the two
younger Linnells will perhaps be re-
ceived as the most favourable ex-
amplea of that laborious detailed
study of nature, which now goes
strangely under the name of pre-
Baphaeutism. They offer to the world
a result somewhere between nature,
the nre-Baphadites, and the works
of Mr.'Linnell their father. From
nature they take their subject, from
the pre-Raphaelites an excess of de-
tail not actually to be seen; and
from their father, a golden lustrous
colour. Thus do they love to paint
the golden ^^ Harvest," fields ripe and
heavy with the waving com gathered
in bv peasantry, set Ifke lustrous
Jewels in among the clustering
sheaves. Different in subject, but
allied in richness of colour and close-
ness of study, are the works of Mr.
Hook, taken fN)m the field or flood.
Hie subjects or compositions have all
the accidents and casual incidents of
unpremecHtated natare. A rural lane
. in Devon, crossed by a rustic bridge,
flooded by a running stream through
which a erased cart is rattling and
jolting, — such are the topics which, by
dose study and rich colour^ he works
up into glowing pastorals. Then,
again, he takes to ocean, launches
firom Clovelly shore the mde fishing-
boat, rowed by the strong arm of
hardy storm-beaten tars, through the
fbam of an emerald sea sunned by
rainbows. Incidents the most com-
mon, and subjects the most homely,
are thus, by admirable painting and
richest harmony of colour, wrought
into poetic ardour and intensity.
Two other works also claim a passing
notice as favourable illustrations of
the close study of nature which gives
to the present phase of our Eng-
lish school its surest promise. Mr.
Knight*s *' Barley Harvest on the
Welsh Coast" is certainly among the
more praiseworthy works executed
under 'so-called pre-Raphaelite in-
flaence, careful and trathfnl through-
out; the detail of rock, field, and
wave kept duly subordinate to an
unobtrusive general effect We re-
oogni^ likewise in Mr. M^Callum's
" Monarch Trees of Windsor Park,"
an accuracy and firmness of drawing
till recently but seldom found within
the province of landscape art.
The study of nature is of course the
only sure basis u[jon which art can
rest, the only certain condition of a
healthful progression. Yet it will
always be a question of some doubt
and difficulty how the infinitude
which is in nature shall be brought
within the limits of a canvass, how
the multitudinous detail of lear and
herbage, or the illimitable vastness
at earth and sky, the might of the
passing storm, the power of the dash-
ing wave, shall be brought within the
inanimate surfiice of a f^w square
feet or inches. The very difiiculty,
not to say the impossibility of the
1859.]
Londdn SMbUiong^Cw^i&t 0/ ths SekooU.
181
task, has proTerUally led to a bold
eompromise and samnder. Arthaa
thus in all ooontriea and in all Umea,
under the oonsdonsaeee oi abeolate
inability, renoanoed the pretension
to illo^Fe and literal imitation,
taking refuge in the grand breadth
of a sweeping shadow, and trusting
for the most part to a dexterous or
generalised execution for the 8ug<
gestion of an impracticable detail*
This, we say, has been the uniform
the(H7 and practice of art in all
ages and countries. But now in
these latter days baa arisen a strange
and unheard-of attempt, which dalma
consideration, on the one hand, by
its conscientious effort, and on the
other by its mischievous, not to say
ridionloua, results. Mr. Brett^s ^^ Yal
d^Aosta" is the latest and most
astonishing attempt made in this di-
rection. Mr. Brett, we may presume,
is a ^tproUge of Mr. Rnslun. Hia
picture of last year, **The Stone-
breaker,'' obtained in the Note$ the
special praise due to " the most per-
fect piece of painting.*' " If," says
Mr. Buskin, ^* he can paint so lovely
a distance from the Surrey downa
and railway-traversed vales, what
would he not make of the chest-
nut groves of the Yal d'Aosta! I
heartily wish him good speed and
long exile." Accordingly, in the
inresent Exhibition, Mr. Brett as-
tounds the world by mountains and
obestnuts taken from this chosen
**Val d'Aosta," a work' which the
laureate of pre-Raphaellte art greets
with these words: ^^Yes, here we
have it at last— some close coming to
it at least — ^historic landscape, pro-
perly 80 called — landscape-painting
with a meaning and a use." *^ His-
toric landscapes" indeed I An art of
aa much dignity as the labour of the
drill- plough, or the plodding of spade
husbandry, with its dotting-in of
seeds and its digging of furrows. A
mosaic of chopped stones, straw, and
rubble; a wor^«d-work tapestry of
" stitoh-stitch-stitcb," " work- work-
work," ^^ till the heart is sick and the
brain is benumbed, as well as the
weary hand." '^Yes^ here we have
it at last ;" all that is small and in-
aignifioant, moss-grown^ dew-dotted,
needle-pointed ; chestnuts growing on
the distant trees, whioh yet you may
gather with the outstratehed hand,
.a vineyard lying down the valley-
slope, where you may count pde for
pole; a man in black breeches and
white shirt tilling an arable field at
half a mile^s distance, dotted in so
sharp and near that yon are sure he
would willingly walk into the fore-
ground, and thence out of the pic-
ture, did you but call or beckon. Yet
after all this heartless drudgery of
weary days and flagging months, we
would ask Mr. Brett whether he sue-
oeeded in putting in one- tenth of' the
leaves on every tree, one^twentieth
part of the herbage wherewith nature
clothes herself without thought or
toil Did he not feel himself defeat-
ed even on his choG»n groond; and
that nature, were it not for compas-
sion, would have disowned him for
her ownt But it would appear that
the mercy of leas faithful man already
fails him. With some heartlessneea
of cruelty, even Mr. Ruskin can de-
clare that the work is ^^ wholly emo-
tionless." His kind patron bid him
seek long exile in Italy, and then,
when returning with his accomplish-
ed task, the bard labour of weary
hours and days and weeks, endured
under the burning sun, in the driving
rain^ or the buffeting wind, at once
he is wdcomed by the rebuke, this
" is mirror's work, not man*s" work.
Yea, assuredly. How could it have
been otherwise? You sink your
artist into a drudge, a mere machine
to copy and manufacture. Take the
work, then, such as it is, and be con-
tent But for mercy's sake say not a
word of the artist's soul. That, of
course, from the first you have re-
solved to saerifioe. In art there are
two kinds of labour, the one of head,
the other of hand. You have chosen
the small stippling handicraft, the ac-
knowledged refuge of mental weak-
ness you have contracted for your
picture by the square inch; and com-
mencing in the furthest corner, you
will find so many thousand or ten
thousand dots in the square fi>ot.
You must take the work for what it
is worth, and only be too thankful
that it is not atill worse. You have
made your choice, and henceforth
have nothing in common with the
man of passion, who sweeps in the
broad ahadow of the passing storm.
182
London EaMnUon$^€mfiiot ^ tke SekooU.
[Aog.
Too are wide at the world amnder
from thoee giantR of large lool and
mighty hand, who, Uke Michael Ad*
gelo, hewer) Titona from the solid
rock; or, like Salvator among the
tempest^toet Apenoine^, or Tintoret
in the Tsat ceilings of St. Rooh, threw
npon oanTsas with rapid haod the
grandenr and dramatic intensitj of
roonntain and rook, sea and sky.
TraiD up a school to feehle serriiity
of hand, and these master-strokes of
nature are heyood your reach.
The same melancholy tale is told
in other works. '*The King's Or-
chard," hy Mr. Hughes, is one of
the saddest examples of intelleot
prostrated, and sound common-sense
turned to ridicule, which has ever
come within our notice. Apole-blos-
soma for a landscape, and dolls for
the figures, may well convince Mr.
Buskin that one man at least has
rightly understood the purport of his
teachings. Thanks, we preeume, to
this manly tuition, the painter has
here given us an art hoplessly emas-
culate ; silks and velvets dotingly dot-
ted with purposeless detail ; child*
hood lifelessly lying on trunk of tree ;
youth crippled upon knees maunder-
ing mawkish music. This is the
noble art which has at length heeu
'secured to our English school; this
the fitting exponent of tinsel words
and bauble eloquence— childhood
hopelessly chiklisb — impotent in body
to play or to sport, and in mind inoi«
pient of idiotcy.
It is with deep regret that we have
to record still another reputation
wrecked in devotion to a cause which
has this year betrayed its votaries
into even more tban accustomed ex-
travagance. Mr. Wallis, honoured sa
the painter of the ^* Ohatterton,*' has
now dishonoured both himself and
his cause bv the ^^ Return fh>m Mar-
ston Moor.*^ This artist, with otbers
of his school, would seem to hold that
genius is best shown in the trans-
gression of the limits and the laws
which all previous genius had hitherto
observed. The story and intention
of the picture are undoubtedly simple
and heartfelt. The return of a worn
and wounded knight to home and
annous parents; the eager attitude
of the father rising to meet the son's
approach; the homeish housewife
mother, fhe model of domestic solici-
tude, are sufficient to show what
power of expression is within this
artist's reach, did be but soberly
follow the simplicity of nature. The
imitation of nature which was once
the watchwarti of the school, is here
seen in colour the most outrageous,
and detail absc^utvly impossibia The
blaae of a sunset sky, red, green, and
saffron yellow, the knight^s features
gory with blood, or glowing from the
heat of battle; roses and flowers of
brazen face and staring eye, verily
blind the sober vision, and darken
and dazxle by excess of light. In in-
finity of detail the work ia not less
distracting. The father's beard Is
counted hair for hair; the swallow
swooping down with swift flight is
vet painted with all the detail of
beak, eye, and plumage ; pigeons are
cooing on the distant oovecot; a
barn-door fowl is crowing between
the stirrup of the rider and the
horse's leg, and thus from centre to
furthest comer is every inoh crowded
with incident, till the picture, like a
drop of Thames water is seen in the
oxyhydrogen microscope, is amaaing-
ly wonderful, but monstrondy dis-
agreeable.
There are other works — ^^Too
Late," for example, by Mr. Windns,
and ^The Burgesses of Calais**—
which might challenge our criUotsm,
did time permit. We must, how-
ever, at once hasten to the pictures
of Mr. Millais— the ''Vale of Best,*'
and ^'Spring" — ^which, even after the
nDtorious '^Sir Isumbras'* and his
wondrous wooden horse, have taken
the worid by k fresh surprise. '^ The
Yale of Best" of the present year is
undoubtedly a work of power, but it
is the power of repulsion ; it attracts
attention only to repel sympathy.
The crudest green of a grass-grown
churchyard; the unmitigated Mack,
conflicting with the chalky white of
the nuns* attire ; the two nuns them-
selves, the one inveterate in labour,
the other desperate in ugliness,— con-
stitttte that high success which is not
to be distinguished from the depth
of fiulnre. In the churchyard itself
is a certain black solemnity, in the
whole scene a shuddering horror:^
the b1ack«white dress, the dirty face
of the nun shovelling away the
1859.]
London SMbiUom^^Oot^idt ^ the SohooU,
188
murky mould of d«oay«d mortal-
ity; the oompanion nan, seated on
tombstone, with olasped hand« and
mask-like fiioe, as of a deathVhead
sknll, with large waodering eyee^
fading no rest even in this Tale of
rest; nnna which seem in robosti
radeL msssiTe health and vigonr,
fitted to win heaven by physical as-
saalt,— these certainly are sufficient
claims to attract ronnd this astonnd-
ing work crowds of canons gazers,
who hasten with esger cariosity,
pause in marmnring dismay, linger,
and then at length steal away with
horrors of memory not to be wiped
oat This desperate attempt, whdch
insults good taste and outrages all
established osage — ^which is painted
with a mde, coarse, and slovenly
haste, as if meant for. a designed n>-
yersal of former careful years of
study — ^retains yet some casual re-
miniflcenoe of better days. The
sapphire of the eveniog sky, in
which a purple cloud silently floats;
the darkness of solemn trees, which
stand aa moaroing mates around the
abode of death; the earnest intent
of the grave- digging nun. throwing
out the death-lf3en moald with the
earnestness of daty, as the servant
who, ia George Herbert^s poem,
swept a room to the glory of (tod, —
these are the only remnants of that
genius which obtained recognition in
the painting of *^The Hogaenots"
and '' The Cider of Release."
** Spring" is the second work in
which Mr. Millius has condescended
to arrest attention by the rain of his
previous reputation. Spring— yes,
spring with a vengeance — in the
rank growth of orchard grass, in the
heavy profusion of apple-blossoins;
spring in the budding, pouting,
flowery youth of eight voung maid-
CDS decided with garlands, Janketing,
standing, kneeling^ lying, in every
possible posture of awkward unrest
and ill-bnmoured discontent. We
have often beard of truth vomu
beauty ; but that even being now a
worn-out novelty, a new surprise is
sought in the overthrow of both
truUi and beauty conjoined. Apple-
blossoms of fourfold their natural
size — an execution in which consci-
entious labour seems designedly set
at naught— are strange protests com-
ing from a man who, in bis picture
of ''The Huguenots," devoted, it is
said, three months to the painting of
a brick wall. That avowed despisers
of beauty should at leoffth degene-
rare into devoted disciples of ugli-
ness, is perhaps not so surprising.
Yet for so bold and so bald an expo-
sition of the theory, few probably
will have found themselves prepared.
Hair moulded of ruddy sand, lying
lank upon the shoulders as dishevel-
led rope-ends; features without fonu
or delicacy; lips poutingly pettish,
re-produoed in eight examples of this
remarkable family, constitute a sis-
terhood deliberately dedicated to the
ungraceful.
witii these two desperate works
we close our notice of a school which
year by year taxes the public taste
to the utmost limito of endurance.
Starting, some seasons now gone by,
with all the aspects of a hostile yet
united schism from the old esta-
blished faith, we now find at length
internal division reigning within the
narrow limits of its communion. On
the one hand we have seen certain
men still servilely prostrated and
bound down to the mere letter and
dead detail of a miscalled nature,
wholly losing its larger spirit, and
forgetifal of that greater life and
glory which rule wiUiin the elements.
This is the school of apple-trees and
cherry-blossoms — the mere dotting-
in of primroses, blue-bells, and fore-
ground flowers, at the dictation of a
critic whose service has at length be-
come an insufierable thraldom. We
protest against a tyranny which
year by year prostrates the strength
of our rising men, and has gone far
to blight the promise of our English
school Mr. Millais has, however, at
last broken loose from the binding
fetters, but with a reaction so despe-
rate that shipwreck threatens on the
further sliore. In this secession from
the bonds of the once sacred ** bro-
therhood," we see still further confu-
sion falling on the new school, now
left withoa t its leader. For oarsel ves,
in this reigning discord, we would
wish to inculcate the widest tolera-
tion. Nature, like heaven itself, has
room enough and to spare. Public
taste, too, is so Mridely various as not
only to tolerate hot demand genius
184
London EsikibitioM^Conftiet qf the JSchooU,
[Aug.
'the mo6t varioQfl, and art the most
diyeraified. Let every sohool of art,
then-^-every manifestation of honeftt
talent, both great and small — 1i?e and
prosper. But what we specially re-
gret is this — that men, manifestly
meant to embrace the universe,
shonld sell all that is great and
noble within their souls to a petty
paltry calling, in which the slowest
and the weakest intellects mast ob-
tain the greatest glory. What we
condemn most strongly is, that men
richly endowed as Mr. Millais, should,
to a mistaken and pretended truth,
sacrifice that earthly, nay, heavenly
beauty, which, under the sway of
graces and muses, and even under
the later revelation of angels, has
been ever the brightest heritage of
art.
For some years past, the strength
of the English school has been placed
on record, not upon the walls of the
Boyal Academy, but in the corridors,
the robing-roomrt, the ante-chambers,
and the Royal Gallery of the Palace
at Westminster. What tlie cathe-
dral of Milan, with its crowd of
four thousand statues, has been ^o
modern Italian sculpture, the new
palace at Westminster, with its sta-
tues of statesmen, and its grand
frescoes •commemorative of great
deeds in English history, will be-
come to our national school of art,
giving that imperial patronage which
has ever, through incited patriotism
and promised fame, stimulated the
artists of all times to their noblest
works. We learn from the reports
of the Royal Oommissioners that Mr.
Cope has received orders for eight
frescoes in the Peers' Corridor,
and Mr. Ward a similar commission
for the Commons corridor. Mr.
Dyce has already executed in the
Queen^s Robing-room frescoes taken
trom the legend of King Arthur, **The
Virtues of Chivalry," "Religion,"
'* Courtesy," Generosity," *' Mercy,"
— works which the Commissioners
have pronounced as *' altogether sa-
tisfactory, whether regarded in their
general treatment, or as exam()les of
the method of fresco-painting." In the
last report, too, we find this entry: —
** We propose," say the Commission-
ers, *^ to commission Daniel Maelise,
R.A., to paint in frescoe one of the
subjects in the Royal Gallery, at the
price of one thousand pounds." From
the seventh report we find that the
Commissioners intend to devote the
Peers' Robing-room to Scripture
history,- Thi* hall will comprise
three large and six smaller compart-
ments, two measuring 20 feet by 10
feet, the third measurmg 22 feet, also
by 10 feet; and the six smaller com-
partments 7 feet wide by 10 feet
high. "Your Committee," says the
report, "being desirous to vary the
proposed decorations, and conceiving
that Scripture subjects, as affording
scope Yor the highest s^le of dengn,
and as being especially eligible on
other grounds, should by no means
be excluded, considered that the
above-named locality, in which the
principal compartments intended for
painting are of considerable nisgni*
tude, would be well adapted for such
subjects. Your Committee w&te of
opinion that the illustrations should
have reference to the idea of Justice
on earth, and its development in
Law and Judgment, and that the
following sabjeots would be appro-
priate." These subjects embrace
" Moses bringing down the Tables
of the Law U> the Israelites,'* " The
Fall of Man," "His Condemnation
to Labour," "The Judgment of So-
lomon," and " The Vision of Daniel."
"From the lost report we learn that
the large cartoon for the first of these
wibjects, "Moses bringing down the
Tables of the Law," hfts been com-
pleted by Mr. Herbert, to " the entire
satisfaction" of the CommiseJioners.
In the ma^itude and importance of
these projected or already accom-
plished works, taxing the ener^es of
our best artists, the reader win find
sufi9cient explanation of the fact that
the Royal Academy, for this and
some previous yeari>, has not reflected
the strength of our Englieih school.
Yet never was there a time of
greater promise. A sohool hitherto
of small cabinet limits, subservient
to mere priyate domestic wants, will
now take a wider ranges Our artists
will be enlisted in the cause of our
country's glory; they will be called
upon worthily to record in painted
history those great deeds, those tri-
umphs of war, policy, or enterprise,
through which now at length, in the
1859.]
London ^thibitiond — Conflict iff tKt SchooU,
186
progression of the centuries, England
fin£ herself free io constitntion, great
in commerce and in wealth, rich in
all wherewith civilisation cap reward.
A task more glorious than thus to
emblazon a nation^s history and ho-
nour in the palace of a people's legis-
lation, has never yet incited painter'd
genius ; and henceforth it' will be seen
whether the school of English art can
rise to a dignity commensurate with
this duty.
But A ere are pictures fortunately
in the present Exhibition which dve
assurance for the future. Mr. Her-
bert's " Mary Magdalen," a study for
a picture of '* The Holy Women pass-
ing at Daybreak the Place of Cruci-
fixion," belongs to that earnest and
spiritual school from whence arose
the religious works of the middle
ages. It IS the grey of* the early
morning, and wit£ spices the holy
women pass the place of crucifixion
— deep sorrow, as of long watching
and weeping, is seen in swollen eye
and anguish- stricken mouth ; yet
grief has not marred a beauty which,
&ough shadowed, still sliines with
spiritual light. The careful and
serions work of Mr, Dyce belongs
likewise to the same earnest manner.
" The Crood Shepherd," carrying the
lamb in His bosom, enters by the
strait gate into the sheepfold. The
sheep follow in His steps> for they
know His voice, and are known of
Him. This work is fitly raised by a
severity of treatment and a spiritu-
ality of type above the ordinary
as(»ect and incidents of actual life.
The robes are long, flowing, and
stately, the head is high and noble
in form, the features are cost in the
purest spiritual type. It is an ideal
art, arising, like religion itself, from
an aspiration of the soul, seeking a
perfection not fhlly realized on earth.
Of the works executed by other
Academicians, more onerously en-
gaged, as we have said, elsewhere,
we must take some passing notice.
Mr. Maolise, -in "The Poet to his
Wife," gives some indication of his
accustomed merit and his well-known
mannerism. In Mr. Cope's " Cordelia"
we are treated to a refined drawing-
room picture of bright colours and
pleasing forms, where delicate beauty
is the type of innocence, and liquid
tearfql eyes the token of suffering.
Mr. Ward, too, in his small and care-
ful picture, " Marie Antoinette listen-
ing to the Act of Accusation," recalls
the remembrance of honoureii works,
and shows the full vigour of well-
known powers. Of other men it i^
scarcely necessary that we should
speak, just because nothing new re*
mains to be added to long-reiterated
commendation. Stanfield, Boberta,
and Landseer are among the esta-
blished institutions of the English con-
stitution, and we could only desire,
were it possible, that their essentially
British art could last as long as
British liberties. Of course Mr.
Stanfield is still master of the sea,
fearing no foreign invasion; Mr.
Roberts still rows his gondola at
Venice, as if no hostile fleet lay be-
yond the Lido ; and Sir Edwin paints
deer and dogs, knowing that no talk
of war can lessen the love for Eng-
lish sport. When to this we add that
the sheep and cattle of Mr. Cooper
still repose under the shade of trees
or in the glow of sunset; that Mr.
Frank Stone, ever ^oung in perennial
love, still indulges in the soft sickli-
ness of a lachrymose sentiment ; that
at least one painter has again kiduced
Milton to do accustomed duty in dic-
tating poems to wife and daughter.^
with all the variety of which the sub-
ject is now susceptible ; — when to all
this we assign even more than usual
s[>ace to portrdture — beauties at bal-
conies, statesmen at columns, ladies
with vases of flowers backed by hack-
nied background of ponderous cur-
tains, we have probably said quite
sufificient to enable the reader to
place himself iu the midst of an Exhi-
bition by no means remarkable for
unaccustomed merit.
Yet we are doing some injustice to
an Academy which, with all its short-
comings, must still be accepted as the
great event of the current year. The
names of Creswiok, Stanfield, BobertB,
and Landseer, of Ward, Maclise,
Cope, Herbert, and Dyce, have al-
ready been mentioned. Others yet
remain who have this year appar-
ently made some effort to surpass
themselves. Mr. Piokersgill exbiDits
two works of more than usual ambi-
tion, and more than ordinary success.
In the present material, literal, and
186
LonUn Eekibition9^0(mJlia of the SehooU,
[A.ng.
purely OAlaralifltic aspect of oar Eng^
iiflh tebool^ when every head mast
'be an actaal portrait^ and every
olgeot be marked by the literal
fidelity of a pbotogn^)h, it is almost
Inevitable that the more ideal and
imaginadve efforts of Mr. Pickersgill
should meet with some disparage-
ment. His "Warrior Poets of the
South contending in Song/' whatever
be its defects, is certainly one of the
most deliberate and suooessfu} of pro-
tests against the existing tendencies
of oar schoob. We hold it to be no
reproach that the rich, samptuons co-
louring of Venice, the sensitive and vo-
luptnoas beaaty of Giorgione, the De-
cameron Dicnlos of a poetic romance,
shoald nnd some sympathetic re-
sponse in the genias of England^
We can admire the painstaking
plodding of a simple art dedicated
to a cottage peasantry, but imagina-
tton also loves to revel in glowing
phantoms of an ideal beaaty, fair
maidens, luscious in the first blash of
glowing voutb, decked in the lustrous
glitter of richest robes, heads gently
bending to tbe sweet soand of song,
hands sensitive to the dying cadence,
and soft to the touch of amorous love.
This pictat*e, then, thoagh somewhat
conventional, belongs to a pleasing
poetic style, leading tbe fancy fi*om
the actuiU walks of daily life faraway
into the fabled land of song. Some-
what allied in school is Mr. Watt's
"Isabella,'* a refined poetic head — ^a
sufficiently dose nature stady ele-
vated to an ideal beaaty. Mr. Dob-
son ^s "Archers of Judah/' likewise,
thoagh not one of his best works, is
still commendable as belonging to.
that carefal school, not untnindfol
of Italian beauty and tradition, which
seeks for an elevation above the ways
of common life. Mr. Groodall, too, is
this year specially great, if not in the
manner of Italian art, at least with
the advantage of a well-chosen Italian
subject "Felice Ballarin reciting
Tasso to the People of Chioggia " has
been deservedly one of the chosen
favourites of the present season.
Felice Ballarin, with raised hand and
with somewhat of Italian fervour,
recites to eager listeners those echoes
which Byron tells us in Venice are
no more. There is unity of purpose,
yet every variety of chiU'acter, in the
gathered audience. The colouring
IS rich, as of a subdued lustre lighted
up by the sparkle of sunshine. With
all the pictaresqae advantages of
Italian costume, the quickness and
intensity of Itidian character, some
heads eagerly drinking in eveiy
thought, others gaping in stupid
won(ler, this work, without actually
rising to the highest rank, has yet
deservedly obtained the attention
due to a telling sulject skilfully
treated. The two southern penin-
salas have long been both the battle
and the sketching ground of Europe.
Whenever politicians need a griev-
ance, or pamters a subject, they have
long been accustomed to go either to
Italy or to Spain, where uey at once
find iust what they want. Tbus Mr.
Phillip takes us once again to tbe land
of flirting fans and witching eyes^ and
in his somewhat trivial and purpose-
less picture, " The HufE;" treats us
with two bouncing black-eyed Span-
ish beauties, sumptuously decked in
silk, and flowered shawl of wondrous
fringe and fabric. We only regret
Hiat perhaps the best bit of painting
on the walls of tbe Academy should
take for its subject trivialities of
dress ranking with the flounced
flutter of Parisian fashion.
But subjects pretending to a higher
purpose have not always tbe advan-
tage of painting and treatment equal-
ly dexterous. Mr. Egg's "K^igbt
before Naseby " is a brown leathery
moonlight wholly unconscious of tbe
silvery sentiment — a Cromwell on
his knees asking God, as we natur-
ally supposed, to save him from his
friends, including the present paint-
er. Our English art loves to dwell
on the picturesque accidents and
circumstances of religion, Instead of
reaching to its inward spirituality
or essence. In this it differs wholly
from the great religious school oi
Italy. It paints Covenanters on
Scottish moor. Pilgrim Fathers on
the distant western shore, throwing
in the shadowing sorrow of exile,
driven from a loved home, rather
than the brightening light of a new
spiritual life. Mr. Faed's "Sunday
in the Backwoods" is a most favour-
able example of this homeish senti-
ment hallowed into " practical piety '*
—A kind of Wilkie school of art
1869.]
London ExhXlAtiant^Chnfiiet ^ ike Sckooh.
18T
baptised into a sort of camp-meeting*
religion, piunted in a plain honest
vaj, heartfek and earnest, wiih a
practioal Seottish eye lookuig Joringlj
on the life which now is, while it
provides wisely for a life which is to
come. In English art the State
natoraHy goes bandin>hand with re-
ligion, and thos trial by jary has long
been part and parcel of the constitn-
tional faith and pictorial re«oaroes of
the British people. Mr. Solomon's
well-known picture of a past year,
•* Waiting for ifae Verdict," now
finds its final issne in the companion
work " Not Gailty." This picture,
sufficiently vigorous and telling,
sfaareis however, the proverbial fate
attendant on the continnataon of a
onco-told story. The mind wrought
into the threatening fear of a tragic
doom, the plot once marshalled for
effect, each repeated echo palls upon
the ear, and what ought to end
in climax necessarily falls into an
expiring decadence. The same fate
has Ukewise befallen Mr. O'Neirs
^ Home Again," the companion
picture to the "Eastward Ho!"
of the last season. The faces and
the figures which a year a^co clam-
bered up the side of tiie out-
bonnd ship, are here seen streaming
down upon their return. The tears
shed over the lost mingle with the
rapture of the welcome home. The
painting is vigoroos, yet both in
spectator and artist is wanting that
ardour which first inspiration gives.
In art, moreover, a creature of the
imaginatlun, th^ fear and the hope
of an untold ftiture are more potent
than the prescribed limits of a xnown
reenlt.
We have as yet made no mention
of a man over whose gentle memory
the grave has now oast its shadow.
Mr. Leslie's pictures of the present
year, " Hotspur and Lady Percy,"
and " Jeanie Deans and Queen Caro-
line," showed somewhat painfully the
growing weakness of waning powers.
He bad already reached his sixty-
fourth year, and declining health had
cast the pallor of a sicklied hue and
the feebleness of a faltering hand over
his later works. Fortunately, both
in the Vernon Gallery and at South
Kenainirton, in such pictures as ^^ My
Uude Toby and the Widow Wad-
man." " Sancho Panza," " Le Bour-
geois Gentilhomme," with other well-
known subjects, the nation possesses
works whose immortality lies beyond
the tooch of sickness or of death.
For refined sentiment pointed by
quiet satire; for gentle comedy
where the loud laugh seldom enters ;
for polite polished manners of studied
stately propriety, betraying yet some
pardonable weakness quietly to be
ei^oyed all alone by spectators not
whispering a word — for these delicate
subtleties of art the name of Leslie
will be long remembered. Let it be
remembered, too, that in thus de-
scending to amuse by comedy, he
could yet improve mankind in purity
and sentiment.
On entering the French Exhibi-
tion, we come npon a fresh nation-
ality, and are at once specially struck
with the sobriety, and we may
say propriety, of colour and effect
The French Exhibition, as contrasted
with our own Royal Academy, affords
repose for the eye, calm neutrality
of colonr, softness of outline merg-
ing into the haze of obscure dis-
tance, with, at the same time, a
total absence of the Millais school
of gravediggers, and Mr. Ruskin's
misMl-painterd of cherry-blossoms.
French art, however, of course enr-
braces the usual diversity of sub-
ject and of manner, corresponding
with the ever-varying aspects of
individual character and taste. The
Naturalistic school, for example, is
strong in such works as Brion's
*'Raft upon the Rhin^," and Mr.
Knaus^s ^' Bavarian Policeman ar^
raigning a Camp of Gvpsies." On
the other hand, the school of a re-
fined and ideal spiritualism will be
at least remembered, if now no longer
seen, in the works of Ary Soheffer,
an honoured name lost during the
past year from the ranks of French
and European art. High art is re-
E resented by M. Charles Louis Mul-
)r in a picture taken from the tra^c
&te of Marie Antoinette, an artist
still better known in Paris as the
painter of the grand historic plctcue
in the Luxembouig, ** The Summons
of Victims in the Reign of Terror,"
and yet more recently, by the execu-
tion oi a fresco ceihng in the state
apartments of the Louvre, commemo-
188
London J^nkibiHon»^0(ni^fi9ct of the Schools,
[Aug.
radre of the dawn and developineDt
of oiyilisation nnder the reign of
Obarlemagae and the dynasty of
Napoleon. Contnre, too, sends a
small copy of one of the greatest
pictures exeooted in modem timeS|
** The Bomans of the Decadeocci'' so
remarkable for its drawing composi-
tion, supreme knowledge, and skilful
treatment, in all of which the French
school is avowedly unrivalled. In-
light elegant subjects of the toilet and
the drawing-room, oft^ the mere ex-
cuse for silks, satins, and high finish,
Chavet's '» Ohess-Players," and Plas-
san's "Bouquet," attain perhaps, in
that department, all that can pos-
sibly be desired. The domestic hum-
ble walks of simple poverty cannot,
of course, be confided to better hands
than Edward Frere, whose '* Cut
Finger," and "Evemng Prayer," are
probably now as well known in Eng-
land as in France. In landscape
nature, Lambinet, an accepted Eng-
lish favourite, is equally rustic, unpre-
tending, and simple. And la^^tly
Leys, a name likewise honoured in
the arts, takes us, in his " Early Days
of the Keformation," fiir back into
the quaint heartfelt times of Van
Eyck and Albert Durer. Thus do
we 9ee that French art is a world
complete within itself, comprising
every aspect of thought sacred or
secular — a worlds of conflict and of
battle between opposing schools, all
growing up and nurtured together as
tares and wheat in one great field,
the evil warring against the good,
and all, it may be, working togethev
for some great end.
We have recently spent some
hours in the examination of the well-
nigh four thousand works by living
artists this year exhibited in Paris.
Some, after the traditions of the
French school, are monstrous in mere
magnitude ; mauy to the last degree
extravagant — a failing common to
French genius; others, of course,
without genius altogether ; and,,
taken for all in all, the present medio-
crity of French art under the 8e<K>nd
Empire contrasts with those days of
liberty, eloquence, and expansive
genius, when Guizot, Cousin, Ville-
main, and others, led the van of philo-.
sonhy and literature, and Delarocbe,
Scheffer, Ingres, with other men now
.no longer before the publifl, gave to
the French school of art a aupremacy
over Europe. Tet we must confess
that we never enter an Exhibition of
French works, even now in their com-
parative decadence, without being con-
scious of a vigour, breadth, and clever
versatility, which seem specially th^
gift of that nation. It may be said
generaU^ that the French succeed in
everything they attempt Horace
Yernet and Yvon paint pictures from
thirty to sixty feet lopg, while Meis-
sonier, Plassaq, and. Cbavet, concen-
trate their more detailed genius on
the high finish of a few square inches..
Even the small but select Exhibition
in Pali-Mall may teach our English
school many an unaccustomed les-
son. Strange as it may seem, we
may learn even simplicity from these
consummate masters of artifice. How
simple and unobtrusive are the hum-
ble works of Edward Frere, how sub-
dued and tender with the delicate
greys and dusky hues in which pov-
erty and the cottage home are fit-
tingly clad. Lambinet, again, who
has been claimed as a French pre-
Raphaelite—what gentle repose, what
heartfelt healing to the eye, in the
simple modest nature, in the retiring
bashfulness of shadowy greys, which,
in his small landscape pictures, seem
to uDbraid our modern English schuol
of skies as of a consuming firma-
ment, and figures as if caught from
the furnace of Abednego. Then we
pass from unconscious simplicity to
works of an afiectation peculiarly
French, somewhat between the art-
less and the artful; nature waver-
ing inconstantly from a semi- nude
simplicity of toilet, to the full-
flounced fashion of the drawing-
room. Anon in ever-varying mood,
seized by a fresh oapriqe, forsaking
epicurean elegance, a desperate
plunge is made into the wilderness
of rude untamed nature. In Brion^s
^* Baft upon the |lhine," for example,
we descend to the level of a lower
nature — men vigorous in arm, and
rough in garb, contending against the
elements — a work handled with a
certain slap and dash, marked bv
broad yet pointed character, with all
that reckless eflrontery of genius
which our more staid English pro-
priety seldom permits.
I860.]
London &h(bitum^^Cortftiot 0/ the Schook.
180,
The FreBob again, unlike out Eng*
Ksh school, are not alraid of a low-
toned picture. Leys' "Scene from
the Siege of Antwerp ^ ie shadowed
by the deep soletnnity of & Rembrandt
manner. Bnon'^s picture is dtisky in
the obscure grey of morning. Knatis^s
"Gipsy Encampment^' is sheltered
under the shade of trees, veiled fh>m
the piercinff eye of day, as if darkness
kindly shielded deeds which dare not
face the light And, lastly, Boss
Bonbeur's small bnt exquisite work,
^ Sheep '' bleating upon the sedgy
he^, is luminous in subdued light,
toned down to the modest sobriety of
nature. ** Early Days of the Reforma*
tion," by Leys, in many respects the
most memorable work of the present
season, may likewise teach a lesson,
and serre as a contrast to many mas-
terB in our English school. It is a
solemn low-toned picture, of shadowed
dusky colour, somewhat hard and
austere, purposely taking the specta-
tor back to the art of Albert burer
and the garb and the timea of the
German Reformation. Wiesseling,
the carpenter of Antwerp, is ex-
pounding the Scriptures to eager
listeners come together by stealth.
£?6ry countenance is marked by
coosdentions earnest truth-seeking;
an expression which is indeed car-
ried throughout the picture by the
artist's careful and truthful execu-
tion. It 18, indeed, both in art-
treatment and in subject, a work of
Christian humility. We stand in the
midst of good, unselfish, unostenta-
tious people, simply daa in modest
colours, as if they thought little of
the outward adorninff of the body,
steadfastly seeking to know the truth,
and henceforth to conform their
Uves according to its teachings.
What a contrast in the humble
subordination of this work to tlie
ostentatious and flagrant excess of
our English pfe-Rapbaelite pictures,
where eyeiy colour strlres to kill
and blind its neighbour ; where eyery
detail, instead of ba!^f\il1y retiring
into shadow,' protrudes its small con-
ceit. We haye found, then, that
French art is marked by^ moods and
manners which, to our JEnglish eyes,
at once pronounce the boundaries of
a foreign school. Of its thorough
and well-grounded instruction there
can be no question. In drawing It is
matchless, eyen in its rough careless-
ness showing unwonted power. In
action it has the facile moyement of
a people eyer restless fbr adyenture. .
£yen in its proyerbial abandon it
obseryes at least the laws imposed
by artistic effect Only in one thing
does it sin ^ost grievously. It pos-
sesses no conscience, knows no pro-
Eriety, and too often seelcs nom
atan a demon inspiration.
Water-colottr art may be considered
as a school standing apart from all
others. To French art it constitutes,
both in material and treatment, a
marked contrast Eyen after our
English school of oils, as represented
at we Royal Academy, the two gal-
leries of water-colour drawings afford
a quiet grateful retreat, where the eye
may rest from the perseculSon of
flery colour, whcore good taste is no
longer insulted by ungainly forma,
but reposes in iht satisfied enjoy-
ment of nature-loying beauty. At
the present moment especially it is
fbrtunate that in wateroolours it is
not easy to be so decidedly disagree-
able as in oils. Broad liquid washes
reduce to pleasing unity and well*
toned harmony; the fluently too
obtrusiye detail of modem oil-paint-
ing is foreign to a medium of trans-
parent colour chiefly relying on har-
mony and purity of tone and breadth
of general effect Thus, while the
confines of disgust are narrowed, the
power to please and to minister to
refined and delicate delight is with-
out limitation, gigantic size of sur-
fiice, colossal proportion of human
figure, are not suited to the material ;
and Just as the highest walks are
closed both to ambition and extra-
yagance, is the painter induced to
rely on the refinements and delica-
cies of his art, content to be simple
and beautiful and tranquil, to look
upon nature as a poem of tuneftd
cadence, musical and harmonious —
a song to the affbctions.
Of t^e New Sodety it is perhape
not necessary that we should say
much. We can only hope that our
readers are so well acquainted with
its merits as not to need our detailed
description. In the eye of criticism
^e Gallery is perhaps chiefiy remai^-
able for the somewhat too ambitiouB
;40
London &hibUi&no^OonJUet of the SohaoU.
[Aug.
painting of subleots whicti the paint-
en themseWes nave never seen. Mr.
Warren, for example, delights in twi-
light dreams among the Pyramids,
. which he has never visited. Mr.
Bowbothara, again, is ever and aooa
in imaginaiion orosdng the Alps to
paint the beauties of Italy, wbion yet
he has never seen with bodily eye.
In like manner Mr. Corbonid rejoices
in his gorgeons ^' Dream of Fair
Women,'* an impossible ideal which
not even bis imagi nation has actually
seized — figures standing in an inde-
finite somewhere between the region
of phantom ghosts, and the dummies
of lav-figures stuffed with sawdust
and shavings, all stippled up to that
last excess of finish in which intellect
finds itself annihilated. Doubtless
these works have all a merit which
will fairly secure them from oblivion;
but they belong to the style of a false
ideal, which, in the present conflict
of the schools, mnst either take a
timely retreat into natuitdism, or
save itself by soarinff into that true
and high ideal which demands both
closer study and wider generalisation.
The New Society of Water-Ck)loar8 is,
however, redeemed from the stigma
of tiie vaguely visionary bv such
works as those exhibited by Messrs,
Bennett, Oo6k, and Warren Junior.
The oaks, ferns, and forests of Mr.
Bennett, pore and transparent, free
from all intrusion of opiEique, have
long been known to all frequenters
of this Exhibition. Mr. Warren
Junior, taking up a somewhat differ-
ent line, is so minute and detailed
that his studied trees have been
taken for copied photographs. His
opaque colour is laid on in thick sub-
stance; and thus what he gains in
detail he loses in quality and tone.
His works, however, which are suffi-
ciently wonderfnl, merit all the suc-
cess which they have so fortunately
tbnnd. The ever-lovely drawings of
Mr. Oook now urge additional claim
upon our notice; they come before
us as his final leave-taking of the
jfoxW from which death has now
snatched him. It is only a few years
since fiist he came before the London
public, and at once claimed a favour-
able notice by the exquisite tone and
glow, the refined sentiment and
poetiy, for which his works have
always been oonsplcnoos. In ^e
present Exhibition his double ren-
dering of the same subject under
the contrasted aspect of *' The Close
of Day" and **8ommer Morning"— the
one glowing in golden sun^t, the
other grey in the early mist — have all
the tenderness and tone which can
well be won from the spirit that
dwells in nature.
The Gallery of the Old Water-.
Oolour Society, notwithstanding Mr.
Rnskin^s prononnced doom of ^*»tesdy
descent," is, we ttiink, admitted by
general consent to have been the
most satisfactory Exhibition uf the
year. It is remarkable for the onion
of those merits which we have al-
ready designated as belonging to
water-colour art, as well as for that
individual diversity which belongs to
men who enter upon the stndy of
natnre with l>old ii\dependenoe. On
looking round the room, for example,
we cannot discover that Turner, or
Prout, or Copley Fielding has left
behind a school of deliberate imita-
tors. Even Cox, so recendy lost
from the ranks of art, has no one tv
take his vacant place ; and Mr. Hunt
in his ''Bird's Kest and Primroses,''
and his ''Pine- Apple and Grapes,"
stands almost alone. This manly in-
dependence—more or less to be found
among all the exhibitors in this
Gallery— does not, we think, betray
any lurking taint of untimely deca-
dence. It is, indeed, perhaps the
chiefest fault of this almost perfect
Gallery that the migority of the men,
without either deiscent or marked
progression, are still doing from year
to year Just what they have always
done betbre. Mr. Topham is soft,
shadowy, and refined, giving us ex-
actiy so much of Spanish nationality
as is agreeable to English tastes.
Mr. Frederick Tayler is still among
Scottish mountains, lakes, and glenn,
wrapping his genius in Higliland
mists and clannish ttirtan. Mr. Cox
still, to the latest moment of his life,
washed and blotted and splashed in
greys, grandly but vaguely. Mr. Gas-
tineau soars ambitiously nmong the
tumult of sky and mountain. Mr.
Harding, with firmer hand and more
purposed knowledge, throws Alps.
into distance, and torrent boulders
into foreground, composing grandly
1869.]
London EdUbitiom — Oo^fiie^ of the Sohoolt,
141
with all the fDgeniona oontrivanoe
of a oonsammate workman. Aod,
lastly, Mr. RiohardaoQ at Sorrento,
in the bay of blue 8eas and lateen
Bails, and convent summits, is ever
perennial in the snnny poetry of the
South.
The picture of highest intent is
Mr. Burton's "Widow of W6hlra,"
kneeling upon oh arch floor, prayer-
book in hand, the little daughter of
childlike innocence and bean^ by
ber side. The manner is evidently
closely founded upon the early Flem-
ish school of Van Evck. The draw-
ing of the head and hands, the cast
of the drapery, the whole attitude
and purpose, indicate severe and care-
ful stuav. Though small, there is
not another picture of the year which
can assert stronger claim to the high
dignity of art Then for subtle bar*
mony of colour, turn to that work
of exquisite delicacy and refinement,
"The Pet,*' bv Mr. Alfred' Fripp.
How daintily do mother and child
and goat trip along the mountain
path ; how the blue of distant sky and
mountain, the golden autumn brown
of heath-strewn ferns, find a hanno-
nions response in rustic peasant,
so that mountain, sky, heath, and
figures are all blended into harmoni-
ous concert of delicate and delicious
colour. Among the few works which
we can stop to mention, Mr. Duncan's
"Life-Boat^' must not be forgotten.
It is a scene of that clash and crash of
elements wherein life and death are
contending for mastery — the wreck
beaten upon distant shore by wave
and wind — the life-boat on the nearer
sands drageed seaward to the rescue.
No man has studied with greater
care the inconstant curves of the
stormy sea, dancing and dashing
with mad delight, rushing and roar-
ing upon rock and shore in waves
which boldly charge in with fury,
and then steal away in fear. From
scenes of ocean let us pass to moan-
tain masses, solid and resistless, as
painted by Mr. Newton. For the
minute anatomy and articulation of
mountain ranges, the inward skeleton
of rock protruding through the cloth-
ing veronre of heath and herbage,
.these studies have never been sur-
passed. His "First Approach of
vFinter" on the bills of Inyemees,
with their covering of light snow
bk)wing in the wind, dust-like against
the sky-^o thin that it lies as filar
gree tracery between the ribs of the
dark rock-^as deservedly been re-
garded as a marvel of close nature-
study This is perhaps the best ex-
ample of the detailed truth inau- «
ffurated under the new school,— «
detail here fortunately made subor-
dinate to genenil grandeur of effect.
The drawings of Mr. William- Turner
of Oxford, on the contrary— a. name
which, merely as a name^ seems to
secure at once Mr. Ruakin^s inordi-
nate commendation-- these drawings
of Mr. Turner, by no means an inhe-
ritor of the greater Turner's geniuSy
degenerate year by year into that
utter feebleness of hand, that child-
ish detail of finish which recently
have become the more certain means
of securing the master's praise.
Of the collected works of David
Oox we had thus written: — "Here
is one of the veterans of art, bekmg-
ing already almost to the past, ar-
rived at that period of life when
great men review their labours, and
begin to write down autobiographies.
This exhibition may indeed be re-
garded as almost biographical, the
works here put on record being some-
thing between thoughts written and
deeds enacted, the illustrated sum-
mary of a long life of loving labour."
We had written thus much in our
note-book when the news came that
David Oox had died, after an illness
of a few days, at his residence near
Birmingham, at the age of seventy-
six. His latest work indeed, at
the old Water-Oolour Exhibition
of the present year, is as the expir-
ing tumult of a passion strong even
in death. A torrent of resistless
roar tumbles tlirough rocks abruot,
from the rude mountain and the
mossy wild. Here, denying himself
the allDrement of sunshine or oi
colour, he is content to be grandly
grey, revelling in the hell of waters,
redocing nature to second chaos. We
all know this master's large broad
sweep of a full brush, hdd in a loose
hand, which of late years has failed
to define forms, recording only light
and shade in its plays across the
landscape, or the shadowy cloud as
it floats in the Uqnid Sky. In the
142
London IkhibiHon$— Conflict qf ike SehooU,
[Aug.
EzhlbitioD^ however, of his co!led»d
works, we find that the drawings of
his better period were sufficiently dis-
tinct and definite in the statement of
fbrms and facts. In the "Vale of
Olywd" we come npon wheat-sheaves
and greaners, and harvest-cart, and
roQDO massive trees, leading however
at length into that wide distant field
of the unknown, in which even
landscape art is at length lost in un-
explored infinity. Here we have
great effects prbdnoed apparently by
slight means, vast things shadowed
fbrth dimly, which we see but in part,
needing, if we may say so, even here
in art Sue eye of faith. In this utter-
ance more seems intended than is
actually told. Looking at the stilly
greys, we seem as it were to be list-
ening to low Whispers. The far dis-
tance slumbers^ and is all hot lost in
far-off sky ; upon the nearer moantain-
side trees dream in uncertain light ;
and then, as we draw still nearer to
foreground life, there is as it were a
morning awakening, fklHng again fit-
folly into sleep, and losing itself in
deeper shadow, till at length we
reach the foreground, and find the
day fhlly awakened, boys actually
gathering blackberries in the hedges,
and fiocks of sheep and herds of
cattle driven to pasture. Never was
the power and resource of modest
grey so deeply and so touchinglv felt
It is like the voice, gentle and low,
which finds its way where the load
shout or the glaring colour cannot
enter. The ear and the eye alike hang
on the modulations of low tones;
the fiiltering voice and the timid
hand tremble in emotion till we feel
the melting touch of natare. The
loss of a man like this, who walked
so humbly and felt so deeply, must
long be mourned, for it is a loss
which can never be restored.
The confiict of schools, of which
we have incidentally spoken, may
prove a battle either of death, or
to more healthftd life— of death, if
men sink still lower into feebleness
ftdl still more hopelessly into second
childhood, fighting in foolishness
about the little ways and trifling in-
cidents of infancy, or falling into last
delirium, uttering tilings to shame
sobriety of reason. But we hope
better things of that common-aenaa
which proverbially rules the genius
of our people. Even while denounc-
ing the absurdity which has found
its way to the walls of our Exhibi-
tions, we felt at least this consola-
tion, that the extravagance had at
length grown to such monstrous pro-
portions as almost to preclude its fu-
ture repetition. On the other hand,
we have rejoiced to recognise in
many directions a growing fideli^ to
nature, which promises to our Eng-
lish art a true and legitimate career.
The present conflict, indeed, of our
English schools may be but the life
and the vigour which on all ddes,
not only in art but in science, and
every branch of progressive Imow-
ledge, seek for a n-ee and a wide de-
velopment. The battie of which we
spei^ may be in fact but the contest
of active minds fighting over the
wide territory of unappropriated
truth, each seeking, according to its
ambition and its wants, a dominion
it may call its own. Thus, so long
as the combat is that of genius fight-
ing for the field of nature, the result,
we think, must end in victory for art.
Many extravagancies will of course in
the mean time be conunitted, and
many a reputation lost; but nature
in the end will assert her rights, and
genius at the last obtain her sway ;
and so in this confiict of opposing
forces an art shall be moulded npon
the pressure of the times. Let us
hope that the Boyal Academy has in
the present year seen its worst, that
a truce has been signed M extrava-
gance ; that so the simple beauty
which is in nature, and the sober
strength which is in man, may be
won for our country's art.
1869,]
The LuAk of Ladyimede,^P<»rt VL
148
THE LUCK OF LADT8MEDE.
OHAPTBB Xnr. — BIB NICHOLAS* WOOIKO.
FuBioTTBLT dHving the spurs into
his horse, le Hardi galloped back
towards Ladysmede. Not so well
mounted, bat of lighter weight, the
Gascon squire contrived not to be
left far behind. Those who could
have looked into the face of the
knight would have seen there a storm
of contending passions which were
striving to find some imperfect vent
or relief in the iTnpetuous speed with
which he dashed on over the broken
ground. When within a mile or
ttro of the manor, he reined in to a
walk the gallant barb, panting in
every vein, but yet ehaiing at the
restraint, and waited until Dubois,
whose steed, of meaner blood, came
heaving and floundering on by the
help of good spurs and judicious
handling, was near enough to hear
his master^s voice.
"Dubois!" said he, turning sharp-
ly round on his saddle.
The esquire rode up to his side.
" Did yoa make inquiry as I bid
your
"I did, sir knight;' I could learn
nothing."
"Did yon mark the chaplain by
the wood-side as we left yon tower
about a mile ?"
Certainly, Dubois had marked
him ; there were few things within
the scope of keen eyes and ready ob-
servation which he did not mark.
" Did it seem to you as though he
sought to avoid being seen ?**
The very same thought, it ap-
peared, had struck the esquire.
"Had he been at Willan's Hope
think you V^ asked Sir Nicolas.
" Nay, that I cannot tell," replied
Dubois; ^'I do not hear that he is
known there."
"*Tis ik strange fancy, Dubois,"
refoined his master, " but that man^s
face seems to me always as one that <
I have looked on oftentimes before ;
yet never, to my knowledge, did I
meet with him until lately here at
Ladysmede."
"These foreign priests, Sir Nicho-
las, wander from end to end of
Obiistendom ; it may be Hke enough
that you have met with him before,
especially since he calls himself
Italian."
"Where did Sir Godfrey make
acquaintance with himf" asked the
knight again.
" That, again, is more than I can
learn," replied Dubois ; " but he was
with him in France, and had charge
of the boy there."
"The boy!" replied his master,
starting as irom some other subject
of thought — " he is with the Abbot
of Rivelsby, you say ; keep your own
counsel in that matter for the pre-
sent."
Dubois bowed and dropped back
to his usual distance in the rear.
The knight spurred on again towards
Ladysmede, and had no sooner ar-
rived there than he at once sought
his host Sir Godfrey. The latter
was prepared to welcome his return
with something of his usual coarse
pleasantry, when the clouded brow^
and unpleasant smile which the Cru-
sader wore at his entrance checked
the familiar words upon his lips ; and
it was Le Hardi who spoke first.
"The first siring of our bow has
snapped short, de Burgh," were his
words. He laughed as he spoke,
but not merrily.
" How now ?" said his companion ;
" what has gone wrong ?"
" In good faith," said Sir Nicholas,
*' that passes my understanding ; but
what I mean is this ; yon fair cousin
of yours likes me not — will have
none of me." And he laughed again.
"What folly is this^ Le Hardi f"
returned the other, starting up;
"you speak as if you were some
foolish boy, to be discouraged by a
girl's capricious fancy. I dare swear
she likes you well enough, but for a
little maiden backwardness, it may
be; or have you been over-hasty
with her ? for she has a flash of the
temper of our house about her, if it
be roused."
" Never fear," said the Omsader,
with a gesture of something near
contempt; "I have scarce offended
her dignity by any OTer-presumption ;
vou Lxxxn.
10
lU
The Luek of Ladymed4.^PaH VL
[Aug.
hot I say she will have none of me ;
there is no mistaking the lady^s mind,
though the reason I pretend not to
have discovered; nor, indeed, do I
much oare to seek it.
'^Tushl" said de Burgh, cooly;
^* all will go right in time.''
"I tell you, no!" returned the
other, with an impatient movement
— not, at least, in the way you
mean.''
^^Yoa are surely somewhat fdnt-
hearted, to hold the battle lost thus
early in the day,"^ said Sir Godfrey
in a tone of banter, though with
some uneasiness in his look; 'Most,
indeed, it shall hardly be, as yon
well know, with such stout friends
to back yon; but I had fiuicied, if
I read your spirit aright, that in
these lists you would have chosen
rather to fight for your own hand."
Sir iN'icholas turned and walked a
few steps to the other side of the
apartment. When he looked round
in his companion's face, it was with
an expression of countenance which
showed how little he was inclined to
reciprocate his host's attempts at
raillery.
" I shall hold you to our compact,
de Bargh," said he significantly.
" Now, by the rood," said the other,
his brow darkening in turn — *'have
I given any token of flinching from
it?— ^all that one man may do for
another in such a matter, I have
done for you; and if I did not
straight signify to my fair ward
that it was his majesty's good plea-
sured—and mine — ^that she shall wed
with you, it was at your own request
that I forbore, if it will please you
to. remember so much. Take good
heart, friend — if I may presume to
say so to a champion of your pre-
tensions— lands and lady shall be
yours as sure as the suu shines in
heaven. Or, at the worst, if the
mistress fail you, I pledge you my
honour the lands shall not; and as.
. for the love— that, I take it, you
know how to find elsewhere."
"Mark me, Sir Godfrey," said the
other in a low determined voice, '* I
will have both I"
''You shall, man, you shall, rest
assured of it. What! our lovely
ward is hardly made of the stuff that
grows kindly in the cloister; I am
little skilled in wooing, it if true-
curse me if I could find patience to
sue an hour for any woman's favour,
were she paragon of womankind 1 —
but this comes of making too much
of them; your high-flown courtesv
and" compliment makes a wench
think, forsooth, that she may play
fast and loose with a lover aa ahe
pleases. If I have to woo for you,
Sir Nicholas, I shall begin in som^
what diflferent fiishion."
" I doubt shrewdly whether your
fashion is like to have much more
success than mine, in this case," re-
plied the Crusader with a contemp-
tuous smile ; " but if you be an ear-
nest in the business (as I am, mai^
yon) there is one form of wooing —
somewhat bold and impetuous, per-
haps, but that will hardly seem a
fault in your eyes — which I have
known to be successful even under
more difficult droumstanccte."
"Speak your meaning out," said
Sir Godfrey, "if you would have me
understand."
" Send for the Lady Gladioe here
to Ladysmede: your chaplain. Fa-
ther Giacomo, hath enough of the
church's virtue about him, I chari-
tably presume, to do his office in such
wise that no man may gainsay it;
and when priest and bridegroom are
ready, and we have his m^esty's
good pleasure and her guardian's con-
sent to plead, it should go hard with
us if maiden Bcmples stood long in
our way."
Sir Godfrey hardly responded to
this proposal in the spirit in which it
was made. There was unusual hesi-
tation and embarrassment in his man-
ner, as with a weak and forced at-
tempt at the loud laugh which
served him in the stead of argument
upon most occasions, he took up his
friend's last wprds.
"Maiden scruples! by the Virgin,
if it be as you say, we have some-
thing more than maiden scruples to
deal with here ; we have a woman's
will — a somewhat different matter,
trust me !"
" The more need of brief and for-
cible argument," replied Le Hardi.
There was no sympathy witti his
companion's laugh, either in look or .
tone.
"X thought," said the Knight of
1869.]
ne jAtek of Zadumsde.—Part YL
145
Lodysmedo, " that you were one of
those who would have no woman's
]o76 upon oompolsion; bat look yon
here — let me deal with my good
kioswoman, Dame Elf Lild, concern-
ing this qnestion, which reqnires
more delicate handling than mine;
she has a cordial liking for this
match, I promise you, and with her
hdp all shall go well yef
. "Deal with whom you will, and
as you will,** returned Su: Nicholas,
"my wooing is over; but listen to
me, de Burgh: this girl and her
lands might have gone their way for
me— it was you that pat me on the
ventore, and I have done my part
as a good knight should, and in such
fiishion as you yourself thought best;
but being pat to it, I have no mind
to cry craven as a baffled suitor,
nor yet to play the slave to her
d^t^ caprices. Had she fallen ripe
into my mouth — as you seemed to
expect — I do not know whether I
should have had the good taste to
appreciate such a piece of fortune
as it deserved : but as it has chanced,
this newly -discovered scorn of hers
— for soorn it is and nothing less —
becomes her so mightily, that in this
mood, and no other, it is my plea-
sure to wed her, and I will. If you
repent of your promise, you are scarce
the man I knew in days past — ^yon
will determine that as it may seem
best to yourself; I will be true to
my purpose, I warn you; and may
chance to make it good, even though
friend as well as mistress play me
false."
The taunt awoke the fierce blood
of Sir Godfrey, as his companion
probably intended it should.
"False to my plighted wordl"
he exclaimed passionately — ^^ have
you even dared to think it? unsay
the slander, or by my knighthood!
yon shall answer it."
"What now!" said the Crusader,
with a slight careless laugh, though
his eye moved a little restlessly as
he met the glance from under Sir
Godfrey's knitted brow—" What did
I say? Tush, we know each other
better than to quarrel for a foolish
girl ; I have your word, as you say,
— none knows its worth better — ^and
you have mine. Only — since in truth
time presses with me— let me take
my own course now with your fair
ward ; I promise you it will end as
we both desire; help me so fu* as
you may, and I will not tax your
friendly offices for anything despe-
rate. Play the indulgent guardian
to the last, if you will: I will risk
all the pains and perils that await
the too ardent lover. "
Easily roused, Sir Godfrey was as
easily appeased by the altered tone
of his less impetuous companion.
Even before his passion had time to
oool, he remembered that it hardly
suited his own views to fasten a
quarrel upon his guest "What
is it you would have me do?" he
asked, roughly.
"Merely that you should request
of your &ir kinswomen to bestow
their company upon you here, on
any seemly pretext you may choose ;
giving them to understand at the
same time — ^for I have a persuasion
it would be needful — that I have
completed my business here, and
returned to my good lord the king
— which, however, I trust not to do
until I leave a fair bride to weep for
my compelled absence." There was
an easy smile on the knight's counte-
nance as he spoke, as if he felt an
honest and natural satisfaction in
the. contemplation.
"And what is the rest of your
plan?" asked Sir Godfrey, with a
doubtful look. He was but a clumsy
deviser of stratagems himself, and
had little confidence in the suooess
of others.
" That is all I ask of you ; leave
the rest in my hands. As to this
Italian priest — ^gold will buy of him
such slight service as I shall need;
will it not, think you ?"
He was watching de Burgh's face
curiously, though he passed hjs hand
over his eyes, and asked in a care-
less tone.
"I can say little as to that," re-
plied Sir Godfrey with hesitation;
*'I am not sure that his idols are
of gold or silver, though that wor-
ship is common to his craft. Nor
is be, I fancy, a poor man— though
that makes little difference."
"Well— I think, perhaps, I can
deal with him," said Le Hardi,
thoughtfully — "I speak his language
passably, as perhaps you know. At
146
The Luck of LadyKntde,'—PaTt VL
[Aug.
any rate, so please yoa to do yoar
part in the matter, and trust me
not to fail in mine,"
*" 8ir Godfrey signified his assent,
and confirmed it by an oath more
blaspbemgns than nsnal. He seemed
to require some such strong assevera-
tion to satisfy his own mind that he
was in earnest. Then he rose from
birt seat, and stepping to a bufifet on
which a flagon of strong wine stood
ready to his hand, he poured out
and handed a cup to his companion,
and then filled another for himself,
more than to the brim, for the liquor
ran over on the floor. With another
oath, he drained it in great gulps, as
if with its contents he was swallow-
ing his conscience. Selfish and un-
calculating, he had resolved upon his
end, witli little thought about the
means by which it was to be attained,
and it was only now that he was
beginning fully to realise to his own
mind what these might be. Brutal
as his character had become in many
respects, from the unrestrained in-
dulgence of his worst passions, there
was enough still left of the rough
animal kindness of his nature to
make him hesitate at inflicting, in
cold blood, outrage and wronff upon
one who had never injured him.
Unable to appreciate the higher
qualities of woman in his ward, he
oonld still admire her beauty and
spirit, and discovered that there was
a feeling towards her lurking in his
heart which scarcely deserved the
name of affection, but iifrhicb he him-
self tried hard, under present circum-
stances, to repudiate as a weakness.
He had contemplated her acquies-
cence in a marriage with Sir Nicholas,
he now felt, rather too sanguinely.
In one point only he had been right ;
that the manners and bearing of the
Orusader, his polished address and
stores of conversation, his fame as a
soldier of the cross and his favour
with the king, were likely to present
to Gladice^s eyes a favourable contrast
with the two or three younger suitors
who had hitherto aspired to her
smiles, and, as Sir Godfrey had heard,
had reaped little but contempt. He
thought that he was but giving her
credit for ordinary good sense, in
assuming that she would prefer be-
OQming the bride of such a man to
the entombing herself in the cloister;
and he saw neither cruelty nor hard-
ship, and the world (not that its
opinions were much valued at Ladys-
mede) would surelv have seen none,
when he intended to leave her no
other choice. Even now, as he set
the empty beaker down, he was try-
ing to persuade himself that all would
yet go well — that he was really con-
sulting his ward^s interests as well as
his own, even though he should seem
at first sight to be using somewhat
strong compulsion. Still, the un-
pleasant troth forced itself upon his
mind, that in acceding to his com-
panion's last sufrgestion, he was do-
ing that at which even his rude sense
of honour recoiled as base and un-
worthy. For Sir Nicholas, the sup-
posed ardour of his pa&don might
excuse the lover ; but for himself, even
his own conscience, not over *sensi-
tive, had already suggested the name
of traitor.
There was consideration given, how-
ever, on the part of Sir Nicholas,
in the silent bond between them,
which was too precious in the eyes
of his accomplice to allow him to
recede; and in the conversation
which followed between them, aU
was speedily arranged for the recep-
tion of Glauioe and her aunt at the
manor. The lure treacherously held
out to insure a ready acceptance on
the younger lady's part of her
guardian's proposal that they should
be his guests for a few days, was
simple and well-devised. The lord
bishop of Ely, who, it has been
already said, was Gladice's distant
kinsman, and had shown some kindly
interest in her in the earlier days of
her orphanhood, was known to be'
now on his progress as legate of
the Holy See, in great state accord-
ing to his wont, and to be dwly
expected in his own diocese of Ely.
Owing to this family connection, he
was not unknown to Sir Godfrey de
Burgh; and nothing was more pro-
bable than that, when he made his
formal visitation of the Abbey of St
Mary at Bivelsby, he might turn
aside by the way to accept the r^y
hospitalities of Ladysmede. The
repute of Sir Godfrey 's ' manner of
Hfe there, if it had reached his
ears, was indeed scarcely such as
1859.]
7!%e Iml of Lady^msde.'-Part^VI.
147
sbonid hare enoounged the visit of
any dignitary of holy church, unless,
indeed, he were so zealous a prelate
as to embrace such an opportunity to
rebuke a host of evil life at his own
table ; which, had Sir Grodfrey been
the object of it, might have been
more hkely to have added a martyr
to the church than a penitent. But
the realm had no such prelate in
William Longchamp. Jovial in his
humour, and magnificently prodigal
in his habits, he was little likely to
otter an anathema at a feast, unless
it was evoked by the quality of the
▼iandi» ; and so long as the entertain-
ment was to his mind, would have
wasted no scruples on the morals of
his entertainer. The objection which
the churchman might really have
fonnd to the sojourn which had been
thus imagined for him at Ladys-
mede, would have been the in-
enfficienev of its accommodation to
reeeive the numerous retinue of fol-
lowers of all ranks and descriptions,
who ministered either to his pomp
or his pleasures, and made his visits
more like the progress of a so-
Tereign prince than an apostolical
miasioQ.
Their plans having been so far set-
ded, it remained only to put them at
oncQ into execution ; and Sir Godfrey,
having fortified himself with another
draught from the flagon, sent to sum-
mon Baoul to hig presence to be the
bearer of his message, early on the
following morning, to the tower of
# Willan^s Hope.
" Were it well, think you," said the
Crusader, when the serving-man had
gone in search of the young esquire,
*' to trust that boy on such a busi-
ness P
" I have none that I may trust
better," replied de Burgh, abruptly ;
** my knave*) are wont usually to do
my bidding.'*
He was in no pleasant temper with
himself or his companion ; and if he
felt that there was some force in the
Crasader''9 hint, he Wiis possibly for
that very reason the less inclined to
adopt it. He had submitted to dicta-
tion quite sufficiently within the last
half-hour.
** There is some precaution to be
used, remember," continued Le Hardi
aa. as indiferent a tone as he could
assume — ^for he understood the other's
humour ; " would not Gundred, your
chamberlain, have served better at
this time ?"
*'Gundred I might trust well
enongh, for that matter; but I hardly
choose to use him in my erranrls to
ladies of such pretensions. There is
no risk of any suspicion in such a
simple thing; or if there were, the
sight of his face at Willan's Hope
'would' go far to raise it. Raoul is
young, bat he is honest."
"Is he the surer messenger for
that ?" asked Sir Nicholas ; but he
saw bis companion's obstinacy, and
Hpoke in so low a tone, that Sir God-
frey appeared not to hear the ques-
tion. The other played with his
swurfl, and was silent until the young
nuire made his appearance.
lU master gave liim his charge in
a few brief words, for he knew that
the youth himself had wit enough to
translate the invitation liberally into
courteous language. When' he had
finished his instructions, and Raoul,
having duteously signified his perfect
compression of. them, was about to
withdraw, Sir Godfrey, looking at the
Crusader, and speaking as if &om an
afcer-thought, with a clumsy attempt
at a careless tone which betrayed em-
barrassment even to his young fol-
lower's unpractised ear, added as he
turned away—
" You will let it be understood at
Willan's Hope that Sir Nicholas parts
from us tt>-morrow ; we have prayed
him in vain to tarry until my lord of
Ely's arrival. It is so, I fear?" — he
turned an appealing look towards his
guest, which Baoul followed with his
" It must be so," said Le Hardi ;
*^my business in other parta will
brook no delay."
" Be sure that you make this un-
derstood, in the discharging of your
message," continued the knight of
Ladysmede ; " there are especial rea-
sons why I would have the Lady Elf-
hild know it."
Kaonrs open boyish face might
have expressed some sort of puzzled
doubt and surprise, for he was fuUy
aware of the arrangements made for
their visiting the Abbot of Rivelsby
with all due state on the morrow,
and had heard that very day from
148
The Lueh of Lady9rMds.^Fart VL
[Ang.
Dnbois, that Sir Nicholas' departure
would not take place antil the week
following: this sudden change of
plan awoke at once in his. mind a
strange and undefined suspicion ; bat
it consisted neither with his duty nor
inclination to trouble himself more
than he could help with his master's
secrets ; he had nothing to do but to
bow his acquiescence, and to quit the
chamber.
" The lad will do his errand well
enough, yon see," said Sir Cfodfrey.
with a short laugh which expressed
his own relief from some misgiving —
"better than if he had been over-
cautioned, or over-trusted."
" Probably ; I trust he will, for his
sake and for onrs," replied Le Hardi,
who had marked the uneasy look
upon the young esquire's counte-
nance.
At the foot of the great stone stairs
Raoul met the Italian. There had
sprung vp of late something of a
more friendly intercourse between the
two than any other of the household
was inclined to venture upon with
the chaplain. Raoul at least did not
seem to share the scarcely concealed
dislike and dread with which he was
so generally regarded; and the sar-
donic smile and cutting tone which
commonly seasoned his communica-
tions with others, were softened into
almost a playful jest when he en-
countered the fearless smile of the gay
young esquire. Haoui would have
passed him by now without more
than a silent recognition; but oven
the slight cloud on that open brow
attracted at once the chaplain^s ob-
servant eye. ^He turned, and parsed
some brief light raillery upon it, in
something like the gentle voice he had
been wont to use to Giulio. And
though Raoul, not now disposed for
conversation, would have gone on his
way with a careless answer, the
Italian, who knew that he had just
come from Sir Godfrey's presence,
impelled either by curiositvor by some
stronger motive, proceeded to ques-
tion him upon the subject.
" Sir Nicholas quit Ladysmede, to-
mort-ow, say you?" he asked in a
tone of surprise, after listening with
fixed attention to the details of the
interview, for Raoul saw no reason
for concealment — "your ears have
surely played you felse ?"
" Nay, that may hardly be," re-
plied the esquire — ** for I had special
charge to make it known at Willan's
Hope."
"Hal" said Giaoomo, while his
keen eyes left the youth's face, and
seemed to search into the wall beyond
him. ** Tell me, young friend — for I
saw Dubois talking with yon, and
youth is ever curious in such mat-
ters— ^how did Sir Nicholas speed in
his wooing to-day ?"
** I know not, nor care," answered
Raoul shortly.
" I think peradventnre I could
tell," replied the Italian. Then chang-
ing his tone, and laying his hand on
the youth^s shoulder with a familiar
gesture most unlike his usual bearing
— "Say, Raoul, would'st rather do
the Lady Gladice a kindness or a
mischief? answer me truly."
Raoul started and reddened at the
abruptness of the question, but be
answered with boyish vehmenoe, as
he drew back a step from his com-
panion,— " Why ask me such a ques-
tion, father? the veriest churl even in
our graceleas company migh' give you
an answer ; be dare not call himself
man who would harm her by a care-
less word; he is no true gentleman
who would grudge his life to do her
service."
*' Gallantly spoken!" said the
priest; "so youth speaks always,
before the rust and canker and bat-
tering wear of life eats into the' bright
metal that rings so loud and true."
The smile with which he looked into
the boy's glowing face had no trace
of mockery or bitterness. "If my
lips were made for blessing, I would
pray heaven to grant you to die
young 1"
" I shall scarcely make bold to ask
your prayers, father, if they go to
that tune," said Raoul, trying to rally,
under cover of a light word, from a
confused consciousness of his enthu-
siasm.
But the chaplain's present mood
was earnest. Ikying his hand again
upon the young esquire's shoulder
— "If ^ou would match fair words
with fair deeds," said he, "yon will
bear your lord's message to WiUan's
1869.]
The Luek of LadyfMde.^PoH VL
149
Hope, so far as it is a tnithfol one,
bat without ooapliDg with it that
which he Knows, and I know, to be
a falsehood. Sir Kioholas leaves not
io saddenly ; he waits to urge here,
under her gaardian^s roof, a suit
which he alrMuiy Icnows to be distaste-
fol to the Lady Gladice."
"Howl" exokumed Raoal his
first yagae snapioion strengthening
rapidly as he listened to the chaplain.
^ Would yon have me believe that Sir
Godfrey is seekiug to palm a falsehood
upon her ? "
" I say not what Sir Godfrey seeks ;
I only warn yon that the message
which you bear, so &r as it touches
Sir Nicholas, is a false one; that
mnch at least I know of a certainty.
As to the object of it, it is true I
do bat goesa. Yon or any other
nuy Judge whether or no I gness
Perhaps becaase the interpretation
confirmed his own misgivings — per-
haps becaase there was an emphasis
of truth in his companion's tone —
perhaps because the young act rather
from feeling than calculation, Kaoul
never doubted the good faith of
Father Giacomo for a moment. All
the evil stories which he had heard
of him were of no weight against
his own instinctive conviction that
be spoke and meant honestly now.
After a moment's thoaght he turned
short round, and before the chaplain
could have checked him, even bad
he onderstood his intention, lan up
the stairs, and presented himself
again in Sir Godfrey's chamber. The
knight had warmed himself with
wine, and was in better humour now
with himself and those about him ;
and though he stared with some
sarprise at Kaoul on his hasty reap-
pearance, he greeted him with a bluff
graciousness.
^* What seek you here again, most
trusty squire ? " he demanded ; ^^ now,
prithee, do not let me coont thee one
of those unprofitable messengers that
need to have their tale told them
thrice at the -^^itj least before start-
ing, and then bring the half of it home
again undelivered."
^^I am here to say, Sir Godfrey,
that I pray to be excused doing this
errand,'* Baonl began, agitated and
out of breath, with the flash com-
ing and going in his fbce— "I will
ride for you night and day, as I am
bound to do, in any other matter;
but Indeed— indeed^^o please you to
put some one else on this service^I
may not do it."
"What?" exclaimed Sir Godfrey,
when the boy paused, too much as-
tonished to interrnpt him sooner —
" ^hat I " It was bat a simple word,
but the voice and glance gave it a
fearful emphasis.
" I cannot do it, Sir Godfrey," said
the esquire again, pale as ashes, but
in a firmer tone.
The knights face grew purple with
rage; he rose from his seat, stepped
one great stride to where the boy
stood, and struck him in the face
with the back of his open hand so
fiercely, that he fell staggering back
against the wall of the apartment,
and the bl<x>d gashed in a stream
from his mouth and nose.
Sir Godfrey watched him until he
had recovered his footing, and seemed
inclined to repeat the blow. Half-
stonned, and reeling from its effects
— ^for many a stalwart man had gone
down before that back-handed stroke
of Sir Godfrey's — Raoul spat the
blood from his mouth, and felt for the
hilt of the short sword at his girdle.
The Knight of Ladysmede was un-
armed, for he had liftid his own
weapon on the table where he had
sat. But Le Hardi saw the boy's
movement, and springing up, plaosd
himself between them, just in time to
prevent him from making a mad
spring upon his master.
'' Out of my path, Sir Nicholas,"
said his host, "if yoa would not
anger me past ray patience I This
gentle youth seeks further correction,
it seems, and he shall have his fill
of it. Stand from between as, I
say I"
But the Orusader maintained his
position, though he seemed to feel it
to be no very pleasant one. Cursing
Raoul for a young fool, while he held
him back with one arm not without
difficulty, he expostulated at the
same time with de Burgh on the
unseemliness of such a quarrel.* His
words might have haid but IttUe
effect, whea at that moment Dubois
entered the chamber so opportunely,
that although he began to address
150
7^ LuOo of Lad^mede.'^Pmrt VL
[Ang.
himself to Sir Niobolas with BOioe
ordinary message, it seemed probable
that the load and angry voice of de
Bnrgh had been heard below, and
that the esquire had anticipated some
qnarrel between that knight and his
master.
"Here, Dubois I " cried Sir Nicho-
las, gladly availing himself of his
appearance ; " take this mad boy out
of his jord^s presence; there will be
bloodshed else/^
Raonl struggled indignantly in> the
Gascon's grasp, and had half-drawn
his weapon ; but Dubois was too
strong for him. Twisting the boy's
arms behind him until he writhed
with the pain, and a subdued cry
escaped him, he dragged him towards
the door, while the Crusader still in-
terposed, his own person between Sir
Godfrey and the object of his vio-
lence.
' " Let him be punished, de Burgh,
as he right well deserves; but &is
violence is needless — ^nay worse than
needless,'' he continued, in a lower
tone, as the Gascon, finding that
Raoul still gave him some trouble in
forcing hiui tbrongh the narrow door-
wav, shoated to some of those in the
hall below for assistance.
De Burgh contented himself with
exploding the rest of his fury in im-
precations, while two or three of his
serving-men tan. up from below ; and
Baoul, the first storm of his boyish
passion over, desisted from his useless
struggles, and stood a prisoner in
panting and indigimnt silence.
" What shall they do with him, Sir
Godfrey ? " asked &e Crusader, ans-
OUS) as it jseemed, to put an end as
speedily as possible to this scene of
undignified violence; " he is mad o'
the sudden, methinks."
^^Bind him hand and foot, and
lodge him safe in the Falcon tower.
This petty youth has been too daint-
ly fea here, and the hot young blood
grows maliq>ert upon us: a litde
cooler diet— or, indeed, some two or
three days' wholesome fEtsting-^
sound leeohcraft for such disordezs.
Body of mel but he was marveUoas
ready with the steel. He comes of a
strain much akin to mine own in that
respect."
"There was miMhief enou^ in
him," said Le Hardi. " I thou^t be
would have struck at me, when I
baulked him."
" I could almost wish you had not,"
replied his friend, his angry features
relaxing into a grim smile ; " I would
have risked a few ounces of blood to
have seen bis spring, 'tis as well as
it is, though ; for my eye and hand
are hardly what they once were."
" I do not commonly choose to see
a man stabbed before my face," said
Sir Nicholas; "but since yon profess
an especial fancy for it, I will hardly
spoil sport for the future."
"Nay, nay, sir champion; I am
behoven to yon in my most graciooB
thanks; and so is the youth too,
maybe, for that matter. But what,
in the fiend's name put him upon
such a wild fimcy as to cavil at my
orders ? "
"You had best learn that from
himself, when his blooil has had time
to cool ; better still, perhaps, if you
bad waited to make that inquiry at
the first. There is surely something
in this which it were well for us to
know before we move further."
Sir Godfrey made an impatient
movement; but he was conscious that
it was not the first time that his own
violent temper had disconcerted his
plans.
" Enough for the present," he said.
" I am hot. Sir Nicholas ; let us forth
and taste the evening air."
CHAPTEB XV. — THE GUJBST-HALL.
If a stranger had entered the lofty
guest- hall of Bivelsby about an hour
after noon on the following day, ho
would have seen around him nothing
that betokened the shifts of a failing
exchequer. A prudent economy was
not one of Abbot Martin's qualifica-
tions for government. Spending but
little upon his own simple needs or
pleasures, be was magnificent in aU
that concerned the hospitalities of his
station. The Scripture rule which en*
joins upon the overseers of Holy Church
to be careful to entertain strangers,
was one which he conformed to cor*
dially — ^ratber, we must fear, in ao-
1869.]
The Luek af Ladfimede.-^Part VI,
151
oofdance with hi* own liberal nataro,
than in oonseqnenoe of any oonsoien-
tioQs stady of the apostoHo injanc-
tioD. It had been enforced apon
hiin, indeed, at bis oonsecration as
abbot; but it required an aoater ear
for church Latin than the new-made
dignitary possessed, to follow, with
any comprehension of its meaning, a
long service in that langnage, chanted
in a low nasal tone — ^for the prior was
a very indifferent performer ; and as
to having ever seen it in its original
context, posterity will not Judge too
hardly of the exceUeDt abbot, who
bad exchanged the sword for tiie
breviary so Tate in life, if it be hon-
estly coDfessed on his behalf tlat his
personal acquaintance with the sacred
writings was mainly confined to the
Psalter and the Gospels. Let ns
hope he might have been as good a
Christian as if he had read— or even
written — a whole treasure-house of
soriptnral controversy, and yet have
missed the spirit of a little child.
Toa noble to make any pretence to
a wealth which he did not possess,
he was also too proad to measure his
hospitality— as he wisely might have
done— by his reeoarces. Rich and
poor, in b.Tgone days, had ever been
wont to talk of the bountiful cheer of
Rivelsby. Heaven knows whether
they who maintained it there sought,
for their reward in so doing, the
praise of men; if they did, they
scarcely found it Already the in-
quiring secular mind had begun to
ask, was this indeed the religious
life? — were these the followers of the
fishermen of Galilee? And those
who went fulKfed fVom their noble
banquets, but were never present at
their fiists and vigils, denounced their
entertainers with oaths as ^^ glutton-
ous men and wine- bibbers," and in-
sinuated that revelling and drunken-
ness were amongst the rules of the
cloister. Nay, even from among
themselves men had already gone
forth, by a natural reaction, who in-
terpreted in its boldest sense the
other side of the great commandment,
and loudly professed that the riches
of the monastic houses were in them-
^Ives a snare of the Evil One, and
that the only true religion was
poverty. And though young Wolfert
fihoold* live to a hundred, and com-
priBss the results of whole days ^ and
nights of study into his ^''malUu$
eanoniearum,'*^ the hammer was
never to be forged that should
crush the schism in the religions
household.
To-day, of all others, the abbot
was determined that nothing should
be lacking to maintain his state on
something like its old scale of mag-
nificence. Not to such guests as Ls
Bardi and de Burgh would he be*
tray the barrenness of an impoverished
house. Not if it should cost him the
last free manor of his abbacy, and
he himself—- as he once of late en-
tertained the idea — should take up
scrip and staff for the Holy City,
and leave the revenues of his ofSce
at nurse under the administration of
the prior. Guests of such rank as
those who were to-day expected, fell
to the share of the superior to enter-
tain out of his private purse, and
were by no means to be a burden
or a detriment— so the rule of their
house was worded — ^to the revenues
of the general body. So that id-
thoogh Gervase the kitchener raised
his eyes and shrugged his shoulders
with a professional horror of such
extravagance (as it must needs seem
to one wbo well knew the abbot's
embarrassments), and even ventured
a respectful word or two as to the
cost, he could go no further in the
way of remonstrance in a case where
he was not responsible, and which
concerned the abbot alone. Natha-
nael of Oambridge — who travelled
with a single lean Ir^raelitish follower
on a mule which the abbot's horse-
boy swore it was a disgrace to hold,
yet was said to have wealth enough
to buy up Rivelsby, monks and idl,
if they had been purchaAble com-
modities— had returned home that
morning attended as he came by
two armed retainers of the monas-
tery, an escort which he always
claimed on such occasions (charging
thus the expenses of the transaction,
like modern money-lenders, upon his
clients). That useful but much-
abnsed man had carried back with
him in his capacions bags, besides
store of the convent's valuables un-
der which his ill-fed sum pter- mule
winced and groaned, certain small
slips of parchment which added little
162
2%e Luck 0/ Ladffmede.-'Fart VL
[Ang.
to t]^e bulk of his aoqaiflitions, bnt
which he hoarded nevertheless very
oarefuUy in his strong ohest at home,
for the abbot^s signatare thereto was
moneyed worth, as he well knew;
they had been the result of a long
private interview on the previous
evening. He left behind him, it is
true, some heavy bags of good Eng-
lish silver coin, and a q>rinkling of
the gold pieces of France and Italy ;
but to name the exorbitant interest
which was demanded and freely pro-
mised^ for such acGommodation, de-
spite the excellent securities above
mentioned, would be only to stimu-
late the evil cupidity of gentlemen of
his profession at the present day— or
to break their hearts with envy at the
then state of the money-market.
Such a reckless contempt of cost,
such an utter ignoring of the state of
his exchequer, did the abbot mani-
fest on this occasion, that Grervase
and the chamberlain when they con-
sulted together in carrying out their
superior's lavish orders, would have
come to the conclusion (there being
neither share-markets nor joint-stock
banks in existence) that Abbot Mar-
tin was either demented, or had
lighted upon a buried treasure; but
the vision of Nathanael and his
parchments had only just passed
from before • their eyes, and with
pious resignation they accepted the
chastisement which Heaven had sent
them, in giving them a ruler whose
extravagance would soon complete
the ruin which Abbot Aldred's weak
nepotism had begun; for although
the common accounts were kept dis-
tinct from those of the abbacy, all felt
themselves nearly concerned in the
difficulties and disgrace which might
be the relult of tbeir superior's pri-
vate involvements, and which could
not fail to recoil in some way upon the
dignity and the fortunes of the house
itself. Nay, the chamberlain — a dis-
tant kinsman of the departed abbot,
who, if that excellent relative had
lived another year, would have had
his turn for some of the higher ap-
pointments which his merits deserved
— went so far as to draw a com-
parison between the two wasteful
stewards to the disadvantage of
Abbot Martin.
^^ Our dear departed father,'' said
he, ^^was an easy man about leases,
it must be confessed, but it was all
in favour of his own kith and kin;
whereas this present lord abbot has
little kindness even for an old follower
•—there is the Angevin, who was with
him, they say, through all the wars —
and what has he done fur him ? sends
him a mess from his table once a
month, it may be; while he opens
his purse-strings wide enough to
fenst such hawks and vultures, as I
may well caU them, as those who
prey upon us in the king's name."
"There be little to choose," replied
Gervase gloomily. Not having any
connection himself with the late
abbot, he did not see the force of
the argument so clearly.
"I never heard that this abbot
acknowledged kin of any degree with
any man or woman," continued the
chamberlain, returning to the attack ;
" yet it is said, and may well be be-
lieved, that he is of knightly family.
Who is this child he hath brought hen
among us, thinkest thou, brother?
It was a question which had often
been secretly discussed among the
brethren of St. Mary's ; but it was put
rather abruptly at this moment.
Gervase turned off and wisely re-
plied, " I never concern myself with
other men's matters, having trouble
enough with my own ; " and so went
his ways to the kitchen.
Hovering about the kitchen en-
trance— a locality which he mudi
affected, though against all rule — he
found the sub-prior. Gervase eyed
his plump face, which wore a more
beaming smile than usual, with no
great c<)rdiality, and was passing on
to his duties; for brother Simon's
conversation was of that kind which
to a preoccupied companion is rather
irritating than improving.
^^Bnsy this morning, excellent
brother Gervase ? " said Simon,
whose rank in the house gave him
some little right to speak patroms-
ingly, which he was innocently prone
to take advantage of.
"I am always busy, reverend
sub-prior," returned Gervase, shortly
but punctiliously.
" I would I were," sighed brother
Simon. It was a point on which
the kitchener felt unusually inclined'
to agree with him ; bnt as an answer
1809.]
The Lueh of Laiymede^-^Part FZ
158
to that efl^t would scaroely have
sonnded respectfal, he made none.
" Twelve of ns are bidden to the
abbot's table to-day," resumed the
Bab-prior cheerfnlly. "I hear there
ahall be g^reat doings.*'
" There will be no lack of gnests,''^
said Gervase.
"Who are invited, then, besides
the knights from Ladysmede? we
are soaroe bs much in the abbot's eon-
fidence in anoh things as we might
reasonably be."
" There is the old knight of Ravens-
wood and his two sons. Sir John de
la Mere, the Prior of Gottesford and
some three or fbnr of his honse, young
Foliot of the Leys, and two or three
beades."
" And there is to be a earita$ of
pork and bydromel for all the breth-
ren in the refectory," said the sttb-
prior ; ^* I may say this mnch for onr
abbot, let who will say nay ; he does
not care to feast himself, and let
others fast the while."
"Ay — ^we grow jovial nnder our
troubles; we should all live royally,
I take it, if his majesty would only
be pleased to exact a loan from us
about once a- week. I have not had
BO much money in hand since I
have been kitohener." And escaping
during a yawn of brother Simon's,
Gervase went his way.
The kitohener had been famished
by the abbot with ready mon«.y
wherewith to lay in all such supplies
as might befit a banquet of more
than ordinary splendour; and a few
small gratuities judidbusly distri-
buted amongst the teuAnts of the
abbey estates (for Gervase was as
honestly careful of the abbot^s money
as if it had been his own), had'
brought in, daring the early hours of
morning, samples of fowl and fish of
a very superior quality to those which
had drawn forth his unfavourable
criticisms on the previous afternoon ;
and soon, deep in consultation witii
cooks and confectioners, he forgot his
indignation at the abbot's lavish
orders in his zeal to do his own ofiioe
with credit to the house. If the
outlay must needs be made, at least,
he thought, there should not be the
unpardonable extravagance commit-
ted of paying dear for an indifferent
dinner.
So the tables were duly spread in
the gueBt'hall, and habited in his
apparel of state, with the principal
officers of his house grouped around
him, Abbot Martin sat in his high
chair in the chapter-house, awaiting
the introduction of his noble guests.
On fdw men did the external digni-
ties of his ofiice sit so gracefully and
so well. His powerful and well built,
frame bad all a soldier's upright and
fearless bearing, while his open kind-
ly face, if it bore a few traces of the
thoughtful student or the mortified
recluse, had something of the loving
paternal expression which well sug-
gested the ideal of such a relation-
ship towards the community over
which he presided. The first of the
invited guests who was presented to
him was Waryn Foliot, in a richer
dress than he was wont to affect, but
snch as became the dignity of hiB
host no less than the rank of the
wearer. There was a low murmur of
approving criticism amongst the at-
tendants who lined the doorway and
the lower part 6f the room, when,
after the first glance, they recognized
under the rich velvet mantle the
young stadent who was so well
known and loved as the present re-
presentative of his house; and he
did not suffer in their estimation,
because a fiush of natural modesty
passed over his features as be walked
alone up the room to where the
abbot sat awaiting.him.
"Welcome now as ever, Waryn,*'
said the superior, as he rose to greet
him; "but you are a rare guest
amongst us: the cloister is dull
enough, it may be granted, for young
spirits like yours: yet, for your
father's sake, I would that we met
oftener."
"I take shame to myself, father,
that it should be nay feuilt of late ;
but you know that I have much to
do since my return from Paris."
"Yon shall have my pardon for
the past, if I may take your pled^
for amendment in the fbture," said
the abbot, laying his hand on Foliot's
shoulder with a kindly smile ; " and
my old friend Sir Marmaduke, and
young Sir Alwyne? they were well,
I trust, when you bad news of them
last?"
" The km^t who is aqjouming at
154
Ths Luch of Ladifmeds.'^Part VL
[^«g.
Ladjsmede gave me a good report
of them," replied Waryo; "bat
tidings from over sea, good lord
abbot, come slow and seldom/'
The Prior of Oottesford and his
brethren were now announoed, and
the abbot rose and walked half-way
down the ohapter-honse, as a conr-
teey due to the chnrchman, who was
almost of eqnal dignity with himself,
greeting him with a punctilious de-
ference, which the prior as carefully
returned, and which might perhaps
have led a shrewd observer to sus-
pect that there lay underneath no
very sound foundation of good-will
between them.
The rest of the guests were al-
ready assembled, when Sir Grodfrey's
trumpet was heard in the quadrangle
of the abbey. Abbot Martin received
the two knights with more stately
fonnality than he had thought fit to
use towards the others. Seated in
his chair of state — no mark of disre-
spect, but merely the usual privilege
of a mitred abbot, which in this par-
ticular case he did not chose to
forego — he welcomed Sir Godfrey
with a frank yet dignified courtesy,
and the Crusader with every mark of
high consideration which was due to
the king^s messenger and the -cham-
pion of the cross. The sum demanded
on behalf of King Richard had al-
ready been despatched to Sir Nicholas
at Ladysmede by trusty hands that
morning ; and the abbot had added
to it, as of his own free gifi^ a costly
ring, of which he prayed his m^esty's
acceptance, and which, if converted
into moDey on an emergency, might
have added nearly a third to the
contribution of Rivelsby. After the
first compliments had passed, Sir
Nicholas would have proceeded to
make some acknowledgement of the
abbot^s liberality; but the church-
man waved the subject aside with a
few quiet words. " We have given of
our poverty," said he, " not of our
abundance; but you will' say for us
to King Richard, that he is welcome.*'
And motioning the knight to follow
him, he led the way to the banquet-
ing-hall.
The good cheer of Rivelsby lost
none of its old repute amongst those
who were seated with the lord abbot
at the high table on the dais. Scarce-
ly less costly, and oertidnly not less
bountiful, was the entertainment
provided for the esquires and pages
who sat below, imd where Andrew
the sacrist, who had volunteered to
preside there, proved in himself a
mine of good company. At first the
guests at this lower table tried to
preserve something of la reapectfd
quiet in their tone and demeanour,
such as might beseem the scene of
the eutertaioment, and the presence
of their temporal and spiritual supe-
riors; but soon the good liquor did
its usual office in loosening meu's
tongues, and the merriment rose
higher and higher, unrestrained by
any thought of place or presence. It
was at its highest when Dubois rose
and qui ted the table unperoeived.
He paused a few moments on the
steps of the guest-hall, until he was
joined by two serving -men who
might have been seen for some half
hour past lounging carelessly in the
neighbourhood; and then led the
way, as one to whom the locality
was well known, to the foot of tlie
turret - stair which communicated
with the abbot's chamber. Motion-
ing to the men to wait below, he
himself ascended with a quiet and
confident step, without causing the
least alarm or suspicion in the minds
of one or two ancient monks who,
for want of better occupation, were
lazily watching his movements. As
he had expected, he found the outer
door unsecured, and boldly entered
the apartment. It was empty. He
passed into the smaller chamber oc-
cupied by the chaplains, but both
were with their superior in the
guest-halL He noticed by the side
of the abbot^s couch, a Jittle pallet
which had no doubt been occupied
by Giulio, but it was evident that
the cliild was not there. Dis-
appointed in his first object, the
Gascon descended again, and boldly
accosting one of the monks whom he
had observed in the cloister, with
such a quiet deferential air as to
make his question appear the most
natural proceeding in the world, he
asked him '^ where he might find the
little lad Giulio, for that the lord
abbot had a guest who desired to see
him?"
The monk, who was a very stolid
1859.]
The Lwk of ladpamede.-^F^xrt VI.
155
dpecimea of bis firaternity, shook his
hesd to intimate his Ignorance and in-
difference npon that and all other
worldly snbjects, and vouchsafed no
fbrther answer.
The esqatre was not easily to be
baffled by monk or layman. " Will
it please yon to show me the way to
the lord abbot^s stablest" he asked.
The Benediotine pointed to a gate-
way opposite to where they stood^ bat
stHl preserved a consoientions silence.
Following this direction, Dubois
fonnd his way withont difficulty into
the stable-yard. Nothing could be
more natural than that a careful
esquire ehoald see that his master's
horseboys were not hanging about
the abbey buttery npon such an hos-
pitable occasion, instead of busying
themselves in their proper duties;
though few besides Dubois, would
have cared to quit that jovial com-
pany as early as he had done on such
a Bervice. Sir Nicholas's grooms,
however, had evidently not been
seduced .from their post ; for the
esquire fonnd them all in the
stalls with their respective charges,
and the steeds gave every token of
having been fed and tended care-
fully. What might seem more
strange, some tve or six, including
Dubois' own, stood ready saddled,
and their attendants sprang to their
heads as soon as the Gascon made
his appearance.
He raised his band wamingly.
" No need yet," he said.
He tamed from the door of the
building where the train from Ladys-
mede had found their quarters, and
east what seemed a careless glance
round the ample court A man
moved forwards from .an opposite
doorway, and scarcely appearing to
notice the esquire, walked slowly
towards the centre' of the court
But some token of intelligence had
passed between them; for Dubois
moving out to join him with an in-
different air, and addressing him with
some trifling question while he was
BtiU within earshot of the others, had
no sooner reached a spot where they
could speak withont being over-
beard, than the two conversed for a
few moments in low hot earnest
tones.
Dubois returned to the stable
wUh the same deliberate step. Then
might have been remarked a slight
impatient movement of his hands, but
his satnrnine features seldom betray*
ed any change of emotion.
" You may unsaddle again, Hu-
bert," said he quietly, *^ we shall not
be moving yet ; I will commend ye
to the cellarer for honest men that
have been at their work whilst others
were drinking — he will see that ye
lose little thereby."
Leaving the stable-court, and dis-
missing the other serving-men who
were waitmg his orders, the Gascon
walked back to the guest-hall where
the company were still seated. He
resumed his place among them,
while all were too' well engaged to
question who went or came ; and if
be hod missed any part of his share
of the drinking, he took care that the
loss should be repaired. Not was he
slow in contributing to the talk
that went round ; and soon two or
three sections of the noisy audi-
ence whom each determined story-
teller was trying to claim to himself
transferred their willing attention to
Dubois, as he narrat^ with mudi
quiet art and some embellishment
the feats of Christian and Paynim in
the Holy Land.
The superior.had risen from table,
and was conversing with Foliot apart ;
the serious business of the evening
was over, for Abbot Martin was not
a man to encourage or permit, so far
as he could exercise control over his
guests, any rude debauch within his
walls, though Sir Godfrey and the
old knight of Ravenswood still lin*.
gered over their cups, and swore at
each other confidentially ; lute and
rebeck sounded through the vaulted
chamber, and the guests were walking
or discoursing in groups of two or
three ; the sacrist, having condescend-
ed long enough to play his part as
host, which he hod done to admira-
tion, at the humbler table, ha<l joined
his brethren on the dais, and was re-
paying, in very superior coinage,
one or two of the younger knights
who, like ill-conditioned youth in idl
ages, had been bantering some of the
graver churchmen to weir own in-
tense satisfaction ; when Dubois took
the opportunity to oatch the eye of
his master, and the two withdrew
166
7%e Luck of Laifsmede.-'Fart VI.
[Ai«.
together into the recess of one of the
sIde-wiDdows, and ooaversed apart.
^^ The bird is flown again. Sir Ni-
cholas,^^ said his esquire.
" Whither?"
^* I cannot learn that," replied Du-
bois; *'bat I have been rightly in-
formed thns far ; he was here so late
as yesternight."
^^ Pest on it," said the Onisader ;
^ yonr caution most have been at fault
somewhere, Dabois ; this ohurehman
bids fair to outwit us all ; can you be
sure, think you, that your informant
is not bent upon playing a douUe
game, and earning wages from both
sides?"
**I think not, replied the esquire
quietly ; " he seems to me to be deal-
ing honestly enough."
"HonesUy?" said Le Hardi with
a sneer — " Well — ^there are many in-
terpretations to that text. But yon
can surely learn sometliing further in
the matter, unless your southern wits
have grown rcsty upon our coarse
English fare."
^^ English &re is good enough,"
replied the Graseon, ^* though, saving
your worshipful presence, their wits
are none of the keenest. I shall
speedily learn more, if you will please
to give me time."
" Time is too dear for a gift, Du-
bois^take as little of it as may suffioe
for your purpose. Sir Godfrey knows
nothing of this ?"
" Not from any word of mine, Sir
Nicholas ; I reckon that the lord
abbot^s bidding him here to-day hath
stilled any suspicion he might have
had of his harbouring the boy. Gun-
dred has been forth making inquiry
in other quarters^ if I guess right;
and it seems to me that Sir Gk>dfray
does not care to have it generally
known that he is over-anxioos about
the child's recovery. I heard him
jesting with the chaplain, a day or
two since, as if it were more the
priest's business than his."
*'*' Think of it as if it were so, Du-
bois, and so speak, if you speak at all.
But it were worth much to me-^aod
to you-r-if we had him once in safe
hands — I mean in our own— over sea,
for example, Do you need money ?
for these things are ill-managed with-
out."
"I am provided for the present,"
said the esquire; *^I nevcfr pay my
workmen be^ore-haad."
^' Bight," said the knight with a
smile ; and seeing others approaching
them, he gave him some short order
to get to saddle, and so they parted.
CHAPTER XVI. — THB FALOON TOWKR.
Poor Raoul lay in the Falcon tower.
It was a building which stood alone,
at one angle of the court-yard, and
owed its erection to Sir Hugh, of evil
memory. Strange stories, true and
untrue, were told about it. A miser-
able wife, as some said, — an uncom-
pliant mistress, according to 'Others,
— had lingered out some years of
wretched liie there, and bad her pri-
son door opened at last by death.
Good Sir Bainald and Sir Miles,
while Ladysmede was theirs, kept
their falcons in the upper story of
the tower, and their dogs in the
chamber below; but Sfar Godfrey had
provided a new building, more airy
and commodious, for these important
favourites, and relegated the old
tower to something like its original
uses, by repairing the fastmings of
the heavy oak door, and renewing
the grating to the angle narrow iHn-
dow, the only reftiniishing which was
required to make the lower chamber
a very passable dungeon ; and hither
such refractory dependents as in Sir
Godfrey's eyes required pen^ disoip-
line were transferred for a longer w
shorter season. This latter question
vraa decided usually by the nnoertam
rule of the knight's capricious temper,
occasionally by accident. To do him
no injustice, the term was seldom
long. If the punishments had been
carried out according to the letter of
the sentence which was fulminated
against them at the moment, rotting
in chains, and lingering starvation,
would have been the ordinary means
of paternal correction administered at
Ladysmede ; bnt Sir Godfrey reserved
an unlimited power of mit^tion,
and after a few days, or weeks at tiie
farthest, was wont to inquire t^b&at
the missing prisoner, and welcome
1859.]
The Luak 0/ Ladysmede.-^I^m't VL
157
him back to the noisy liberty of the
faoasehold with a onrseortwoby way
of caution. The fate of one 11 nfortnnate
man-at-armfs however, who had been
placed in dnranee there for some
trifling inisdemeanoar, had come yery
near to add another tragical tale to
its legends. Sir Godfrey, after deal-
ing ont fearfbl anathemas against any
one who shonld presume to visit him
or give him food or drink, had ridden
off to some Jonsts at a distance, and
left the poor wretch under hie terrible
proscription. It was in the early
days of the knight^s Bocoeseion to the
inheritance, and the retainers who
were left behind had already learnt
to dread his fury, without understand-
ing his rapid changes of temper; and
none ventured to contravene the
order, cruel as it was. Besides, the
man was but a Fleming, after all;
and his sufferings were a matter of
comparative indifference to true-bom
Eoglishmen. Fortunately for him-
sdf, the Fleming was a very old cam-
paigner, and had had great experience
in Uie ways and means of eking ont a
limited commissariat dnring a six
months* siege in Angers. There
were rats in large families settled in
the honeycomb^ old walls; and
when the unhappy prisoner's groans
fbr help, which had been heard by
those who ventured occasionally to
approach his place of confinement,
ceased after a while, it was charitably
supposed that he had either been
eaten by them, or died of starvation.
But at length their lord returned
after an abs^oe of some three weeks,
and suddenly at table after supper
inquired for his victim, and showed
the sincerity of his compunction by
some strong execrations upon the
fools who had too faithfully observed
his orders ; when lo ! upon inquisi-
tion being made, out walked the
Fleming, ha^:ard and thin, but able
and willing to stick his long knife
then (as he took an early opportunity
of doing afterAvards, but not qaite
deep enough) into the man who had
been considered most responsible for
his safe keeping. The rats had not
eaten him ; quite the contrary ; and
though it was not very safe to ques-
tion him upon the particulars, he was
heard to swear more than once that
he had lived much harder in Angers
the last fortnight before the capi*-
tulation.
Raoul, then, lay in the Falcon tower.
Not fettered hand and foot, as a
strict interpretation of the knight's
orders would have required ; that
painful indignity even Gandred was
willing to spare him; for the gay,
free-spoken esquire was a favourite,
more or less, with all. But he was
fastened to the wall by a chain which
locked both hands, thou^ it allowed
them tolerable liberty of motion.
Sir Godfrey had strictly forbidden
all acoess to the prisoner until he
himself shoald have visited him ; but
^ere had been no word of positive
prohibition as to food and drink,
though Gundred declared that he
held that to be included. Baldwin,
who loved the youth as well as if he
had been his younger brother in blood
as well as in arms, had acted upon,
the more merciftil interpretation, and'
had handed in through the window-
bars, in the dask of the evening, a
horn of wine and a manchet; so
much he would have been ready to
risk for him, even in defiance of Sir
Godfrey ; but he obeyed him so far
as to hold no communication with
him. The cause of his disgrace was
a mystery to all the household ; for
none of them had been present, and
Raonl, burning with mortification
and insulted pride, had preserved an
obstinate silence from the moment
he had submitted to be treated as a
prisoner. A single word of thanks
for the supply which his brother
esquire hod brought him, and which
he would probably have refused from
almost any other hand, was all that
had passed his lips.
None saw the bitter tears of shame
and anger with which the poor boy
wept himself into an unquiet sleep,
and none knew how chiiled and dis-
pirited the hot excitement of his
passion over, he awoke in the eariy
morning. The sun at last made his
way through the loop-hole, half-
blocked with its iron bars, which gave
him but grudging admittance, and
the busy sounds of life awoke in
the manor-yard. The morning hours
passed on, but no one came near his
place of confinement. He applied
himself to the food which he had left
untouched the night before, and thus
168
7%0 Luck of Ladysmede.^Part VL
[A.ug.
somewhat warmed and refreshed, the
boy^s elastio spirit rose again. The
feeling uppennoet in his mind, when
be was able to gather his thoughts
into shape, had nothing in it of
shame or regret for his own rash at-
tempt, or fear of its possible conse-
qaences ; he looked upon himself as
the uffended person, and upon Sir
Grodfrey as the offender ; and sitting
there fettered to the wall, he judged
and sentenced hitn in his heart with
unrelenting seTereity. That brutal
blow had stirred passions in his
young breast which he had never
felt before. Once, indeed, on a for-
mer occasion, for some trilling neglect
of his dutits, Sir Godfrey had applied
a riding-wand to his shoulders pretty
sharply ; but then Raoul knew that
he had been to blame : besides, that
was a year ago ; he was a boy then,
and could submit to a boy's pnnish-
' ment with brave good-hnmour ; bnt
now! an esquire-at-arms, of gentle
blooil, to be struck like a hound,
anch a felon blow as that, in the pre-
sence of a stranger knight I And
for what a cause I for refusing to bear
a fale^e message to a lady I At that
thonght his heart seemed to swell
within him well-nigh to choking.
Such a frame of mind was little
likely to help him to bear his im-
prisonment with patience. Daring
what remained of daylight on the
previous evening, he had been too
utterly overwhelmed with a proud
humiliation to take much notice of
external objects. But now, as he
looked round the walk of his prison
in the full morning lights his whole
soul was concentrated on the intense
desire to escape. His hands hod
been lett sufBciently firee to enable
him to make some use of them, and
he wearied himself for some time in
wild and desperate exertions to
wrench out the strong iron staple
to which he had been secured. Find-
ing this of no avail, he next con-
trived, with some difficulty, to raise
his head to tlie level of the loop-hole,
some two or three feet above him,
through which his friend Baldwin
had lowered the supplies, and found
that it did not look into the court-
yard of the Manor, but into the open
meadow-land outside. Having thus
made out the bearings of his position,
his next business, which provided
him with occupation and amusement
for some hours, and was very usefu
in restoring him to something of a
calmer temper, was to collect from
the broken and uneven floor aJl such
stones and rubbish as lay within his
reach, so as to form a step upon
which he could partially rest, and so
make the loop-hole a post of observa-
tion. In this labour he was very
much assisted by the fact that some
painstaking predecessor in these
quarters had employed himself for
many days in grubbiog up the floor
for the very some purpose, and that
his work had been but hastily and
imperfectly levelled. H<) succeeded
so well, that by standing on tip*toe
on this litUe mound, and resting his
chin upon the embrasure, he could
command a view, for some distance,
of the path which sloped through the
meadows down to the river. Eere
be kept watch, therefore, with such
intervals of rest as his oonstndned
position forced upon him, in some
vague hope of help and rescue which
perhaps he would hardly have enter-
tained if he had been older. To the
yonng, an angel from heaven, or an
unexpected powerftil friend on earth,
seems never impossible.
So Raoul watched and waited, his
eyes fixed upon the distant path-
way as if along it he surely expected
the wistted-for deliverer must come;
while in fact to him, as to many of
us, his best hope of deUvera^oe was
already dose within his' grasp;—
literally within his grasp for if he
could have thrust his fettered hand
through the barred aperture of his
observatory, he might poee»ibly have
duU^ed the draggled cock's feather
in the cap of Picot. The floor of his
prison was sunk lower than the
ground without, and the hunter's
head was nearly level with the open-
ing. Ue was too dose underneath
for Baoul to see him ; but he beard
a foot fall upon the soft greensward
outside, and was waiting anxiously
for the owner of it to come within
his line <^ vision. To very few of
Sir Godfrey's retainers would the
young esquire have chosen to address
himself in his present undignified
position; and i^mi very few, how-
ever kindly [disposed towaroa him
1869.]
The Lack of Ladysmede.'--Part VL
159
penozuilly, coold be have looked for
more than a silent sympathy at most,
while he lay under -the fall weiffbt
of their lord's displeasare. Bat a few
notes of a merry whistle, which the
hunter strack up as he leant with his
back against the tower wall, and
rested himself from his morning's
walk, made Baonrs heart boond with
joy and hope within him. Picot,
not living within the Manor gates,
was comparatively master of his own
movements ; if he coald do nothing
towards Baonl's own release, at least
he coald convey a word of timely
warning to a quarter which, since
his conversation with the Italian,
had occnpied a large share of the
yooDg prisoner's anxieties. Raising
his head as high in the apertare as
be coald, he c^led oat caatioosly to
the banter by name.
" Saints preserve as !" cried Picot
starting — for his nervous sensibilities
were rather excitable just at present
— *• who calls me ?"
"It is I, my good friend—Raoul,
chained like a dog in this cursed
hole."
"Good lackl" said the hunter,
scarcely yet recovering himself at the
sound of the familiar voice — **How
came ye there. Master Baoul ?'' For
Picot had not visited the Manor
since the previous morning.
''Ask the unmannered brute that
calls himself my master — the fiend
reward him for this and all his
doings," replied Baoul, glad to vent
the hoarded bitterness of his heart to
any living auditor ; " may the "
" Hush, hush, I pray of thee, dear
Master Raoul," said Picot, who had
clambered up to the window and was
looking in. There was no saying
who might be listeners; and the
youth's intemperate language might
compromise both parties. **Tell me
rather, what hast done to anger
him?"
"I did but refuse to take another
man's lie in my mouth,*' said Baoul
passionately.
" I fear me much that Father Gia-
como had been corrupting thee with
some of his school learning," replied
the hunter ; ** another man's lie
Well,'* he continued, after a slight
pause of consideration, ** there doth
fie a difference in that, now I think
VOL. LZZXVI.
on't; though a plain mind, I wot,
need hardly stumble at it I would
have dealt with it all as one, as if it
had been n^ own."
It would have been quite impos-
sible for the esquire to have read
Picot a lecture on morality, under so
many difficulties; so he contented
himself with some brief common-
place about his '* honour "
" Nay, if ve come to that, my bolt
is shot," said Picot ; " honour is a
thing with which we serving^men
have nought to do; it belongs to
them of gentle blood, like the deer
and the com-landa If I could see
my way to a good slice of the last,
Master Baoul, I could be well con-
tent to leave the honour and the
hunting to my betters.**
"But listen, Picot," said the
esquire; <*I have a boon to ask of
thee.'*
** If it be any service a poor knave
like me can do — saving my duty to
my liege lord — I may promise you
to do it. Master Baoul."
" Thanks, good friend— it is nought ,
for myself at present; -but I would
put thee upon aoing a good deed for
others."
« Humph 1 I know not how it is,"
replied Picot, rather uneasily; *'I
am as little naturally given to good
deeds as most men, I dare well say, if I
know myself; but here of late I have
them thrust upon me, willy-nilly.
Ourse me if I riffhtly know what a
good deed is. I did somewhat *tother
day, sir squue, if I only dare to tell it
thee, as queer a piece of business, I
thought it, as might well be, and in
villanous company. I would as soon
have turned to deer stealing as have
had a hand in it ; and lo, now, it was
a good deed-*a brave deed— a glori-
ous deed 1 I miffht have risen to be
a ^»» Here Pioot's foot slipped
from its uncertain holding in the
wall, and he came suddenly to rather
an ignominious conclusion.
When he was up again, Baoul took
the opportunity to explain his request
further.
''I seek a trusty friend — and such
I know thou wilt prove, Picot — to
bear a message for me to Willan's
Hope, to the private ear of the Lady
Qladice."
« Blessed St Bridget 1" exclaimed
II
160
Tlu Luck of Ladifmede.'^Part VL
[Aug.
the bnnter, neftrly alipping down
again in the exoesa of his astonish-
ment ; " is the boy mad ?'' He began
to see now, as he thooght, the secret
of this prison discipline.
*' Not as yet, bat I may be driven
so,** retnmed Raonl with an impa-
tient oath ; for besides that the acca-
sation was not complimentary in it-
self, the blant familiarity with which
the hunter conveyed it rather shocked
his dignity.
Picot still eyed him donbtfally
throneh the barred loop-hole, bat he
thonght it best in any case to hnmonr
him. <*Nay, good master Baoal, I
meant no offence — bat what may
this message of yours be ?**
*< He shall bear it himself/' said a
voice behind him.
Plcoty with an exclamation of
alarm, slipped from his foot-hold
again, and, staggering backwards,
foond himself npheld by the arm of
Father Giacomo.
'* Never fear, Picot,'* said the chap<
lain, with a smile at the man's terri-
fied face which did not add to his
composare-— *' it were safer for me to
have found thee here than Gundred ;
but let me have thy place for a mo-
ment." And he sprang lightly np to
the window.
** So, my poor youth, yoa are reap*
ing already some of the penalties of
knowledge; and cursing me, doubt*
less, in your heart, for not letting
Sou do your maater's errand as any
onest fool might have done, without
questioning its particulara."
*«Not so, father,'' replied the
esquire : " if yoa spoke truly, as I
believe, I owe you thanka rather;
and if you will only let others whom
you wot of, know as much aa you
have told me, I ahall abide my time
here in more contentment''
*" Spoken like a hero and a philo-
Bopber," said the chai>lain; **bat to
descend to oonsiderationa of aelfiah
prudence, if I may touch upon such
unimportant points, — ^you would be
still better contented to go at large?"
''I would, indeed!" said Baoul,
eagerly.
•*Well— I rejoice to find that you
have so much sound judgment re-
maining^ for the talk in the house
this morning is that you showed but
little last night."
Haoul gave vent to an ejaculation
of impatience.
"Nay, never heed it," continued
the chaplain — '^ we are all mad
enough by times. But none are ao
mad, I euppoae, as to prefer ohains
to fireedom. Take f^ood hewt» young
sir ; a few hours will surely aee you
free again."
<* How ?" asked Raoul.
"Sir Godfrey's humour, aa you
know, changes from hour to hour;
I dare promise that at my lord ab-
bot's table to-day he will forget last
evening's matters ; and aa aome fool-
ish worda of mine have had their
share in bringing thia trouble upon
you, I will await him on his retom,
and plead your cause with him; it
will scarce need more than that you
ahould ask hia forgiveness, and all is
done."
<<Hi8 forgiveness!" cried Baonl,
dashing hia fettered hand againat the
atanchiona; ^^he forgive me 7 — did
yon not hear, Father Giacomo, all
that happened— -yoa spoke as if you
knew all f"
** I have heard, if I mistake not,
five different tales — all falae; the
truth I partly gueas at"
*' He struck me I struck me on the
mouth as though I had been a liar
like himself! For^veness, yon said—
I will never forgive him— never; I
have served him faithfully, and could
have loved him once — not of late, not
of late— but I will never eat his bread,
or do his biddmg more ; not if I lie
here until the old tower crumbles on
me I" And let not poor Baoul'a hero-
ism be queationed, though there was
a tremonr in hia voice, and Father
Giacomo, looking through the bars,
aaw tears.
*' So now 1" aaid the latter, turning
round to Picot, ** wiaer doctora than
myself might shake their heada over
thia poor youth'a case; but he will
hardly mend it by staying here— we
must have him forth, good Picot."
"How— what?" cried the hunter,
startled at being thus suddenly ad-
dressed, but with no comprehension
of the other's meaning.
*< We must have mm forth, I say,
if only for Sir Godfrey's sake; if he
ahould aend for him to hia preaenoe
to-morrow, he will defy him to the
death*; and what chance shall your
1859.]
The Luck of Ladymede,^Part VI
161
master have agaiost such a doaghty
champion ; on your allegiaDoe to Sir
Godfrey, Pioot, I tiball require your
help to remove from him this dan-
gerons enemy."
Giaoomo's look and tone were so
serioQS, that the hunter conld only re-
ply by a black gaze of astonishment.
** YoQ are mocking me, priest,'' said
Baonl passionately.
^ Jndge no man hastily, Raonl ;
and when yon jadge, let it be by
deeds, not words."
The chaplain drew from his |>er8on
a small file and thin saw of highlv-
tempered steel, and of foreign work-
manship, and trying their edge npon
the stanchion of the window, showed
Raonl how to use them.
" With these," said he, " an active
band might cat through chain and
hand-bolt with six hours' good work ;
but I give yon from now until mid-
night— by that time a woman might
do it You, Picot,^* he continued, as
he banded a pair of the same imple-
ments to the hunter, **mu8t take
your station here soon after dusk,
aud remove this bar, and a stone or
80, if needful; but our caged bird
here is but of slender make, and will
squeeze through where vou or I might
stick fast till doomsday. *
Picot took the tools from the Ital-
ian with the motion of an automaton.
** I will be at hand and on the
watch," continued Giacomo ; " there
is little likelihood of any interrup-
tion ; bnt if you hear the cry of an
owl in the wall beside you, Picot,
you will understand that as a signal
to cease your work for a while. Now
go your ways, and remember."
** Do not fail me, dear Picot," said
Baoul as the man still stood looking
after the chaplain, who had passed
round to the postern gate.
•*What dost think of that man.
Master RaoulT" said he, whispering
in at the window.
<< I will thick thee the best friend
I ever had, Picot, if I be ft^ to-
night"
*' It is all fbr love of thee, remem-
ber. Master Raonl, if I venture it;
I shsll be flayed alive, an it come to
Sir Godfrey's heariog."
*' I will love thee all my life, dear
Picot," said the esquire.
*' I will do it, Master Raoul, I will
do it," replied the hunter as he left
the window. — ** * Dear Picot,' —
' worthy Picot,'—* I will love thee
all my life,' quoth our young esquire.
— * I can never repay thy good deed,'
saith the lady. — ' Here is gold,' saith
the chaplain. Marry, I am in the
straight road to preferment, if I can
scape the devil and Sir Godfrey by
the way."
162
Lord Macavlay and ike Highlands of Seotland.
[Aoff
LORD VACAULAT AND THE HIGm«ANDS OF SCOTLAND.
The genealogy of PeerrV^nblic dress ar all, is the more ridicnlow
property. Without going the leogth in his eyes ; whether, in short, he
of saying, as has been said, that more despises most those who ga^e birth
English men and women read the to nis father or his mother. It is
** ' " '^ with the paternal ancestors of the
historian that we have at present to
do. He has given as, what he him-
self admits, or rather we onght to
say proclaims, to be ** not an attrac-
tive picture " of his progenitors. No
quarrel is so bitter as a family quarrel :
when a man takes to abusing bis
father or his mother, he does it with
infinitely greater gusto than a mere
stranger. Lord Macaulay's descrip-
tion of the Highlands is accordingly
so vituperative, so spiteful, so grot-
esque— it displays such command of
the language of hatred, and such
astounding power of abase, that, com-
Petrage than the Bible, it is still true
that it is a volume of whose contents
most persons have some knowledge.
Lord Macaulay^s pedigree is one of
which no man neea be ashamed, and
of which many would be prond. His
paternal grandfather was the High-
land minister of a Highland parish,
with a Highland wife and Highland
children, one of whom, Zaoharias by
name, following the example of bis
forefathers, descended into the Low-
lands to gather gear, not by lifting
cows, but by peaceful trade. The
young Zacharias found favour in the
eyes of the daughter of a Bristol
Qaaker. Friend Mills supplied that ing as it does from a writer who chal-
lenges a place by the side of Hume
and Gibbon, it takes the breath away,
and one feels almost as unable to
answer it as one would be to reply to a
torrent of blasphemy from a Bishop,
or ribaldry from a Judge, or a volley
of oaths from a young lady whose
crinoline one had just piloted, with
the utmost respect, tenderness, and
difficulty, to her place at the dinner
table. Lord Macaulay tells us that
serious and respectable but not very
erudite or accomplished society with
literature, the call for which amongst
the Quakers was not, however, so
pressing as to prevent the grand-
sire of the future essayist of the
Edinbwrgh Review from employing
his talents in periodical composition,
or from caltivating literary pursuits
as the editor of a provincial paper.
Meantime the loves of the young
Highlander and the fair Quakeress in the days of our great-grandfathers*
prospered, and from their union — that is to say, when his own grand-
sprang Thomas Babington Macaulay, father was jost beginning to " wag
Baron Macaulay of Bothley, in the his pow" in a Highland pulpit — ^if an
county of Leicester, the libeller of Englishman *' condescended to think
William Penn and the lampooner of of a Highlander at all,'' he thought
the Highlands. With Highland and of him only as a *' filthy abject savage,
Qaaker blood flowioja^ in equal cur-
rents through bis veins, it is difficult
to say whether a Highlander or a
Qaaker is the more favoorite object
of his satire and butt for the shafts
of his ridicule ; whether George Fox
or Coll of the Cows comes in for the
larger share of his contempt ; whether
the enthusiast who took off what we
are in the habit of considering as the
most essential of all garments, to
walk in the simplicity of nature
through the streets of Litchfield, or
the native of the Grampians, who
never possessed such an article of
a slave, a Papist, a cut-throat, and a
thief ;"t that the dress even of
the Highland <' gentleman *' was
''hideous, ridiculous, nay, grossly in-
decent ;'' that it was '^ begrimed
with the accumulated filth of years ;"
that he dwelt in a ^ hovel which
smelt worse than an English hog-
stye ;"t that he considered a " stab
in the back, or a shot from behind
a rock, the approved mode of taking
satisfaction for an insult;" that a
traveller who ventured into the
'^hideous wilderness" which be in-
habited, would find '^dens of rob-
♦ Vol. iU., p. 309.
t P. 307.
X P. 804.
1859.] Lard MaccnUay and the Highlands of Seotiand,
beiB^' instead of inns ; that he would
be iQ immioeDt danger of being
mardered or starved ; of *^ falling two
thousand feet perpendicular'' from a
preeipice ; of being compelled to ^ ran
for bia life" from the ** boiling waves
of a torrent" which suddenly " whirl-
ed away his baggage ;''* that he would
find in the glens " corpses which ma-
rauders had just stripped and man-
gled;'' that "his own eyes" would
probably afford 'Hhe next meal to
the eagles" which screamed over his
head ; that if he escaped these dan*
gers, be would have to content him-
sdf with quarters in which
163
" The food, the clothing, nay, the very
hair and skin of his hosts would have
put his philosophy to the prooC His
lodging would sometimes have been in
a hut, of which every nook would have
swarmed with vermio. He would have
inhaled an atmosphere thick with peat
smoke, and foul with a hundred noisome
exhalationa At supper, grain fit only
for horses would have been set before
him, acoompanied by a cake of blood
drawn from living oowa Some of the
company with whom he would have
feasted, would have been covered with
cutaneous eruption^,, and others would
have been smeared with tar like sheep.
His coach would have been the bare
earth, dry or wet, as the weather might
be, and from that couch he would have
risen half poisoned with stench, half
blind with the reek of turf, and half mad
with the itoh.*'f
"This," says Lord Macaulay, «4s
not an attractive picture," a senti-
ment we sincerely echo. If it is a
true one. Lord Macaulay's grand-
father must have had a stubborn
generation to deal with, and we fear
his preaching must have been of
little avail. We are not Highland-
ers. We believe that justice is bet-
ter administered by Queen Victoria
than ever it was by the Lord of
the Isles, or even by Fin Mac Ooul.
We would rather ride after a fox
than stalk the ** muckle hart of Ben-
more" himself. The Monarch of the
Glen may toss his royal head, and
range over his mountain kingdom
safe from our treason. We should
feel it almost a crime to level a rifle
at his deep shoulder, or to pierce his
♦ Vol lii., p. 301.
lordly throat with a skean-dhu. We
have no wish to see his soft lustrous
^ye grow dim, and his elastic limbs
stiffen under our hands. We never
wore a kilt, and never intend to
array our limbs in so comfortless a
garment. Notwithstanding all our
love and veneration for the Wizard
of the North, we cannot but think
that old Allan's harp must have been
apt to be out of tone in the climate
of Loch Elatrine, and that Helen
herself must have found her Isle too
damp to be comfortable during the
greater part of the year. We would
rather have seoi the magician him-
self in the library at Abbotsford, than
amongst the children of the mist.
Our tastes, our habits, our affections,
and our prejudices, are with the Low-
lands. But we cannot allow this
gross caricature, this shameless libel,
this malignant slander, this parricidal
onslaught by a son of the Highlands
on the people and the land of his
fathers, a race and a country which
has furnished heroes whose deeds in
every quarter of the globe have been,
and at the very time we write are
such that their names awaken a
thrill of admiration in every heart
that is capable of generous feeling, to
pass unnoticed. Lowlanders as we
are, it moves our indignation. It is
not history — to attempt to follow and
answer it step by step would be to
commit a folly only exceeded by the
absurdity of the original libel. We
prefer to introduce our readers to
the authorities on which Lord Macao-
lay professes to have founded this
gross caricature. They are few in
number, consisting of Oliver Gold-
smith, Richard Frank, who wrote a
book called Northern Memoirs, Col-
onel Gleland, and Captain Burt We
have bestowed some pains upon an
examination of them, and we pro-
ceed to lay the result before our
readers, and to show how little foun-
dation they afford for Lord Macau-
lay's malignant lampoon. We will
take them in order. Lord Ma-
caulay says, "Goldsmith was one
of the very few Saxons who, more
than a century ago, ventured to ex-
plore the 'Highlands. He vjos dis-
gusted hy the hideous toUdernesSt and
t Pp. 305, 306.
164
Lord Mdcaulay and the Highlands of Scotland.
[Aug.
declared that he greatly preferred the
charming coantry round Leyden, the
vast expanse of verdant meadows,
and the villas with [their statues and
grottoes, trim flower-beds and recti-
linear avenues."*
Those who are acquainted with
Lord Macaulay's mode of dealing
with authorities, will not be surprised
to learn that the only passage in
Goldsmith's correspondence directly
relating to his journey to the High-
lands is the following : — ** I have
been a month in the Highlands. I
set out the first day on foot, but an
ill-natured com I have got on my
toe has for the future prevented that
cheap method of travelling ; so the
second day I hired a horse, of about
the size of a ram, and he walked
away (trot he could not) as pensive
as his master. In three days we
reached the Highlands. This letter
would be too long if it contained the
description I intend giving of that
country, so 9hall make it the subject
of my next."t
Whether Goldsmith ever carried
his intentions into effect, or whether
the promised description has been
lost^ 18 not known. '*No trace of
this communication," says Mr. Prior,
** which we may believe, from his
humour and skill in narration, to
have been of an amusing character,
has been found.":t
Lord Macaulay says that Gold-
smith was "disgusted with the hide-
ous wildernees." The only thing he
expresses any disgust at is the com
on his toe, and he says nothing about
any hideous wilderness whatever.
Goldsmith, however, did write
some letters during his residence at
Edinburgh as a medical student,
and also afterwards at Leyden, con-
tatoiBg a few passing observations
upon Scotland generally, which Lord
Macaulay quotes as if they referred to
the Highlands in particular. These
letters Lord Macaulay either wholly
misunderstands, or has grossly mis-
represented. Probably no two men of
genius ever were more dissimilar than
Oliver Goldsmith and Lord Mac-
aulay. The delicate humor and re-
fined satire of the former appear to be
wholly incomprehensible to the latter.
Goldsmith handles his adversary as
Isaac Walton did the frog he impaled
on his hook "as though he loved
him." His weapon is the smallest
of small swords, which he wields with
wonderful skill The wound is fatal,
but the weapon that infiicts it is so
delicate that hardly any blood is
shed. Lord Macaulay lays about
him with an axe ; he mauls and dis-
figures his foe; he splashes about in
blood and brains ; he is not content
with slaying his enemy, he stamps
upon his carcass, tears his limbs in
pieces, seethes them in pitch, and
gibbets them like his own Tom
Boilman. It is hardly possible to
avoid feeling some sympathy for the
criminal, however execrable, to whom
Lord Macaulay plays the part of
executioner. Goldsmith is the gen-
tlest and meet playful of writers.
To conceive Lord Macaulay either
gentle or playful would be to con-
jure up an image which would be
grotesque if it were not impossible,
ft is not, therefore, surprising that
Lord Macaulay should wholly mis-
interpret the two letters from which
he quotes a few lines, which, taken
apart from the context and applied
to a subject to which they do not
refer, appear at first sight in some
degree to jostify his remarks. The
first of these letters is addressed by
Goldsmith to his friend Bryanton, at
Bally mahon, and has been omitted
(Mr. Prior tells us) from most of the
Scottish editions of his works, "for
no other reason, as it appears, than
containing a few harmless jests upon
Scotland."! In this playful letter he
laughs alike at the Irish sqnires and
the Scotch belles, who, he says, never-
theless, are ^ten thousand times fairer
and handsomer than the Irish," an
opinion which he expressly desires may
l)e communicated to the sisters of his
Irish friend, for whose bright eyes he
'* does not care a potato." He describes
an Edinburgh ball, retails the observa-
tion^ of three " envious prades'* upon
the beautiful Dachess of Haihilton,
and desires especially to know if
" John Binely has left off drinking
drams, or Tom Allen got a new
• VoL iil, p. 302.
t Pbioe*s Gcidamilhy v. 148.
§ Ibid., V. 491.
X Ibid., V. 146.
1859.]
Lord Maeaday and the ffifffdands qf Scotland,
165
wig?" It is thisplayfal badlnaM of
tbe young medical student that Lord
Macaalay gravely quotes as tbe jadg-
ment of the " author of the Traveller
and the Deserted Village.'^
The other letter is written about
six months afterwards from Leyden,
and addressed to his uncle Oontarioe,
It is in tbe same vein of playful
humour. The principal object of his
satire is, boweverf the Dutchmen ;
and Lord Hacaolay might just as
well have quoted the following d&*
Bcription as a faithful portrait of
Bentinck or of WilHam himself, as
the fyw lines he devotes to 8oo^
land as a picture of that country.
"Tbe downright Hollander/' says
Gk^dsmitb, "is one of the oddest
fignres in nature. Upon a head of
lank hair he wears a half-cocked
narrow hat, laced with black ribbon ;
no coat, but seven waistcoats and nine
pair of breecheS) so that his hips
reach almost up to bfs armpits. This
well-dothed vegetable is now fit to
see company or to make lova But
what a pleasing creature is the object
of his appetite I Why, she wears a
large far cap with a deal of Flanders
lace, and for every pair of breeches
he carries she puts on two petticoats!'*
Eighteen petticoats! — a warm and
substantial crinoline We trust that
the gauzy garments of the present
day are applied to no such purf)O0e
as that which Goldsnuth describes
in the next paragraph : ** Ton must
know, sir, every woman carries in
her hand a stove with coals in it,
which, when she sits, she snugs un-
der her petticoats; and at this chim-
ney dozing Strephon lights his pipe.'*
In this playful strain he goes on to
compare the Dutch women with the
Scotch women, and tbe country he
had just left with the country in
which he had just arrived. Scotland,
he observes very truly, is hilly and
rocky, while Holland ** is all a con-
tinued plain." He compares the
Scotchman to a ** tulip planted in
dung,^' and the Dutchman to an '*ox
in a maenifioent temple." We con-
fess we do not recognise the truth of
either simile ; the wit is too evanes-
cent for us. But about the Highlands
there is not one word.
We need not, therefore, trouble
ourselves further as to any weight
which Lord Macaulay's strictures
derive from the snppbsed authority
of Oliver Goldsmitn ; whatever he
knew or thought, he has told us
nothing.
The next in the list of Lord Mac-
anlay's authorities is less known.
Richard Frank was bom at Cam-
bridge about the beginning of the
seventeenth century. He resided at
Nottingham, was strongly imbued
with the peculiar religious tenets of
the Independents, served as a trooper
in the army of Cromwell, and about
tbe year 1656 or 1657 visited Scot-
land. His description, therefore, ap-
plies to a period nearly a century be-
fore the days of our great-^and-
fathers. Lord Macaulay, referring to
this book, says that *'five or six
years after the Revolution^ an inde-
fatigable angler publbhed an account
of Scotland '^** that, though profess-
ing to have explored the whole king-
dom, he had merely ''caught a few
glimpses of Highland scenery ;" t
that he asserts that *'few English-
men had ever seen loverary. All
beyond Inverary was chaos fX and
Lord Macaulay adds in a note to a
subsequent passage — ^''Mnch to the
same effect are the very few words
which Frank Philanthropus (1694)
spares to the Highlanders : ' They
live like Hards, and die like loons —
hating to work, and no credit to bor-
row : thev make depredations, and rob
their nei^bours.^ "{
This is all, we believe, for which
he cites the Nortlum Memoirs,
Lord Macaulay is inaccurate as to
the name, wrong as to the date, and,
as we shall see presently, in error
both as to what the author saw of
the HigUands, and what he says of
them.
Lord Macaulay cites the book as
if it were writen under the pseudo-
nyme of <* Philanthropus '*—4i desig-
nation which Richard Frank adds to
his name, according to the fantastical
fashion of his day, as he might
have called himself **Piscator," or
"Yenator," or "Yiator," after the
manner of Isaac Walton. The book
was written in 1658, thirty years
• Vol in., p. 303.
flbid.
J Ibid.
§ Vol iU., p. 310.
166
I/Mrd Macaulay and the Higfdandi of Scotland,
[Aug-
before the Bevolntion, instead of six
years after.'*'
Instead of merely catching a few
glimpses of Highland scenery, he
Tisited eyery Highland county, and
penetrated to the north of Sutherland
and Caithness. Instead of saying that
*' all beyond Inyerary was chaos,''
or giving the character of the High-
lands which Lord Macaulay attri-
butes to him, his wor^ are as fol-
lows : —
" It may be so, for here we cannot
stay to inhabit, nor any longer enjoy
those solitary recreations ; we must steer
our courae by the north pole, and re-
linquish those flourishing fields of Kin-
tire and Inverary, the pleasant bounds of
Marquis Argyle, which very few English-
men have made disoovety o^ to inform
us of the glories of the Western High-
lands, enriched with grain and the plenty
of herbage. But how the Highlanders
will vindicate Bowhidder and Loohaber,
with Reven in Badenoch, that I know
not ; for there they live like liards and
die like loons : hating to work and no
credit to borrow, they make depredations^
and so rob their neighbour8."f
So that we see that the words Lord
Macanlay quotes as applicable to the
Highlands in general, are used by
Frank in reference to the districts of
Balquidder, for such we presume to
be the place called by him Bowhidder,
Lochaber and a part of Badenoch, the
lawlessness of which he contrasts
with the rest of the Highlands ; and
instead of all beyond Inverary being
chaos, it is in these *' pleasant bounds "
that *'the glories of the Western
Highlands, enriched with grain and
plenty of herbage," are to be found.
The opinion which Frank formed
of Scotland he has not been niggard-
ly in expressing. He sums it up
thus : —
"For you are to consider, sir, that
the whole tract of Scotland is but one
single series of admirable delights, not-
withstanding the prejudicate reports
of some men that represent it otherwise.
For if eyesight be argument convincing
enough to confirm a truth, it enervates
my pen to describe Scotland's curiosities,
which properly ought to fall under a
more elegant style to range tbem in
order for a better discovery. For Soot-
land is not Europe's wribra, as fictitious-
ly imagined by some extravagant wits.
No; it's rather a legible fair draught of
the beautifiil creation dressed up with
polished rocks, pleasant savannahs^
flourishing dales, deep and torpid htkes,
with shady firwoods immerged "with
rivers and gliding rivulets; where every
fountain overflows a valley and evezy
ford superabounds with flsh ; where also
the swellmg mountains are covered with
sheep, and the marish grounds strewed
with cattle, whilst every field is filled
with com, and every swamp swarms
with fowl This, in my opinion, pro-
daima a plenty, and presents Scotland
a kingdom of prodigies and products too,
to allure foreigners and entertain tra-
veller8."t
It is greatly to be regretted that
Frank, who bad the opportunity of
afibrdiog so much information, should
have been led by his intolerable
pedantry into a style of writbg fit
only for Don Adriano de Armado.
If he had been content to "deliver
himself like a man of this worki," his
book would have formed a most
valuable record of the condition of
the country at a time when (though
we by no means accept Lord Mao-
aulay's assertion that less was known
of the Grampians than of the Andes)
we are certainly in want of accurate
and impartial information. The
book is scarce, and the reader may
take the following description of
Dumbarton as a fair sample of the
intolerable style in which the whole
of it is written. Amoldus, it must
be remembered, was Frank himself.
. "Theoph. — ^What lofty domineering
towers are those that storm the air and
stand on tip-toe (to my thinking) npon
two stately elevated pondrus rocks, that
shade the valley with their prodigious
growth, even to amazement? Because
they display such adequate and exact
proportion, with such equality in their
mountainous pyramides, as if nature had
stretched them into parallel lines with
most accurate poize, to amuse the most
curious and critical observer; though
with exquisite perspectives he double
an observation, yet shall he never trace
a disproportion in those uniform pier-
monta
* See Preface by Sir Walter Scott to the edition of Frank's book, 1821.
\ P. 144. X Frank's Northern Memoiray preface, p. 10.
1859.]
Itord Macaulay and the Highlands of Scotland.
167
*' Abn. — These are thoee natoral and
not artiflcial pynunidea that have stood,
for oagfat I know, since the beginnings
of time ; nor are they sheltered under
any disgaise, for Nature herself dressed
up this elaborate preclpieoe, without art
or engine, or any other manual, till ar-
riving at this period of beauty and per-
fecUoD. And because, having laws and
limits of her own, destined by the pre-
rogative-royal of Heaven, she heaped up
these massy inaooesdble pyramides^ to
invalidate art and all its admirers, siooe
so equally to shape a mountain, and to
form it into so great and such exact pro-
portion&
* Theoph. — ^Then it's no fancyi I Per-
ceive, when in the midst of those lofty
and elevated towers a palace presents it-
self unto us, immurred with rocks and a
craggy flront^ that with a haughty brow
contemns the invaders; and where
below, at tbofse knotty descents, Neptune
careers on brinish billows, . armed with
tritons in corselets of green, that threa-
tens to invade this impregnable rock,
and shake the foundations, which if he
do, he procures an earthquake.
"Abn.— This is the rock; and that
which you see elevated in air, and ino-
culated to it^ is an artificial fabrik, inve-
lop't, as you now observe, in the very
breast of this prodigious mountain;
which briefly, yet well enough, your
observation directs to, both as to the
form, situation, and strength. Moreover,
it's a garrison, and kept by the Albion?,
where formerly our friend Fcelecius
dwelt, who of late upon preferment is
transplanted into Ireland : however,
Aquilla will bid us welcome ; and if I
mistake not, he advances to meet us:
look wiahly forward, and you'll see him
trace those delightful fields from the
ports of Dumbarton.
"Aquil. — What vain delusions thus
poosesa me I Nay, what idle dotages
and fictitious dreams thus delude me,
if these be ghoets which I Skncj men. —
0 heavens I it's our friend ^moldus, and
(if I mistake not) Theophilua with him-
Weloome to Dumbarton T'*
After aome farther conYersation in
the same style, ArooIduB and Theo-
philofl display their fishing-rods, and
all three forthwith desoend firom
their stilts, and talk like men of this
world. "I'm for the fiy," savs Ar-
noldua. ** Then I'm for gronDd-bait,"
replies AqnUla. "And I'm for any
bait or any colour, so that I be but
doing," exdaims Theophilos ; and
then follows a discosaion upon brand-
lings, gildtails, cankers, caterpillars,
grube, and locnsts, with a barbarous
snggestion to " strip off the legs of a
gianhopper,'' worthy of that "* qoaint
old cmel cozoomb," Isaac Walton,
whom, in spite of all his oold-blooded
abominations, we cannot help loving
inonr hearts. The three friends then
part, Arnoldos for the head, or more
properly the foot, of Loch Lomond,
whilst Aquilla and Theophilus re-
main to try their lack and skill in the
waters of Leven, and meet again to
compare their sport and display their
spoil Frank was a dull man on every-
thing bat fishing. When the rod and
the fly are concerned he writes in
earnest, his intolerable pedantry and
afiectation disappear, and his book,
like all books containing a mixture of
natural history, topography, sport-
ing, and personal adventure, is de-
lightful. His pedantry and dalness
spoil every other subject ; even the
Elitropia of Boc(»ccio, and the story
of Bailie Pringle's cow, and the
Doch-an-dorroch, beeame stnpid and
tiresome in his hands ; and he gives
an account of the venerable Laird of
Urqahart, who was the happy father
of forty legitimate children, and '
who at the latter part of his life
was in the habit of going to bed
in his coffin, which was then hauled
by pulleys close np to the ridgetree
of the house, in order that the old
gentleman might be so much the near-
er heaven should he receive a sudden
summons, without any appreciation of
thegrotesque humour of tbe old man.
Here and there a peevish word
escapes him at the want of the com-
forts he bad been accustomed to on
the banks of the Trent, and did not
find in the wilds of Sutherland and
Cromarty ; but so far from encoan-
tering any of the perils which Lord
Macaulay paints so vividly, he says,
writing in a remote part of Suther-
landshire, " Let not our discourse dis-
cover us nngratefal to the inhabi-
tants, for it were madness more than
good manners not to acknowledge
civilities from a people that so civilly
treated us."t This was in 1657.
Lord Macaulay's next witness is
• Pp. 109, 110.
t P. 211.
168
Lord Maeaulay and the Higfiiands qf Scotland.
[Aug.
William Oleland. He Yooches him
to prove the important flMt of the
tar. "For the tar," bkjs Lord
Macanlaj, ''I am indebted to Ole-
land's poetry."* Oleland deserves
to be remembered for better things
than a poem which Lord Macaalay
himself elsewhere describes as a
*^ Hadibrastic satire of very little in-
trinsio valQe."t He was an accom-
plished man and a gallant soldier,
bnt abont as bad a witness as to
anything concerning the Highlanders
as can be conceived. Dnring the
whole of his short life he was engag-
ed in a bitter hand-to-hand contest
with them. It was a straggle for life
or death, and only terminated when
Cleland, at the age of twenty-seven,
fell by a Highland ballet at the head
of the Gameronians, daring his
irallant and successfhl defence of
Dankeld from the attack of the
Highlanders in 1689. No one, there-
fore, would think of regarding Ole-
land as an impartial witness. Bat
his poem, which Lord Macanlay
quotes, will be found on examination
to relate, not to the Highlands and
their inhabitants in general, to whom
Lord Macaulay applies it, but simply
to that " Highland Host" which was
sent by Lauderdale to ravage the
west in 1678, when Cleland was a
boy of seventeen. It does not pro-
fess even to give any descrip-
tion of the Highlanders in general.
The book is extremely scarce ; the
only copy we have seen — a small
12mo in the Grenville Collection— is
marked as having cost three guineas.
We therefore give the passage
which liOTd Macaulay refers to en-
tire, in' order that the reader may
fudge how far this description of the
awless rabble, let loose upon free
aoarter on the western counties, justi-
fies Lord MacauUfcy's account of the
company with whom a peaceful tra-
veller would have <' feasted" when
journeying across Scotland. Even
Oleland, it will be seen, draws by no
means a contemptible picture of the
officers of this host, his description
of whose dress and accoutrements
well befits the leaders of an irregular
force.
■* Bat to dlierlve them rigbt sarpusM
The art of nine Pirnuens iMsea,
Of Lnean, Ybf^, or of Honw,
Of Ovid, Homer, or of Floras;
Yea, sure inch alghta might have In-
clined
A man to nanoeateat mankind :
Borne might have Judged thej were the erea-
tares
Called Belfles, whoa costomes and fea*
tans
ParaoelsiM does descry
In his Oecalt Philosophy;
Or Faanea, or Brownies, If ye win.
Or Satyrct, come f^om Atlas hill,
Or that the three-tongaed tyke was sleep-
ing
Who hath the Btyglan door a-keeplng,
Their head, their neck, their legees, and
thighs,
Are loflnenced by the skies.
Without a doat to Interrupt them.
They need not strip them when they whip
them.
Nor loose their doablet when they*re
hanged ;
If they be mlased, Its Bare theyYe
wronged.
This keeps their bodies from corrup*
tiona,
From flstnls, hnmoars, and eruptions,
Their darks hang down between their
Where they make many slopes and
,' rubbing on their naked side.
And wambling from side to side.
Bat those who were their chief command*
era,
And such who bore the plmle standarts,
Who led the van and drove the rear,
Were right well mounted of their gear ;
With Brogaea, Treues, and plmle plaldee,
With gudeblew Bonnets on their heads,
Which on the one aide had a fllpe
Adorned with a Tobacco-pipe.
With Dark and anapwork, and Snaff>
mllle,
A bag which they with onions fill.
And. ss their strick observers say,
A tube-horn filled with osquebay,
A alasbed oat coat beneath her platdea,
A targe of timber, nalles, and hides.
With a Ions two-handed sword.
As good's tne country can affoord.
Had they not need of bulk and bonee
Who fight with all these arms at onoe?
It*s marvellous how In such weather,
0*er hlU and hop they came together.
How In each storms they came so tar;
The reason is, they're smeared witii tar,
Which doth defend them heel and
neck.
Just as it does their sheep protect ;
■But least ye doubt that this be trew,
They*re Just the colour of tarrM wool.
Vol iii., p. 306.
t Vol iil, p. J76.
1859.]
L&rd Macmlay and the Highlands of Scotland.
169
Nought ifke religion tbej r«t«lo.
Of moral bonestle they're dean;
In nothing they're aoooimted shftrp,
Bxoept In iMffplpe and In harpe.
For a miaobilgliig word
Shell dark her nelghboar over the
boord;
And then ehell flee like fire from Hint,
She'll aearoely ward the second dint
If any ask her of her thrift,
Foreeooth her nain eeUe Utos by thift"*
GIe1aDd*8 picture of the ** Highland
Host" may pass well enough with
Gilray's caricatnres of Napoleon's
army. As an illnstration of what
people said and thought, it is valu-
able ; as a record of facts it is worth-
less. A far greater satirist, some
years later, drew a French officer
preparing his own dinner by spitting
half-a-dozen frogs on his rapier, and
a Glare -market batcher tossing a
French poetillion, with a large port-
manteau on his back, bodily over his
Bhonlder with one hand. Even Lord
Macaulay could hardly cite Hogarth
to prove the diet of the French army,
or the proportion of muscular strength
of the two nations respectively.
Lord Macaulay's total want of
perception of humour, of the power
of distinguishing a grotesque play of
fancy from the solemn assertion of a
fact, leads him into numerous errors.
We now come to Lord Macaulay's
principal authority — '' almost all
these circumstances,'* he says (with
a special exception of the tar in
honour of Colonel Oleland), "are
taken from Burt's Letters, "f Biere,
then, we arrive at the fountain-head.
Bart's Letters were first published
in 1754. They were written twenty
or thirty years earlier— that is to say,
about Uie latter end of the reign of
George L Burt was a man of abil-
itv, and possessed considerable power
of observation; but he was a cox-
comb and a cockney. He was
quartered at Liverness with some
brother officers, one of whom at-
tempted to ride "through a rain-
bow,'*^ and another became so terri^
fied on a hill-side (where there was,
be it observed, a horse-road) that in
panic terror he clang to the heather
on the mountain-side, and remained
there till he was resoaed by two of
his own soldiers.; Others of the
party attempted to ascend to the top
of Ben Nevis, " but could not attain
it."|| They related on their return
that this "wild expedition," unsno-
cessfhl as it was, *' took them up a
whole summer^s day from five in the
morning." They returned thankful
that they had escaped the mists, in
whioh, had the^ been caught, they
*^mtist have pertsbed with cold, wet,
and hunger.**^ Burt himself travell-
ed on horseback, with a sumpter-
horse attending him. With this equi-
page he attempted to ride over a
bog, and got bogged as he deserved ;
next he tried bog-trotting on foot, in
heavy jackboots with high heels,**
with little better suooess. Old hock,
claret, and French brandy were ne^
oessary to his comfort — he nauseated
at the taste of whisky and the smell
of peat He has left a minute ac-
count of his personal adventures dur-
ing an expedition into the Highlands
in October 172—. His route we
have attempted in vain to trace. He
met with bad weather, and was forced
to take refuge in a ^hut." Let us
hear the description which this fine
gentleman has left of his quarters
under the most disadvantageous cir-
cumstances : — "My fare,'* he says,
** was a couple of roasted hens (as they
call them), very poor, new killed, the
skins much broken with pluckine,
black with smoke, and greased with
bad butter, tt As I had no great ap-
Eetite to that dish, I spoke for some
ard eggs, made my supper of the
yolks, and washed them down with
a bottle of good small claret. My
bed had clean shtets and blankets.
. . . . For want of anything more
proper for breakfast, I took up with
a little brandy, water, sugar, and
yolks of eggs beat lip together, which
I think they called * old man's milk.' "
We have many a time ourselves been
thankful for for worse fbre than this,
A couple of fowls brandered, fresh
eggs, butter not to be commended,
g^od light claret, brandy-and-water
hot, with clean sheets and a clear
turf fire — not bad chance-quarters.
♦ Cleland's Highland Edet, pp. 11, 13.
§ BuBT, vol. U., p. 46. I P. 11.
•• P. 27. tt Vol. ii., p. 41.
t Vol. iii., p. 306. J P. 68.
^ Vol u., p. 12.
170
Lord Maiaulay and ths Highlandt of Sdotiand.
[^
wben a bdow - Btorm was bowling
down the glens, whiriiog madly ronnd
the moontaiiMk and beattog on the
roof which sheltered the thanklecs
cockney. Better, at any rate, than
he deserved. Bart saw nothing in
the
** Land of browB b«tth and thigRT wood.
Land of the monntain and theinood,'*
bat ridges of ** ragged irregalar iines,'*
those which *' appear next to the ether
being rendered extremely harsh to
the eye by appearing close to that
diaphanoas bod^.'* What he thinks
**the most horrid, is to look at the
hills from east to west, or vice t«rsA ;''
and he sighs for '*a poetical moan-
tain, smooth and easy of ascent,
clothed with a Terdant flowery tarf,
where shepherds tend their flocks,
sitting ander the shade of tall pop-
lars.'' ♦ Bart was a
" Sir Flame, of amber annff-box Jostl/ vain.
And the nloe manage of a doaded oane."
Richmond Hill was fairer in his eye
than Ben Craachan. He measures
the terrors of a moantain - pass by
saying that it was " twice as high as
the cross of St Panrs is from Ladgate
Hill.' t From the top of his hat to
the sole of his shoe be was a cockney,
one of those men for whose eyes Uie
foxglove hangs its banner oat in
vain, who trample the wild violet
remorselessly under the soles of their
varnished boots, who see nothing bat
gloomy parple in that heather whose
bloom even the troth of eye and skill
of hand of Oreswick or Richardson
fails to transfer in all its richness
and all its tenderness to canvass or
to paper, whose eyea are blind to
the countless beaaties of the brown
winter wood, and whose ears are
deaf to that melody in the soogh of
the wind through the leafless trees,
which never fSn^ed to awaken kin-
dred poetry in the soul of Barns. We
have no doubt that a London dining-
room is more agreeable to all Lord
MacauUty's senses than the wildest
glen in which stag ever crouched
among the bracken, and that Mr.
Edwin Ohadwick would rather lay
his nose to the grating of a sewer
than inhale the sweetest breeze that
ever came love-laden with the Uoa
of the honeysackle from the 8bo»
of lonis&lleQ. Yet even Bart, a
we have seen, in no way snpportt
Lord Maeaulay*s description. Tk
risk of murder and robbery, so cja-
quently dilated upon by Lord Hl^
aulay, is disposed of at once by Bot
in the following passage : —
" Personal robberies are flddom hnri
of among tbem. For my own pan^l
have several times, with a single serrsot,
passed the mountain- way from benoe \a
Edinburg with four or five huodr^
guineas in my portnumteau, without irr
apprehension of robbers by the way «
danger in my lodgings at night ; tboD^ a
my sleep any one, with ease, might haTt
thrust a sword from the outside throogh
the wall of the hut and my body to-
gether. / wish we could say as mad
of our own country^ eiviUsed as it Utaid
to hcj though W6 ccmnot be safe in go»g
from London to Highgaie,^*
This is the witness Lord Macanlaj
produces to prove the imminent peril
a traveller m the Highlands was in
of being ** stripped and mangled" by
marauders, and his eyes given as a
meal to the eagles !
Neither Burt nor Frank intimate
that they were ever in the alightess
personal danger of this kind. The
Srecipices and the torrents, on the
angers of which Lord Macaulay
dilates, are precisely the same now
that they were a hundred years ago ;
the risk of faJling from the former
depends on the quantity of whisky
the traveller may have imbibed, and
is no greater than it is on the top of
Sleive League or the pass of Strides
Edge. The perils of the ford de-
pend on the skill and care of those
who traverse it We ourselves were
of a party, but two years ago, in the
north of Boss, when two ladies, a
pony, and a basket - carriage, were,
to use Lord Macaulay's magniloquent
expression, ** suddenly whirled awaj
bv the boiling waves of a torrent."
The pony swam as Highlands ponies
know how to swim. As for the pre-
cious freight, they, like Ophelia,
**Fell in the weeping brook; their cLoaths
spread wide.
And mermaid-like awhile did bear tbem
up/
♦ BUBT, Vol il, p. 13.
t Vol U., p. 45. X "^ol- "•! P- 217.
1859.]
Lord Macaulay and the Highlands of Scotland,
171
Tfans liappily rescoed from ^'mnddy
death/' thej shook down their long
wet tresees, wrong oot " their gar-
ments heavy with their drink/' and
joined heartily in the laughter which
followed close npon the momentary
alarm occasioned bv the adventure.
All depends, in tneae cases, upon
laying nold of the right handla A
man whose head turns giddy at the
top of a precipice, who fears to walk
through a stream up to his middle,
who cannot feed well and sleep sound
on such Aire and in such quarters as
Captain Burt thought it a hardship
to be compelled to take up with a
hundred and fifty years i^o, who
detests whiskey and peat-smoke, bad
better keep out of the Highlands,
where he would be as much out of
place as Lord Macaulay attempting
to ride across Leicestershire with Mr.
Little Gilmonr or Lord Forester.
The idea of making one's supper
upon a cake composed of oats and
cow's blood is not agreeable. But it
must be remembered that this is
mentioned by Burt* not as fare that
had ever been set before himself or
any other traveller, but as an expe-
dient resorted to ** by the lower order
of Highlanders" in seasons of extra-
ordinary scarcity ; and aft^r all, we
may fairly ask ourselves whether our
diQguat 18 not more moved by the
revolting description than by the
actual diet itself. Did Lord Macau-
lay of Rothley, in the county of
Leicester, never eat black-puddiog or
lamb's tails ? both of which, we can
assure him, are esteemed delicacies
in that part of the world. If he did,
what would he think of seeing his
repast described in the following
manner? <^At dinner a pudding
composed of grain fit only for horses,
mixed with Sie blood and fat of a
pig, and boiled in a bag formed of
the intestines of the same unclean
beast, was set before him. This was
followed by a dish composed of joints
cut with a knife from the bodies of
living Iambs, whose plaintive bleat-
ings, as they wriggled their bleeding
stumps within bearing and sight, did
cot disturb the appetite of the guest
Such was the diet which a Peer, a
poet, and a historian did not think
unpalatable in the middle of the
nineteenth century."t One might go
on ad ipflnitum with similar illus-
trations: Shrimps are esteemed uni-
versally, we believe, to be delicate
viands, and are especially in favour
with the visitors at Margate and
Heme Bay, who call them '* swimps."
What would be the effect upon Mr.
and Mrs. Tomkins, and all the Mas-
ter and Mies Tomkinses, as they re-
turn home by the Gravesend boat, if
they were told that they had feasted
for a week upon obscene reptiles, fed
npon the putrid flesh of dead dogs
and drowned sailors, and packed in
earthen vessels covered with rancid
butter? Jx>rd Macaulay, we pre-
sume, does not visit Rosherville, but
probably be eats *'swimps" some-
where; and we have no doubt that
he spreads the trail of a woodcock
upon a toast (first carefully extract-
ing the sandbag), and swallows it
with a relish which we should be
sorry to interfere with by describing
how the fine fiavour which delights
his palate is produced. It is absurd
to look too minutely into these mat-
ters, but a very little reflection will
show that it fs equally absurd to rely
upon them as being necessarily indi-
cations of barbarism.
That there were and still are huts
in the Highlands which swarm with
vermin, and whose inhabitants are
subject to cutaneous diseases, we are
by no means disposed to deny. Un-
happily the same thing may be said
with truth of every county in Eng-
land, nay, of every parish in London.
Within a stone's throw of St. James's
Palace, garrets may be found the in-
habitants of which suffer from all the
maladies in Lord Macaulay's loath-
some catalogue, and more to boot.
• Vol. ii., p. 109.
\ This fbct is alluded to in a beautifiil ballad, some stanzas of which have been
handed down to our own day, aud which tells us that when
* Little Bo-peep had lost her sheep.
And didn't know where to find them ;
6he found them indeed,
Bnt It made he r heart bleed.
For they'd left their tftils behind them.**
172
Lo/r& Maeaulay and the Highlands qf Scotland,
[Aug.
That outrages revolting to hamanitj
have been, and as long as the pas-
sions and vices of haman natare re-
main what they are, will again be
perpetrated in the Highlands, as well
as in every other place where man has
set his foot, we freely admit Few
vears have passed since, in the very
heart of London, a wretched woman
was bratally murdered in the coarse
of her miserable and degraded pro-
fession, and the mnrderer, for aught
we know, still walks the streets in
safety. Not many months affo, one
mangled corpse was dropped over
the parapet of Waterloo Bridge,
and another, stripped naked, was
thrown into a ditch within five miles
of Hyde Park Comer; in neither
case has the murderer been brought to
justice. If we were disposed to paint
a picture of the state of London after
the manner of Lord Maeaulay, from
these materials (foots, be it remem-
bered, reeorded not in a lampoon or
satire, but on the registers of the
police and the reports of coroners'
inquests), what a den of assassins,
what a seething caldron of vice and
profligacy, what an abode of crime,
disease, misery, and despair, might we
represent the metropolis of the British
Empire to be I
Burt, as we have said, was a
Cockney. His highest idea of sport
was a little quiet hare-hunting. It
was not until many years latter that
Somerville (to whose memory be all
honour paid) sketched a character
DOW happily not uncommon. It was
reserved for us in the present day to
see the keenest sportsman, the best
rider to hounds, the most enduring
deer-stalker, and most skilful angler,
at the same time an accomplished
scholar, an eloquent writer, an orator,
and a statesman.* Amongst the wits
of the reign of Queen Anne, the fox-
hunting country squire was the con-
stant subject of ridicule. Burt aped
their mode of thought, and it will be
seen that his picture of the English
squire is fully as unpleasing as that
of the Highland laird ; it wHl be seen
also how little foundation the latter,
hostile and prejudiced as it is, affords
for Lord MacaaUy's representatioD
of him as a filthy treacherous eavage^
who held robbery to be a calling
**not merely innocent but honour-
able,** who revenged an insult by a
" stab in the back," and who, whilst
he was ''taking his ease, ^hting,
hunting, or marauding," compiled
hia ^aged mother, his pregnant wife^
and his tender daughters" to till the
soil and to reap the harvestf
Burt thos compares the English
fox-hunter and the Highland laird :—
''The first of these chaiacter^" (he
says) "ia, I own, too trite to be giveo
you — ^but this by way of oompanaoii.
The squire is proud of hia estate and
affluence of fortune, loud and pomtire
over hia October, impatient of contradic-
tion, or rather will give no opportunity
for it ; but whoopa and hallooe at ereiy'
interval of his own talk, aa if the com-
pany were to supply the absence of his
bounds. The particular charactera of
the pack, the various occurrencee in a
chase, where Jowler is the eternal hotk,
make the constant topic of his disoouree^
though perhaps none others are interest-
ed in it And his favourites^ the tren-
oher-hocmds, if they please^ may lie uo-
disturbed upon chairs and counterpanes
of silk ; and upon the least cry, though
not hurt, hia pity is excited more for
them than if one of his children had
broken a limb; and to that pity his
anger succeeds, to tbe terror of the
whole family.
" Tbe laird is national, vain of the
number of his followers and his absolute
command over them. In case of contra-
diction be ia loud and imperious, and
even dangerous, being always attended
by those who are bound to support his
arbitrary sentimenta
" Tbe great antiquity of hia fami^,
and the heroic actions of his ancestora^
in their conquest upon the enemy clana,
is tbe inexhaustible theme of hia con-
versation ; and, being accustomed to do-
minion, he imagines himself in his usky,
to be a sovereign prince, and, as I said
before, fancies he may dispoae of heads
at his pleasure.
* That tbia is a true picture of a numerous daas^ will be admitted by all. To
the minds of those who ever had the happiness to meet him, on the moor, in the
field, in the House of Commons^ or at hia own fireside, or who are acquainted wiih
his admirable Essays on AgricuUurej the late Mr. Thomas Gisbome of Yoxal Lodge
will at once occur as one of the most remarkable examples of that class.
t Vol. iii., p. 805.
1859.]
Lord Macauhy and the Highlands of Scotland.
'' Thus one of them places his vanitf
in his fortune, and his pleasure in his
hounds. The other's pride is in his
lineage, and his delight is in command,
both arbitranr in their waj; and this
the excess of liquor discovers in both.
So that what little difference there Is
between them, seems to arise from the
aoctdeot of their birth ; and if the ex-
change of countries had been made in
their io&ncy, I make no doubt but each
might have had the other's place, as
thej stand separately described in this
letter. On the contraiy, in like manner
as we have manj country gentlemen,
merely such, of great humanity and
agreeable (if not general) conversation ;
80 in the Highlands I have met with
some lairds who surprised me with
their good sense and polite behavionr;
being so far removed from the more
civilised part of the world, and consider-
ing the wildnesB of the country, which
one would think was sufficient of itself
to give a savage turn to a mind the most
humane."*
It may perhaps be said that Lord
Macaalay makes amends totbeUigb-
laods for his gronodless slanders by
his ecpoWj groandless flattery. That
the Highland gentleman has no right
to eompUuD of his stating that his
clothes were ^ begrimed with the ao*
camalated filth of years " and that be
dwelt in a hovbl Uiat <* smelt worse
than an English hogstye," because he
says in the next line that be did the
hooonra of his hogstye with a ** lofty
conrtesy worthy of the most splendid
circle of Versailles.'' That '« in the
Highland coancils men who wonld
not have been qualified for the duty
of parish clerks" (by which, if he
means anything, Lord Macaulay mnst
mean that they were not" men of sweet
voice and becoming gravity to raise
the psalm," like the famous F. P. clerk
of this parish), *' argued qaestions of
peace and war, of tribute and homage,
with ability worthy of Halifax and
Carmarthen/' and that '* minstrels
who did not know their letters" pro-
duced poems in which the "tender-
ness of Otway'' was mingled with
" the vigour of Dryden." What the
honours of a hogstye may be — whe-
ther Halifax or Oarmarthen could
** adventure to lead the psalm," or
exercised themselves in " singing
173
godly ballads," or what kind of veises
were produced hj minstrels who were
unable to commit them to writing,
and whose productions have conse-
quently not "oome down to our day —
we know not But, to quote a homely
proverb, two blacks do not make a
white, and to call a man a thief, a
murderer, and a filthy, abject, igno-
rant, illiterate savsge, in one line,
and to describe him as gracefal, dig-
nified, and fnll of noble sensibility
and lofty courtesy, with the intellect
of a statesman and the genius of a
poet, in the next, gives one about as
accurate a picture of his mind and
manners as one would obtain of his
features by two reflections taken the
one vertically and the other horizon-
tally in the bowl of a sUver spoon.
Lord Macaulay's taste for, and, we
are bound to add, his extensive
knowledge of; the most worthless
productions that have survived from
the time of the Bevolution to our
own day, is amusing. It is a class
of literature, which would have made
Grandpa^ Mills's hair stand on
end. It IS enough to make the staid
old Quaker turn in his grave to
think of his gracelees gran£on flirt-
ing with Mrs. Manley and Afra
Behn. From the latter lady he
cites t a *< coarse and prophane
Scotch poem/' describing, m terms
which he is too modest to quote,
<^ How the first Hielandman was
made." PosBibly it is the same mo-
desty, and a feeling of relactance to
corrupt his readers, which has in-
duced Lord Macaalay to cite a vol-
ume in which this poem is not to be
found. In that volume, however,
there happens to be a description of
a Dutchman equally indecent, and,
though Lord Macanfay may perhaps
not admit it, equally worUiy of
belief. Portraits of Irishmen, jost
as authentic, abound in the farces
which were popular a few years
later ; and even now the English gen-
tlemen on the French stage, with his
mouth fnll of *<Bosbif" and ** God-
dams," threatens to *' sell his vife at
Smitfield."
If Lord Macanla^'s New Zealander
should take to writing history after
♦ Burt, vol. iii. p. 247.
t Vol. iil p. 309.
174
Lord Macaulay and ths Itighlandi of Scotland,
tAag.
the fashion of his great progenitor, he
may perhaps paint the Welsh in col^
onrs similar to and npon authorities as
trastworthy as those Lord Macaalay
has nsed and relied npon ih his picture
of the Sootoh. If he does, his descrip-
tion will be something of the following
kind:-
" In the days of Queen Yictoria^ the
inhabitant of the Principality was a
savage and a thieU He subsisted by
plunder. The plough was unknown. He
snatched from his more industrious
neighbour his flocks and his herds.
When the flesh he thus obtained was ex-
hausted, he gnawed the bones like a dog,
until hunger compelled him again to
visit the homesteads and larders of
England. With all the vices, he had
few or none of the virtues of the savage.
He was ungprateful and inhospitable.
That this was his character is proved
by verses which still re-echo in the nur-
series of Belgrave Square and along the
marches of Wales : —
* Tifff was A Welshman,
Tafly was a thief;
Taffy came to my honae,
Stole a piece of beef.
I went to Taffy'a hooae,
Taff^ was from home ;
Tally came to my hoose,
Stole a marrow-bone.* "
This is every bit as anthentic as
Lord Macaulay^i description of the
Highlanders. Such history may be
supplied in any quantity and at the
shortest notice. All that is neoesaacy
is a volume of cotemporary lampoocs^
a bundle of politioal songs, or a
memory in which such things are
stored, and which may save the
trouble of reference. The genius it
requires is a genius for being aboaiTe.
The banks of the Thames and the
Cam famish abundance of professorB,
male and female, of the art of vita-
Deration, but as Lord Macaulay, from
his frequent repetition of the same
terms of abuse, seems to hi^^e ex-
hausted his "derangement of epi-
taphs,'* we would recommend him to
turn to yiner*s Abridgment, title
Action for Words^ where he will
fiad one hundred and thirty folio
pages of scolding, from which he may
select almost any phrase of abuse aod
vituperation, with the advantage of
koowing also the nioe distinctiou
by which the 4aw has decided what
words are and what are not action-
able, which may be osed with ioi-
pnnity against the living, and which
must be reserved for the safe Blaoder
of the dead.
1859.]
Leaders of the Reformation,
175
LEADERS OF THE BBVORMATIOK:
urrasB — calyin— li-timee— knox.
Principal Tvujocvl baa given ob
here a masterly delineation of four
of the chief leaders, or heroes, of the
Beformation *- Lather, Oalvin, Lati-
mer, and Koox. In oor judgment,
he has reprodnoed each one of these
characters with historical fidelity,
and accompanied his portraiture
with reflections of a hij;hly intelli-
gent and liberal description— liberal,
geoeroQS, and indalffent, bat Bach as
never compromise his own genuine
cooriciions, such as never sacrifice
tmth to coarteej. Professor Tul-
loch very fairly represents the sin-
cere and enKghtened Protestantism
of the nineteenth century. We have
only one diflScolty in reviewing his
book : we find so few opportunities
for dissent ; we cannot pick a quarrel*
with our author ; we muat content
oonelves with observations of a col-
lateral or explanatory character; we
may here and there extend or qualify
some of his remarks.
We wish that to the four names
be has selected oar author had added
a fifth— that of Cranmer. We should
be sorry to lose the spirited sketch
of Latimer ; but if an? one man can
be said to represent the Beformation
in England, it is Cranmer ; and if
the number four was to be preserved,
and each of the four was to represent
his own nation, the Archbishop of
Canterbury ought to have occupied
the place of the sturdy preacher at
8l Paul's cross. Moreover, our re-
forming Archbishop has been lately
treated, by more than one writer,
with undue severity ; and we think
he would have received a fair measure
of jostibe at the hands of Principal
ToUoch : not that he would have
been a iavourite with the Principal
— we rather suspect not — but we
should have counted on a generous
and considerate estimate of the man.
A reforming Archbishop who lived
much in courts, and who had to ad-
vance his cause bv influence with
monarchs, and not by passionate ap-
peals to the public, cannot be expect-
ed to display the straightforward
simple heroism of a John Knox, who
is seen standing at the head of a
quite republican movement Per-
haps he may still, at some fatare
time; fall into the hands of our im-
partial yet generous critic.
Of the four great names which, in
the meanwhile, stand here before us,
Luther naturally takes the flrst place.
Of no man, perhaps, who ever lived
upon this earth, nave so many and
such coDtradictory things been writ-
ten ; no man ever had such applaud-
ing friends and soch villifyiug fo<9;
and we may safely prophesy that, as
long as Christendom endures, his
name and fame will be the theme of
angry controversy. Not only is it
impossible that the Catholic and the
Protestant should agree in their esti-
mate of this man and the work be
accomplished ; hot even to P^ote8^
ants be presents so many phases of
character —he and his writings may
be seen under so many different
lights— that any steady uniform judg-
ment is a\mo»i unattainable. We
have most of us felt how difficult it
is to preserve at all times that high
regard for the great German reformer
which we could wiiliuffly cherish, and
which we have probably received
from oor earliest reading and from
standard historical authorities. There
is one course only to be pursued, by
which we may hope to keep a stead-
fast judgment— it is the coarse which
our author pursues, and which, in-
deed, is generally pursued, only not
with sufficient consistency. We must
not at once compare bim with con-
temporary scholars or philosophers,
nor must we merely turn over hi^
writings to estimate the man ; we
mast treat him historically. We
must begin with the monk— with the
Leadan of fht Beformation: LiUher, OOvia, LaUmer, Knox. By John
TuLUMB, D.D., Principal and PrimariusProfeaaorof Tbeotogy ia St Maiy^ College,
St Andrews.
TOU LXXXTL 12
176
Leaders qf the Reformation:
[^ttg.
peasant monk of Germany ; and we
must not afterwards forget that this
was onr starting-point We have a
pious, poor, saperstitiotis monk — the
son of a German peasant, and a man of
geoias withal— and we have to watch
the development of such a one at an
era when learning was penetrating
into the monastery.
It is the development in this monk
of a form of Christian piety that we
have to watch — a form of what is
often called mystical piety developed
in defiance of the Chnrch, extended
amongst the people, and combated
for in the scholastic learning of the
times. It is not onr intention to go
over the well-known . biography of
Luther, but from the day when he
vows that ** God willing, he will beat
a hole in TetzeKs drum,*' to those
last fretful years of bis life when he
predicts the end of all things— sees
the whole world on the rery eve of
destruction — nature herself in final
dissolution — because he, Martin La-
ther, with the epistles of 8t. Paul in
his hand, has not been received by
universal Christendom — we trace
throughout the continuous develop-
ment of one form of Christian piety.
Thif constituted the strength of the
Reformation. Onr German monk,
a man of fervent ffenius, far outsteps
the religion of such priests and con-
fessors as surrounded him. He is
not satisfied with any attainable
standard of moral rectitude. His
spirit seeks a union with the Spirit
of God, and he yearns after a purity
of heart which will justify such aspi-
ration. It is a form of piety which
appears in every epoch amongst soli-
tary thinkers, with whom religious
meditation has become a passion. In
this instance it ste^ beyond the
cloister to do battle with the church.
Banke, the historian of the Reforma-
tion, states it well — *" Oh my sins,
joy sins, my sins !* writes onr monk
to Staupltz, who was not a little
astonished when he received the con-
fession of so sorrowful a penitent,
aind found that he had no sinful acts
to acknowledge. His anguish was
the struggle of the creature after the
purity of the Creator, to whom it
leels itself profoundly and intimately
allied, yet from whom it is severed
by an immeasurable gulf — a '
which Luther nourished by inoessant
solitary brooding, and which had
taken the more complete possession
of him because no penance had
power to> appease it, no doctrine
truly touched it, no oonfesaor would
hear of if*
When, therefore, it is popularly
said that the right of private judg-
ment was the principle establish^
by the Reformation, this statement
is only correct if we are speaking of
a great result of the whole move-
ment It is plainly erroneous if we
are speaking of the principle which
animated Luther and other of th«
early Reformers. That which ani-
mated them was a most dogmatic
assertion of their own great doctrine
of religion. In making this assertion
they gave, whether they intended it
or not, a conspicuous example of the
freedom of private judgment But
left to themselves, tbey would rery
willingly have limited this freedom
to those who would have used it in
exactly the same manner as they did.
Principal Tulloch very ably points
this out.
'*It remains for us to inquire con-
cerning the main thought that moved
Luther and animated him in all his
work. It requires but little penetration
to discover that he was possessed by sudi
a thought — that a profound principle,
a single inspiring spiritual idea, ran
through the whole of the great move-
ment, and more than anything else gave
direction and strength and triumph to
iU .... It was characteristloaUy
a spiritual revolt — an awakeniog of
the mdividual conscienoo in the light of
the old Gospel, for centuries imprisoned
and obscured in the dim chambers of
men*8 traditions, but now at length
breaking forth with renewed radiance.
This was the life and essence of Luther's
own personal struggle, and this it wab '
which formed the spring of i(Il his b-
bours, and gave them such a pervading
and mighty energy. The principle of
moral individudUam'-^ the five respon-
sible relation of every soul to God— this
it is which stamps the movement of
Luther with its characteristk) impress,
and more than any other thing enables
us to understand its power and success
It is nothing else than what we call, in
theological language, justification hy faith
cUonej but we prefer to apprehend it in
this more general and ethical fbrm of
expression.*'
1859.]
Luther — Caivin — Latimer-^Knor*
177
Bat this individualism in religion,
w the Principal has designated it —
this personal nnion (as we shonld
prefer to describe it) with the Divine
Being as He exists in the second
person of the Trinity, conid not be
tanght as the sole essential, the mm
and substance of Christianity, with-
out inToIving in itself a rebellion
against the Gatholic Oharch. The
right of private judgment, or the
dnty to think for ourselves, was ne-
cessarily mingled up with this doc-
trine of jastincation by faith alone.
The man must dare to think in op-
position to the church who can hope to
be saved independently of the church.
And again, whilst he believes that
hte salvation is partly due to the
sacraments of the cburch, or to his
membership of the visible chnrch as
it exists on earth, be can never ex-
tricate himself entirely from the do-
roioion or anthority of the hierarchy.
Thus this individual piety, which
set aside every species of human or
earthly mediation, necessarily led to
a rebellion against all human or
priestly authority in the matter of
religious doctrine. But, continues
our author —
" It was very fiur from Luther's inten-
tions^ even after he had entered on his
contest with Borne, to assert what has
been called the rigJU of private jvdg-
meni in matters of religion, Kven in
the end he did not fully undenstand or
admit the validity of this principle ; and
yet so tar there was no other resting-
ground for him. He was driven to
daim for himself freedom of opinion in
the light of Scripture as the only por-
tion on which, with any consistency, he
could stand. Accordingly, when press-
ed to retract his views at Worm?, when
it was clearly mada manifest that au-
thority. Catholic and Imperial, was
againat him, he boldly took his ground
here in magnanimous and always me-
morable words. For himself he sud,
* Unless I be convinced by Scripture or
by reason, I can and will retract no-
thing ; for to aot against my conscience
is neither safe nor honest Here I
stand.* . . .
" It is too well known, however, that
neither he nor any of his fellow-reform-
era recognised the frill meaning and
bearing of this position. They knew
what their own. necessities demanded,
but that was all They raised the en-
sign of a free Bible in ibe face of Bome,
but they speedily refused to allow others
to fight under this banner as well as
themselves. What Luther claimed for
himself against Catholic authority, he
refused to Carlstadt and refused to
Zwingle, in favour of their more liberal
doctrinal views. He £uled to see that
their position was exactly his own, with
a difference of result, which indeed was
idl the difference in the wortd to him."
Most true: Luther issued from
his monastery with all the spirit of a
martyr for his faith ; he was pre-
pared to die, if necessary, for his
faith. Bight of freedom of inquiry
was not his cause. He defied the
Emperor and the Pope, not in the
name of humanity or the rights of
man, but in the name of the ever-
living God. He looked direct to
Qod for his support. He was ready
to be a martyr for his faith — not
for the abstract cause of freedom of
thought: that species of martyrdom
has yet to appear amongst us, if it
ever will.
** Scripture as a witness," thus Principal
Tulloch eloquently concludes his chap-
ter upon Luther, "disappeared behind
the Augsburg Confession as a standard ;
and so it happened more or less with all
the Teformera They were consistent
in displacing the Church of Bome fh>m
its position of assumed anthority over
the conscience, but they were equally
oonsistent all of them in raising a dog-
matic authority in its stead. In favour
of their own views, they asserted tho
right of private judgment to interpret
and decide the meaning of Scripture,
but they had nevertheless no idea of a
really free interpretation of Scripture.
Their orthodoxy everywhere appealed
to Scripture, but it rested in reality
upon an Augustinian commentary of
Scripture. They displaced the medieval
schoolmen, but only to elevate Augus-
tine; and havbig done this, they had
no conception of any limits attaching to
this new tribunal of heresy. Freedom
of opinion, in the modem sense, was
utterly unknown to them. There was
not merely an absolute truth in Scrip-
ture, but they had settled by the help
of Augustine what this truth was ; and
any variations from this standard were
not to be tolerated. The idea of a free
fiuth holding to very different dogmatic
views^ and yet equally Christian — tho
idea c^ spiritual life and goodness apart
from theoretical orthodoxy — had not
dawned in the sixteenth century^ nor
long afterwards. Heresy was not a
178
Leaders of the Rtformation :
[Aeg.
mere divergence of intellectual appre-
hension, but a moral obliquitj — ^a statu-
tory oflfenoe — to be punished by the
magistrate, to be expiated by death. It
is the strangest and most saddening of
all spectacles to contemplate the alow
and painful process by which the hu-
man mind has emancipated itself from
the dark delusion that intellectual error
is a subject of moral offence and punish-
• ment"
But while onr author thus repudi-
ates the idea that the progressive
intellect of man, which God haa
created for fbrward and incessant
action, should be checked and limited
by Augsburg Gonfeesioos, or any
articles or formulas of faith into
which Ohristiauity was re^cast at the
time of the Reformation, be never
fails to do Justice to the leaders of
that movement and the great work
they accomplished We should will-
ingly follow him in his delinea-
tions of the personal character of
Luther, but that other portioos of
his book present the attraction of
greater novelty. He does fall jus-
tice to the geniality and warmth of
Luther^s nature, to his boldness and
magnanimity, to his fervid genius;
and, on the other hand, be does not
spare the dogmatism that de&oed
liis later years, or the superslition
that accompanied him through life.
But we turn from the German re-
former to ooe whose personal his-
tory and character, if less interesting,
are less generally known — to the
second on the list, Calvin.
GaWin is in many respects a con-
trast to Luther. Of ooUi temper,
eubtle and systematic in bis theo-
logy, his office was to give order and
l»reci8ion and completeness to the
doctrines of the new church. If
XiUther may be represented as the
-sturdy reaper entering first into the
field with his scythe or reaping-hook,
Oalvio may be said to follow after,
bindkig the scattered corn into sym-
metrical sheaves, which he leaves
standing there in due order in the
open field. Galvin must also have
possessed great administrative talent ;
he was a man of action as well as
of thought; he governed a city, gave
laws to a republic He wae the rer-
iclesof Geneva; or let na say that
he was the Lycnrgos of the Puritans.
One thing is noticeable io Calvin's
education :' we find him, in his youth,
alternately occupied with theology
and jurisprudence. He enters first
into the church, then transfers hioh
self to the study of the law, appa-
rently at the desire of his ikthtr,
who, himself a notary, thought pro-
bably that the legal profession would
lead bis very able son to higher
advancement in life. This twofold
study of theology and jurisprudence
was training him for the part he
played of legislator and clerical ora-
tor of the republican city of Geneva.
His religious convictions, however,
finally determined him to devote his
mind to theology, and these ooovic-
tioos led him also gradually to take
his stand with the reformers.
"Slowly but surely he passed over to
the Protestant ranks, in a manner en-
tirely contrasted with that of Luttier,
even as his mind and character were so
wholly different We trace no strug-
gling steps of dogmatic conviction — no
profound spiritual agitations '^ no ori^
as in the case of the German reformer.
We only learn that, from being an ap-
parently satisfied and devoted adherent
of Popeiy, he adopted, with a quiet hut
steady and zealous fiiithfulness, the new
opinions. He himself, indeed, in his
preAce, when commenting on the Psalms,
speaks of his conversion being a sudden
one; and to his own reflection afte^
wards it may have seemed that the dear
light began to dawn upon him all at
once; but the facts of bis life seem
rather to show it in the light in which
we have represented it, as a gradual and
consistent growth under the influences
which surrounded him, first at Orleans
and then at Bourges."
We apprehend that these great
changes of opinion may generally be
described as both sudden and gra-
dual; that is, there was a gradual
preparation for the change, a shaking
here and there of old opinions, |iu
introduction here and there of new
thoughts and sentiments, and yet
there was also one epoch, One day
or hour, when the new point of
view was once for all adopted, and
the man suddenly became a cham*
pioD of the very doctrine be had
been contending against, perhaps
persecaiiog. He had been sealoosly
argumg, zealously persecuting, up to
1859.]
Luther-^ Calvin — Latimer— Knox,
179
tbe last moment; many misgiviD^
bad occnrred to him ; many admoni-
tioDS or snspicioDS tbat there lay
a great traUi in tbe very creed he
was denoancing, had been silenced
or mdely thnist aside; but bis
thoughts were nevertbelesB arrang-
iog themsdreg after some new order,
and be suddenly became aware tbat
Htts was the doctrine, or tbe ^stem,
tbat he most henceforth teach and
live by. Calvin proceeded to Paris
(153^, which at tbat time, noder the
teacbing of Lefevre and Farel, had
b^me a centre of the reformed
faith. It was not long before he
made snch manifestations of his opi-
nioos as obliged him to qalt that
city, and he shortly afterwards set-
tled at Basle.
As it is not oar intention to pro-
ceed with any of these biographies
step by step, we pass at once to Cal-
vin's connection with the city of Gen-
eva. This is related by Principal Tul-
loch briefly, and ^et with sofKcient
folness to render his account instrac-
tive and valaable as an historical
sammary. He describes in a few
words the political condition of Gen-
eva at this time. A stndent of tbe
middle ages might be delighted with
tbe complication this presents. We
have the feadal baron, the prince-
bishop, the free city, all asserting
their claim. Geneva was a free city
of tbe Empire ; bat first its bishop
took tbe lion's share of the temporal
rale ; then the bishop does not exer-
cise his power directly, bat through
an 'officer called a Yidomme (vice-
dominas), and this officer or vidomme
becomes hereditary in the dukes of
Savoy. In the beginning of the six-
teenth centary we find the bishop
aiding the dqke to destroy whatever
remained of the free city, or of the
liberties of the Genevese. The citi-
zens rose in arms. '^By the help of
tbe free Helvetian states, particularly
Berne and Fribonrg, the patriots
triamphed, the friends of Savoy were
banished, the vidommate abolished,
and its powers transferred to a board
of magistrates."
Tbe conduct of its bishops would
naturally alienate the Geneveee from
tbe ancient hierarchy, and when tbe
reformer Farel made his appearance
in the city (12^32), he found a large
party ready to Join him. tt was not
without a sharp struggle, however,
that tbe reformed faith had become
established as the religion of tbe
republic, and Farel and his coadjutors
were still beset b^ many difficulties
when Calvin providentially came to
their aid. He came to Geneva for a
single day ; he stayed to make a con-
fession of faith for a whole city. He
came as a mere traveller, anxious
only to advance upon bis journey;
he stayed to legislate for and to
govern a republic.
" His old friend Tillet, now in Geneva,
discovered who tbe traveller was, and
apprised Farel of his discovery. Situ-
ated aa Farel then waa, almost alone,
with the Reformation but partly accom-
plished, and tbe elementi of disturbance
smouldering around him, the advent of
Calvin seemed to him an iptdrposition
of Divine Providence. He hastened to
aee him, and set Before him his claims
for assistance, and the work of God so
obviously awaiting him. But Calvin was
slow to move. He urged bis denre to
study, and be serviceable to all cburcbee,
rather than to attadi himself to any
one dmn^ in particular^ He would .
&ln have yielded to tbe intellectual bias
flo atroog in him, and did not yet ac-
knowledge to himself the still stronger
instinct for practical government that
lay behind his intellectual devotion. By
some strange insight^ however, Farel
penetrated. to the higher fitness of the
young stranger who stood before him ;
and he ventured, in the spirit of that
daring enthusiasm which characterised
him, to lay the curse of God upon him
and his studies if he refused his aid to
the church in tbe time of need. Tbis^
which seemed toOalvin a divine men-
ace, had the dedMi effect *Itwae»'fae
■aid, *as if God bad seised me by His
awful band from heaven.' He aban-
doned his intention of pursuing hU jour-
ney, and joined eagerly with Farel in tbe
work of Reformation."
He was immediately elected as
Theacher of Theology. In a short
time, both as Preacher and as Coun-
cillor, his influence was supreme. It
is well known with what severity
our evangelical Lycurgus ruled his
republic* Not only was vice pun-
ished, but frivolity was restramed.
Dress and the dinner were laid under
strict regulations; all holidays, ex-
cept Sunday, if that could rank as a
180
Leaders of the Re/armation :
[Xng.
holiday, were aboUfllied. Even a bride
might DOt wear her flowinf; treeses,
Dor was she to be welcomed to her
new Tiome with Doiee and revelry. Tbe
▼ery number of the dishes at tbe
wedding feast was made a subject
of legislation. It is remembered stiU
by those who remember nothing else
of Calvin, that he laid sacrilegious
hand upon the marriage feast An
old man who pointed out to our au-
thor the supposed resting-place of the
reformer, seemed to have little other
idea of Calvin than as the man
who limited the number of dishes at
dinner !
These unwise and Texatiooe re-
strictions led to a reaction or rebellion
against the government of the re-
former. A party arose who bear the
name of tbe Libertines, who succeeded
in chasing him out of the city. For
three years Calvin was a banished
man. Banished to -his privacy and
his books, the exile was no doubt
sufficiently content He could do
without Geneva far better than
Geneva could do without him. The
Libertines could not govern the city,
and Calvin was recall^. That Thirty,
be it what it may, which can give to
a community the indispensable bleea-
iogs of order and law, miut rule.
The government of Calvin, whatever
its defects, was wanted at that mo-
ment It has this palpable justifica-
tion. He who alone can give a peo-
5 le order — saint or sinner — Calvin or
I^apoleoo, steps by right into the seat
of power. Nor when Calvin returned
did he abate in the least the severity
of his rule ; on the contrary, he re-
fused to respond to the invitation of
the dtheeos till he had evidenoe of
their willingness to submit to the
r&«stablishment of the reformed dis-
cipline.
"The great code of eoclesiastioal and
moral legislation, which guided both the
coosistory and council, was the produc-
tion of Calvin. It wis sworn to by the
whole of the people in a Rreat assembly
in St. Peter's, on the 20th November
1641. It not only laid down general
rulee, but entered with the most rigorous
control into all the afnurs of private life.
From bis cradle to his grare the Genevese
oitiaen was pursued by its inquisitorial
eye. Ornaments for the person, the
shi^ and length of the hair, the modes
of dress, the very number of dishes for
dinner, were subjected to special regula-
tion. WeddiDg presents are only per-
mitted within limits ; and at betrothala,
marrifiges, or baptisms, bouquets must
not be encircled with gold or jewelled
with pearls or other precious stones.
*^The registers of Geneva remain to
show with what abundant rigour these
regulations were oarried out. It is a
Strange and mournful record, with ludi-
crous lights crossing it here and there.
A man bearing an ass bray, and saying
jestingly, * II obante un beau psaume,* is
sentenced to temporary banishment from
the city. A young girl in church singing
tbe words of a song to a psalm-tune, id
ordered to be whipped by her parents.
Three children are punished, because, dur-
ing the sermon, instead of going to church,
they remained outside to eat cakes."
And so the list goes on, intermin-
gled with some cases of terrible se-
verity. Death itself is inflicted upon
a child where the rod has been always
held to be the appropriate punishment
But since Calvu based all his lawa
on the authority of Scripture, where,
it may be asked, was the error be
committed? His consistorial discip-
line, and the like, he declares to be
« the yoke of Christ," and his whole
system of ^lity is presumed to rest
upon tbe Divine word — and ought not
this sacred authority to decide upoa
every portion of our lives? Surely
there is a visible church to be erected
on earth according to the pattern
of the invisible church above — or, in
the language of St Augustine, a
eivitas Dei to be established by
Christians — else for what purpose
have men beoome Christians? How
many noble spirits have laboured and
thought over this eivitas Dei^ this
kingdom of God to be iostitoted on
earth — and could Calvin have been
wrong in his attempt to model Geneva
ioto this eivitas Vet ? Certainly not.
But the mistake of Calvin, as Principal
ToUoch will tell ns, was, that instead
of seeking to infuse the spirit of
Christianity ioto all our relations of
life — instead of making the grand
fundamental principle of the reiigioa
the ground of all his laws — ^he sought
for specific laws in texts of Scri[)-
tare appropriate to other times, and
sought by external regulations to
coQstniet a kingdom of heaven which
most always pom from within.
1659]
Luther— OcUvin — Latimer — fhox.
181
*'DidDoiOBlTm Mtabltsh his church
polity eaxd church discipline upon Scrip-
ture?— end i» not this a warrantable
eourse? Assuredly not in the spirit in
which he did it The fundamental source
of the mistake is here: the Christian
Scriptures are a revelation of divine
trutbp and not a revelation of church
polity. Tbey not only do not lay down
the outline of such a polity, but they do
not even give the adequate and conclu-
sive hints of ona And for the beet of all
reasons, that it would have been entirely
contrary to the spirit of Christianity to
have done so ; and because in point of
fiic^ the conditions of human progress
•do sot admit of the imposition of any
unvarying system of government, eode-
siastioal or civil The system sdapts
itself to the life, eveiywhere expands
with it, ornarrows with it, but is nowhere
in any particular form the absolute con-
dition of life, A definite outline of
church polity, therefore, or a definite
code of sodal ethics, is nowhere given in
the Kew Testament ; and the spirit of
it is entirely hostile to the absolute asser-
tion of one or the other. Calvin, In
truth, must have felt this sufficiently in
his constant appeal to the spirit and de-
tails (^ the Old Testament legislation.
The historical conAxsion, in this respect,
in which he and all his sge shared, was
a source of firultfal error here as eh»-
where."
Whiles on the one hand, Galvio
had to contend for hia governoient
and discipline with the citizens, he
had, on the other hand, to do in-
oessani battle with theologians for
bis doctrine He bad wrought the
Oonfession of Augsburg into a sys-
tem which, for a certain method and
ooniistency, has won the admiration
of all parties, bat which nevertheless^
in more points than one, has been
often declared to offend the common-
sense of mankind, as well as to con-
tradict the general current of Scrip-
tural language. It could not be ex-
pected that each a system should be
nnaasailed ; nor can we be surprised
that, at a period of great mental ac-
tivity, omn besides Lather and
Calvin chose to adopt bold views of
their own. Yet oar spiritoal mler
of Geneva seemed to think that every
heresy but hia own was a crime.
And it must be added that he had
Eat hunself in snch a position that
IS government depended on the
predominance of hu doctnoe. It is
worth the consideration of those who
ma^ still banker after some civitas
Dst, SQcb as Calvin sought to estab-
lish, that if municipal laws are based
on a system of divinity, the State has
put it out of its power to be tole-
rant ; freedom of thought has become
too intimately associated with diso-
bedience to the laws.
Amongst the names of those whom
Calvin enters into controveny with,
there is one which will assuredly ar-
riest the reader : he will give bis
tribute of compassion to the poor
scholar, Sebastian Castellio. Tbe
poor scholar, distiDguisbed for his
classical knowledge, betook himself,
in an evil hour, to controversial divi-
nity. But belonging to neither of
the great factions, what could be-
come of the unbefriended layman?
Poverty was the lightest evil, the
most lenient panishment, by which
he could have been visit^. We
catch sight of him Kving alone, so
poor that he goes out at night to
pick up sticks for firewood on the
banks of the Bhine. We must quote
a sentence or two about this Sebas-
tian Castellio.
*' Calvin had become acquainted with
Castellio at Strasbuzg. Tbey seem at
flfst to have warmly attracted one ano-
ther; and Calvin was, beyond all doubt,
for some time veiy zealous in his friend-
liness to the poor scholar, whose ingeni-
ous spirit and olsssical acquirements bad
won his regard. On his return to Ge-
neva he invited him thither, and pro-
cured for him the appointment of regent
or tutor in the gymnasium of the city^
In reality, however, there were but few
points of sympathy between the two
men. Casteliio's learning was intensely
humanistic; his classical tastes and
somewhat arbitrary criticism moulded
all that he did ; and especially as be
aspired to be a theologian, and to carry
this spirit into his Scriptural studies, he
soon came into conflict with Calvin.
. . . Castellio desired to enter into
the ministry ; but Calvin advised the
Council that this was not expedient, on
€KOourU of some peadiar opiniaru which
he JieUL There were certain rationalistic
views as to the authentici^ and charac-
ter of the Song of Solomon, the descent
of Christ into hell, and also about elec
tion. Irritated probably by disappoint-
ment, he now vehemently attacked Cal-
Yin. After a violent scene in church,
which is painted pernsps with some ex
182
Leaders oj the Reformation:
[Aug.
aggeration by the reformdr, he was
forced to leave the city. The two old
friends, dow declared eDemies, did not
spare each other henceforth. Oastellio
retired to Bade^ and amongst his other
employments busied himself with a fi-ee
criticism of the CalTinistic doctrines.
. . . It is but a mdanoholy spectacle
of polemical hatred on both sides ; but
the truculenoe of the theologians, it must
be confessed, bears off the pjakn. Cas-
teUio was no oiatch for them in strength
of ai^gument or firm consistency of pur-
pose. He lived on in great poverty at
Baale, cultivating his garden with his
own hand, and without the means of
fuel, as he sat up at night to finish his
translation of the Scriptures. He died
in want in 1663, the same year as Cal-
vin ; and Montaigne has given vent to
his exprescion of shame for his age, that
one so distinguished should have been
left to die so miserably. A regretful
memory lingers around his blameless
scholarly life,— pinching poverty and sad
death, and eepeciaUy the incident, so
toucbiug in its simplicity, of his going
during the night to the banks of the
Rhine to pick up pieces of drift-wood
for his scauty fire — a story which was
only elicited from him in answer to Cal-
vin's charge of his having stolen the wood
— a fact Buffident to prove the disgrace-
ful spirit in which these controversies
were conducted, and how deservedly
they are consigned to oblivion."
But the name which beyond all
othera has become inextricably asso-
ciated with oar Genevese reformer,
is that of Servetus. He, too, like
Calvin, csme into Geneva for a siogle
day — came as a m«*e traveller, in-
tending to quit it on the morrow :
he stayed, but not, like Calvin, to
have honour and power thrust
upon him. Our traveller must needs
wander into the church ; there his
great adversary was preaching. Some
ooe recognised him, and carried the
news to Calvio. Servetus, who had
already hired a boat to take him
across the lake on his route to Zurich,
was arrested aud thrown into prison.
He stayed to be tried for heresy, to
be convicted, and to saffer a cruel
death. *^ The wretched man was
fastened to a stake surrounded by
heaps of oak-wood and leaves, with
his condemned book attached to his
girdle. The wood was green, and
did not burn readily. Some persons
ran and fetched dry faggots, whUe
his piercing shrieks rent the air ; and
ezclaimibg fioatly, 'Jesus, thou Son
of the eternal God, have mercy upon
me !* he passed from the doom of
earth to a higher and fairer tribunal.^
It is needless, as Principal Tulloch
remarks, to indulge in any further
outcries on this memorable crime.
To contemporary theologians it
Deeded oe defence : happily, to the
theok)gians of our day it admits of
no excuse. We can only excuse and
bitterly regret it, as a lamentable
fruit of the errors of the age.
On the InstUutei of Calvin, and
on his doctrinal system, our author
makes some excellent remarks, Into
which we should very willingly fol-
low him if our space permitted. We
must proceed to take a rapid glance
at the two remaining Reformers on
his list — Latimer and Knox.
The Reformation embraced two
movements — a reform in doctrine-
and a reform in life. The two ob-
jects were constantly intermingled.
Still there were some men who at-
tached themselves pre-eminently to
the new doctrines, whitet others saw
the Reformation chiefly in the light
of a revival of religion. Of this lat-
ter description was Latimer. Though
he had embraced the '* new learniog,*^
he stands out conspicuously as a re-
former of manners and a teacher of
practical personal piety. His claims
to represent the Reformation in Eng-
land we have already glanced at.
Principal Tulloch, however, aooepting
him as the most ''typical man** of
his times, opens his biographical
sketch with some very sound observa-
tions on the complicated nature of the
reformatory movement in England.
He justly obserres that it was partly
political and partly religious, and
that the political opposition was the
earlier of the two. *' All along from the
Conquest such an opposition marks
like a line of light the proud history
of England, the grandest, because
the ricnest in diverse historical ele-
ments, that the world has ever seen.
On from the memorable struggles of
the. reign of Henry XL, when the
political and ecclesiastical interests
stamped the Impress of their fierce
contentions so strongly on the Eng-
lish character, Rome appears as an
alien and antagonistic power in the
1859.]
Luther — Calvin — Latirner — Ktiox,
183
countiT.^' This ia trae, and we might
ffo ba(^ to an earlier period thao Heor j
U. ; but it most be added that the
opposition to Romet or the ecdesias-
tiod power was carried on by the
monarch as often against as with the
current of popular feeling, and that
it does not always mn exactly ** like
a line of light^' On the contrary,
it is sometimes a mere dogged self-
willed opposition. Nevert^less, one
feels it was, on the whole» the right
Mtng— wholesome, and having a cer-
tain rude reason in iL Let us trans-
fer oorseWes to our first l4forman
kings, and eompare them with such
prelates of the Charch as Lanfranc
and Anselm. These latter represent
whatever the a^e could boast of
learning and of piety. We hail their
influence on England and on its stern
barons ; yet we feel that their influ-
ence or power is such as might easily
be carried too iar; nor should we
choose to have it established in their
8uccessor& We feel that the resist-
ance of our rude Norman k;ngs to
these Italian bbhops has a high
meaning, a dim purpose, and, at all
events, a good result Our first wish
would probably be to give to these
representatives of learning, justice,
and piety, the utmost influence thev
could possibly exert over a Church
and a State both on the very verge of
barbarism ; but, on further reflection,
we perceive that the cause of the
civil against the ecclesiastical, the
temporal power against the spiritual,
must in some way be upheld, if any
free and manly life is to be presented
for England. J^o historian has treated
these early kings of England with
greater severity than Lappenberg;
nor has any historian given a more
liberal praise to these Italian bishops
and divines; yet even bis simple
narrative, as it proceeds, suggests to
us bow unfit these men were to hold
the predominant place in the govern-
ment of England. Anselm he de-
scribes "as one of those heroes of
love and humility which Christianity
has produced in every age." William
Bufns, the contemporary sovereign,
stands out before us as little better
than a brutal tyrant, and a sort of
baptised heathen: he is penitent
when sick and afflicted ; when he
recovers, he not only throws aside
his sackcloth, but rebels, like a
Titan or an old Norseman, against
the hand that smote him. He ipon^t
be any the better for his chastisement.
** The Lord shall find no good in me,
for all the evil He has ioflicted on
me,*' says the incurable heathen.
Can a greater contra!»t be found?
Yet this William Rufus was at his
post, governiug his barons and his
vassals, and keeping a free temporal
monarchy for England. Better this
rude government than to have the
scholastic divine in the seat of the
civil magistrate. If Anselm could
have controlled, first his own cor-
rupt clergy, and through them a rude
and passionate people, this would have
been a temporarv advantage, to be
followed by all the depressing, ener-
vating influences which attend upon
a Christian priesthood when it as-
sumes municipal power. Anselm in
his contest with the king has to quit
England and journey to Rome ; we
catch a glimpse of him on his tra-
vels ; he stays a while at Lyons, and
therCj sajs Lappenberg, ''he had the
happiness of acting a distinguished
part in the discussion of a point at
that time of vital importance, — whe-
ther the Holy Ghost proceeded solely
from the Father." Very fit it was
that one of the most eminent theolo-
gians of the day should take part in
a discussion then deemed of vital im-
S>rtance ; but would it have been well
r England if a Byzantine theology of
this description had been supreme in
its court and monarchy ? We have no
quarrel with Anselm as a divine or
bishop, but would it have been de-
sirable if he and his successors could,
without stint or limit, have embodied
their own views in, and impressed
their own sf^it on the laws and go-
vernment of this country ?
Happily there has l!een always in
our island, either on the part of the
monarch, or of the people, or of the
lawyers, a determination to resist the
encroachment of the Church over the
State. Thus we have never sunk
into the intellectual stagnation which
Spain, for instance, has exhibited.
And thus it happens that in our Re-
formation a political resistance to
Rome plays a considerable part, and
that which was of a distinctly reli-
gious character proceeds (as might be
184
Leaders of the ReformtUion :
[W.
expected in a people compftratively
free) from many qnartera at the same
time and aasomes many varioos
forms. At no time do we see the
people rising simaltaneonsly under
one eommon impulse. There are
reformers of all shades working to-
gether—from those who woald only
reform fnUhin the Charch to those
who woald sweep away the old Ca-
tholic Charch entirely.
Latimer, as we have said, saw in
the Reformation principally a re*
vival of religion, when we first get
any distinct view of him, he is at Cam-
bridge aboat twenty-five years old, a
most zealous supporter of the estab-
lished doctrines and services. '*!
was as obstinate a Papist,** he tells
us himself, *' as any in England."
He torments himself with scruples
whether he had mingled sufficient
water with the wine m performing
mass ; he preaches against the Re-
formers—he takes every opportunity
of guarding the youth of Cambridge
against the infection of their pernicious
doctrines. But, as Principal TuUoch
well observes, we get our reformers
out of the zealous champions of the
very Church that Is to be reformed.
The cold and moderate man is sel-
dom open to great changes of opi-
nion.
**Here,'* he saye^ *' we have the old
picture of youthful sacerdotal zeal It
is the very highest qualities of the an-
cient system tbat the new spirit seizes
upon and consecrates to its service.
Young Latimer, hailed by the clergy as a
risiDg champion of the Papal cau8e,and for
his talents and the excelling sanctimony
of his life preferred to be the keeper of
the university cross, is destined to be-
come the sharp reprover of the clergy,
and the great agent in carrying out tbe
religious change then threatening them.*'
Bilney has the merit of converting
Latimer; but we must presume, of
course, that other infloences were at
work. A curious story is told of the
manner in which Buoey first con-
trived to pour the new doctrine into
the nnwilliog ears of the zealous
Papist He pretended a great desire
to oe confessed, and, under the form
of his own confession, infused his
heresy into the priest Latimer tells
the story himself in these few brief
words: ''Bilney heard me at that
time, and perceived that I was zealous
without knowledge ; and he came to
me afterwards in my study, and de-
sired me, for God^ sake, to hear his
confession. I did so ; and, to say the
truth, by his confession I learned more
than I aid before in many years. So
from that time forward I began to
smell the word of Qod, and forsook
the school doctors and such fooleries.**
We wonder whether this expedient
for getting the ear of a man bss been
often adopted. It was a rather haz-
ardous one : if Bihiey had not found
a favourable listener, he would have
gone away with a heavy penance.
Latimer now became a zealous
preacher of the new doctrines, but
still his preaching must have been
limited to a faithful exhibition of
positive truth: be could not have
wagej war with the peculiar tenets
of Rome, because Henry VIII. ap-
proved the man, and appointed
dim one of his chaplains; and Car-
dinal Wolsey also befriended him,
supporting him against the censures
of Bishop West Bishop West hsd
entered the church while Latimer
was preaching at Cambridge; and
when he and his retinue had taken
their seats, the preacher, observing
that a new audience required a new
theme, changed his text, and exposed
the faults and shortcomings of the
clergy, in a manner, we may be sure,
not vei^ flattering to priestly ears.
For this and other like offences
the Bishop bad forbidden him to
preach in the university; and when
Latimer took refoge in a charch of
the Augustine friars, the bishop
made complaint to Cardinal Wolsey.
The cardinal, however, dismissed the
too faithful preacher with a gentJe ad-
monition, and granted him a licence
to preach in any church throughout
England. *" If the Bishop of Ely can-
not abide sudi doctrine as you have
repeated," he said, '^ you shall preach
it to his beard, let him say what he
will."
A happy retort is here mentioned
of Latimer*s against one Buckenham,
Prior of the Black Friars, who had
entered the lists against him. The
prior, in his sermon, did his best to
prove the inexpediency of trusting
the Scriptures in English to the vu^
gar. The arguments and illostratioo
1859.]
Luther — Calvin/^Latimer-^Knox.
185
of the good prior were evidently not
of the highe«»t order imaginable. To
show what blanderiog interpretations
the laity were exposed to, be cited. as
an example that the plonghman who
read that "no man who layeth bis
hand to the plough, and looketh bade,
is worthy of the kingdom of God,"
might peradventnre'dread to touch a
plough at alL The baker, also, who
read that '* a little leaven cormpteth
a whole lamp,'* might leave his bread
unleavened. Latimer had been one
of his auditors, and had taken notes ;
and by-and-by he is the preacher and
the friar a listener. Coming to this
point of the figurative language of
Scripture, he replied that it was as
easy of comprehension as the most
familiar signs and symbols pointed
on our houses and walls. ''As, for
example," be continued, casting a
meaning glance at the friar, who sat
opposite to him, '* when men paint a
fox preaching out of a friar s cow],
none is so msM as to take this to be
a fox that preacheth, but know well
enough the meaning of the matter,
which is to point out to us what hy-
pocrisy, craft, and subtle dissimula-
tion lieth hid many times in these
friar's oowls, willing us thereby to
beware of them." The contemporary
chronicler adds that Friar Bucken-
ham was so dashed with this sermon
that he never after durst peep out of
the pulpit against Master Latimer.
Id I^timer's life, years of persecu*
tion alternate with years of favour
and prosperity. Under Archbishop
Wareham be is in danger of impn-
Ronment and excommunication, if no-
thing worse. Under his successor,
Cranmer, he is raised to a bishopria
Then a reaction against reform seems
to have been brought about, partly b^
the northern insurrection, and Gardi-
ner and Bonner took the lead. Under
their influence articles were framed
which LaUmer could not subscribe;
he resigned his bisliopric, and sought
to live in privacy. Coming up to
London, however, for medical advice,
be was brought before the Privy
Council, and cast into the Tower.
This happened Just before the close
of Henry's reign. On the acces-
sion of Edward YL he was liber-
ated, and his bishopric again offered
him; but he declined to reatisume
the episcopal office, and devoted him-
self to preaching. He made it the
great purpose of his life to rouse all
clas«ses to a practical reform in their
morals and rellgioa He was the
censor of his times, and sometimes
the pulpit satirist. He' spared no
class, and he preached to all classes.
A well-known picture represents him
with uplifted arm preaching in White-
hall Gardens, in front of the young
king, Edward YL, who is seated at
a window, whilst a dense crowd sur-
rounds the orator.
Of the merits of Latimer, whether as
preacher or divine, Principal Talloch
gives, we think, a fair and unexagger-
ated estimate. He was no learned
theologian, and his eloquence was of
that rude, blunt, uncompromising
character that appeals bo snccessfblly
to the populace. He delighted in in-
vective, and did not scruple to expose
individual instances of oppression that
came before him. Of the effect of bis
sermons we must not judge by the
impression they now produce on the
reader. Not to speak of the cfiange
of manners and of dialect, the effect
of popular eloquence depends, at all
times, chiefly on the voice and the
delivery. The following summary
anpears very just :—
"In mere intellectual strength, Lati-
mer can take no place beside either La-
ther or Calvin. His mind lias ncitber
the rich compass of the one, nor the sym-
metrioal vigour of the other. He is no
master in any depavtment of intellectual
interest, or even of theological inquiry.
We read bis sermons not for any light or
reach of truth which they unfold, nor
because they exhibit auy peculiar depth '
of spiritual apprehension, but simply be-
cause they are interesting, and interest-
ing mainly firom the very absence of all
dogmatic and inteUectua) pretensions.
Yet, without any mental greatness, there
is a i^eaaant and wfaoleeome harmony of
mental power displayed in bia writings^
which gives to tbem a wonderful vitality.
There is a proportion and vigour, not of
logioj but of sense and fieeling, in them
eminently English, and showing every-
where a high and well-toned capacity.
He is coarse and low at times ; his fami-
liarity occasionally descends to mean-
ness ; but the living bold which he takes
of realiiy at every point, ofcen carries
bim also to the height of an hidignant
and burning eloquence.''
186
Leaders of tJie Reformation :
[Aag.
We quote tbia passage because it
ooDtaiDS a brief critical sammary ; bat
we most remark, io passing, tbat it is
not the most favourable specimen of
Principal Tulloch's own st^le ; nor can
we extract the passage without some
gentle protest against a certain slip-
slop English into which the Principal
has here been betrajed ; it is a fault
^uite unusual in bim. Such expres-
sions, as " wholesome harmony/*
<*high and well-toned capacity,** re-
mind us of the jargon of the con-
Doissrar prating over his pictures,
rather than the sober crisicism of an
accurate scholar. Let such jargon
remain with the connoisseurs of art,
who have a traditional right to tallL.
how they please about tones and har-
monies, no one but themselves having
the least interest in what meaning
they affix to their words.
Latimer could not play this dis-
tinguished part, through the reign of
Edward YI., of pulpit satirist and
preacher of the Reformation, without
bein^ called to severe account in the
ensumg reign of Queen Mary. He
might have fled the country, and the
new government were not unwilling
that he should do so. He chose to
remain, and was accordingly com-
mitted to the Tower. But if his
enemies were willing he should
escape by self-banishment, they
spared him no severity when he was
within their power. They kept the
old man without fire in frosty
weather. With health broken, they
transferred bim to Oxford to 1lnde^
go examination, and hold disputa-
tions upon the mass, whereat Master
Smith of Oriel, Dr. Gartwright, and
divers others, '*had snatches at him,
and gave him bitter taunts.'* After
this examination he was imprisoned
In the common jail in Oxford, where
he lay for more than a year. From
the jail he was again brought to be
examined before oommissioners. In-
firm and poor, it is a pitiable spectacle
that is presented to us. *'He wore
an old threadbare Bristol frieze gown,
girded to his body with a penny
leather girdle ; his testament was
suspended from this girdle by a
leather sling, and his spectacles,
without a case, hung from his neck
upon his breast'' His head was
bound about by a complication of
night-caps, surmounted by an old
horscman^s cap, which, notwithstand-
ing Foxe*s specific description, it is
very difficult to get any dear concep-
tion oC In this state, and his mind
hair torpid by *' long gazing apon cold
walls,*' he is set again to dispute on
points of divinity with the Bishops of
Lincoln and Gloucester. They re-
proach him for his want of learning.
" Lo !" he exclaimed, according to the
report of Foxe, " von look for learning
at my band, which have gone so long
to the school of oblivion, making the
bare walls my library; keeping me
so long in prison without book, or
pen, or ink ; and now you let me
loose to come and answer to articles.
You .deal with me as though two
were appointed to fight for life and
death ; and over-night the one,
through friends and favour, is che-
rished, and hath good counsel given
him how to encounter with his enemy ;
the other, for envy or lack of friends,
all the whole night is set in the stocks.
In the morning when they shall meet,
the one is in strength and lively, the
other is stark of his limbs and almost
dead for feebleness. Think yon
that to run through this man with a
spear is not a goodly victory ?"
But the end of all was now at
hand. He and Ridley were con-
demned to the flames. At the closing
scene his spirit revived, and his was
that terse, vigorous saying, which has
been so often repeated, '* Be of good
comfort. Master Ridley, and play the
man; we shall this day light such a
candle by Grod's grace in England, as
I trust shall never be put out."
As Principal Tullocb remarked in
reference to the martyrdom of Serve-
tus, so we may remark here, that it is
useless now to utter indignant denun-
ciations against this crime of persecu-
tion, unless it should be thought neces-
sary to keep the example of past ages
before us, in order to preserve ourselves
from lapsing into their errors. For it
was a crime of the age. All parties, all
sects, are seen at this epoch involved
in the same lamentable error. As
individual men, we must even pity
the persecutors of olden times — pity
them for being carried away by one
common infatuation. If the Catho-
lics committed Latimer and Cranmer
to the flames, even Latimer is found
1869.]
Lutker-- Cdltit^-^Laiitner^Knox,
187
•fflbtiDg at the martyrdom of Friar
Forrest, preaching the public sermon
OD the occasion, and thos sanction-
ing the act ; and Granmer, as is well
known* could send a helpless woman
to the staka It has been ofLeo said,
that the Protestants had len excuse
for their cruelty than the Catholics,
who were snpportiog an old-estab>
Itshed system by harsh measm^
which they deemed ooald be eflective,
and which, in some instances, were
eflfective. And the Protestants woold
have perhaps altogether escaped the
deep disgrace of having capitally exe-
cuted men and women for what they
called heresy, if it had not happened
that their nearts were hardenea, and
their jadgments utterly perverted by
that habit (which Principal Tol-
loch has so ably reproved) of lookinff
into the Old Testament for laws and
gnidanoe. An appeal to Moses was
thonght to ^eide the case. When
some poor woman was to be execnted
for her nonsense, the young king
Edward was reluctant to sign the
warrant ''The object of the kiog*s
conipassion," says the historian Lin-
gard, "WBB the future condition of
fier soul in another world. He
argued, that as long as she remained
f n error she remained in sin, and that
to deprive her of life in that state. Was
to coo^gn her soal to everlasting tor^
ments. Cranmer was compelled to
moot the point with the young theo-
logian. The objection was solved by
the example of Moses, who had com-
pelled blasphemers to be stoned ; and
the king, with tears, put his signature
to the warrant.**
Of the last of these " Leaders" on
our list — the patriot reformer Znox
— we shall venture to say but a few
words. Principal Tulloch^s manly,
straightforward account of the repre-
sentative of the Beformation in Scot-
land cannot (kil to please. There is
no undue partiality, there is no timid
admiration.
One notices three stages in the
opinion which Protestants form of
these great leaders of the Reforma-
tion. The first is one of unwise, un-
qualified laudation : the man is a
type for all times, his doctrine a
standard for our own fiuth. The se-
cond is a critical stage, where defects
of character and narrowness of intel-
lectual view are discovered, and the
idol is well-nigh displaced altogether
from its pedestal : there is a greater
disposition to bhuoae than to praise.
Then follows the third stage, in which
an ideal of excellence or of wisdom
being no longer sought, the hero is
reinstated in such virtues as he can
really claim : his conduct is not fault-
less, and his reasoning is not unim-
peachable, but he stands there to be
judged by fair comparison with his
fi^low-meo, and according to the work
he had to accomplish. In this last
stage we presume the reading public
are at present. Th^ no longer wish to
idolise such a man as Knox. He had
his passions like other men ; com-
mitted blunders as do other men— all
that is understood ; and now passion
for passion, blunder for blunder, man
for man, how will you estimate him
as he stands there amongst his con-
temporaries ? We, for our part, esti-
mate him very highlv, nor can we
find any living man, of his own time,
who can, on the whole, take prece-
dence of him.
Some romantically-disposed people
think to exhibit Knox to great dis-
advantage by bringing him before us
in contrast with Mary, the beautiful
queen of the Scots. Well does Prin-
cipal Tulloch remark, that such people
must be allowed "simply to please
themselves with their own delusions ;"
they are plainly incapable of any
grave historical criticism. Thev
should be condemned to read noveb
eternally ; or, what might be a worse
penalty, to do nothing out write no-
vels all their lives. A rude word!
Sermonised the Queen 1 Why, this
beautiful lady would have sent John
Knox, if she had been able, back to
the French galleys, and she would
have govern^ a country, now mani-
festiy Protestant, bv the inflaence of
her priests, and in the interests of the
Duke of Guise. Pass by her person-
al frailties — let the woman be un-
touched — what sort of queen has
Scotland here? She is scarce a
Scotchwoman — she is more a Guise
than a Stoart What good will the
nation get out of her pretty French
manners, her sweet Ikoe, or her musi*
cal voice ? Kow, bring opposite to
her, front to firont, our John Knox,
tried and hardened by the fire of ad-
188
Leaders of the R^ormation:
[Aug.
versity, wboae religioii has become a
grand patriotism, who stands there
the representative of a people who
have flang off the degrading govern-
ment of priests, who have become
each one his own priest in his rela-
tions to God, and who, thos free in«
religion, most be free also in politics ;
who mean henceforth, both in Ghnrch
and State, to be a self-governing
people. Contrast the two figures.
Choose between them. Choose a soft
face and treachery to the nation, or
the hard strong man, self-devoted to
a great caose.
if the Eeformation in England was
singularly complex in its character,
in Scotland it assumed a form mar-
vellously simple. According to all
accounts, the old hierarchy had by
its vices lost all hold of the affections
or the reverence of the people — the
monarchy had lost its controlliog
power by the untimely death ^ of
James V. — the burgher class, im-
pelled and united by a religious move-
ment, became supreme — there was
not too much learning for unanimity
of opinion — the simpler faith of Pro-
testantism carried all before it, and
was destined to mould for centuries
the character of the nation.
The burgher class, it must not be
forgotten, were fused with the mob,
so to speak, by the power of the
religious orator acting equally upon
all. There is no respect of persons
in this matter of religious doctrine.
The Reformation becomes a strictly
democratic movement Knox preach-
es a sermon at Perth on the idolatry
of the mass and of image-worship^
The whole multitude is stirred.
f
"At the dose of the sermon," con-
tinues Principal TuUoch, "and while the
people still lingered under the warm emo-
tion of the preacher's words, an encounter
took place between a boy and a priest,
who, with a singular deadness to the
signs around him, had uncovered a rich
altar-piece, and was making preparations
to oelebrate mass. The boy threw a
stone, which overturned and destroyed
one of the images. The act operated
like a spark Imd to a train. The sup-
pressed indignation of the multitude
burst Iprth beyond all control—- the con-
secrated imagery was broken in piecesr—
the holy reoeeses invaded— the pictures
and ornaments torn from the walls and
trampled in the dust— and, rising with
the agitation, the spirit of disorder
spread, and the 'rascal multitude,* as
Knox afterwards called them, having
completed their work of destruction in
the churdi, proceeded to the houses of
the Grey and Black Friars, and the Cbar^
ter-house or Carthusian Monastery, and
violently ransacked them and laid them
in ruins."
The spirit of destmotion nowhere
raged So violently as it did in Soot-
land. Every man of taste must do*
plore the ruin and defacement of the
noble structures of the old religion.
We should be thought Yandals oui^
selves if we uttered a word of apology,
yet something might suggest iiself to
a sturdy Protestant to reconcile bioi
to this act of Vandalism. Koox*8 plea
that U&e *' best way to keep the rooks
from returning, was to pull down
their nests,'' could ap^ly only to the
first era of the Beformation ; and the
banished rooks would have returned,
if it had been in their power, and re-
built their nests. Great shame and
scandal, it seems, to pull down a fine
old edifice, but we Know — and our
own age has in some measure shown
how this may be—we know that a
fioe old building may, in its own
dumb way, preach from generation
to generation, till at lengthy aided by
some propitious circumstances, it may
prove a very persuasive orator. Visit-
ors pace with enthusiasm the aisles,
let us say, of a York Minster ; taste-
ful municipalities sustain, restore
the venerable edifice ; a desire migfU
grow, we do not say that it ever
has grown, that the worship, the
ceremonial, the music, should be in
harmony with the grand cathed-
ra], and a revived ceremonial is fol-
lowed, amongst the unreflecUve, by
a revived doctrine.
The whole Beformation in Soot>
land has an extreme uncompromising
character, which the liberal and in-
telligent citizen of Edinburgh cannot
at this day be supposed to approve.
No measure of justice was dealt
towards the old Catholio Church.
The contest was too violent to admit
of equitable controversy, and the
crimes of a Cardinal Beatonn had
heljped to raise a spirit almost as nn-
christian as his own. Knox and his
companions were not content with
1859.]
Felicita.-^Part I.
189
deDoanciDj^ the Catholic Charoh as
comipt; It was absolutely the work
of Satan; it was aBtichrlst. An
applicatioa of certain passages in the
Apocalypse, first introduced by pole-
mical divlDes in the mere heat of
discussion, became a part of the
national faith in Scotland. All this
popular and unqualified animosity
cannot be admired by os. But great
changes of this description never yet
were efiected by moderate equitable
gentlemen. We have to ask ourselves
whether, upon the whole, our Reform-
ers did not accomplish their great
work as well and as wisely as the times
permitted.
We will not follow Principal Tnlloch
any further in his account of Knox: we
should be only repeating what he has
more eloquently said. We would in-
vute our readers to a perusal of the
book itself : they will find it both elo-
quent and instructive.
f KLICITA.
PABT I.— CHAPTER I.
" I THINK, if you please," said Feli-
cia, slowly, *^ that I will prefer to go
to my aunt.^'
" You shall do what you like," said
her interlocutor, rudely, " we're Eng-
lish — we are ; we don^t constrain no-
body. Go to your aunt, to be sure,
and make a French marriage with
whoever suits her. I promise you she
woD*t give in to a foolish girl's will as
we've done here."
" M^ aunt is not French," said the
girl, with a little pride.
" Oh no, only rather more so," said
the irritated cockney. ** Good morn-
ing, Miss Antini--l'm busy, thank
you — don't hurry about your arrange-
ments, 1 beg — ^but for me and my son,
our time is not our own, jon under-
stand. We're hard-working people,
and obliged to look after our business ;
80 I am compelled to say good-day ;
but don't by any means let us hurry
ycm."
Thus dismissed, Felicia Antini
went her way, with feelings con-
siderably mortified, and flushed
cheeks. Her way was an extremely
prosaic one ; up three pair of stairs,
in a narrow London house stuck on
to a sbowy London shop, to a Httle
bedchamber which overlooked the
chimneys. Here she had lived for
three months, trying to be as cheer-
ful as a new-made orphan could be,
and making herself useful in the
"establishment" of the only relative
she knew anything of-— a cousin of
her mother's ; a life to which, in her
dearth of friends, and the simplicity
of her thoughts, she might very well
have accustomed herself, had not the
eon and heir of the house fallen vio-
lently in love with his relative, and
persecuted her with all the persever-
ing attentions which were *' the pro-
per thing " in this young gentleman's
sphere. It was so hard to persuade
tue complacent and well-to-do young
cockney that her " no " was serious
— that Felicia's life for some time
back had been much unlike her name.
Now the amazed resentment of her
wooer and of his father, who had
made up his mind to a magnanimous
stretch of generosity in consenting to
receive his poor cousin's daughter as
his son's wife, and whom her refusal
astounded beyond measure, had at
last fixed the thoughts of the solitary
girl on the only alternative which she
could see remaining to her. Her
education and former customs made
it hard for her to seek other employ-
ment of a similar kind— she had not
courage. Here it was impossible to
stay ; and the only thing practicable
seemed to accept the invitation of
her Italian aunt^ But Felicia was
at heart an English girl, with some
prejudices and many likings. It was
but slowly and with reluctance that
she made up her mind to this neces-
sity. She knew nothing in the world
of her father's sister, save what could*
be conveyed by the odd yet kind let-
ter in which the invitation to his
orphan came ; and the long journey,
190
FdieUa.^Part L
[Aug.
the BtraDge ooantry, the life amoDg
Btraogers, alarmed Felicia. She felt
little incUoation to claim the offered
kindnesB so long as shelter and daily
bread could be found at home. Now,
though the daily bread was in little
danger, the Bhelter was no longer
tenable, and Felicia's thoughts turned
like shadows before her to her father's
land.
Felicia Antini was the only child
of an Italian long resident in Eng-
land and his English wife. Her
father had been a tolerably sacoess-
fol teacher of bis own language, and
had not left his wife and child unpro-
vided; but after his death Mr& An-
tini had fallen into bad health, which
much impoverished their little pro-
vision. Felicia had still something
when her mother, too, was gone; but
she was lonely and homeless— a sorer
evil than poverty — and was glad to
accept the only protection of kindred
which was near enough to be offered
to her in her first solitude. Thus
she only cried and smiled over the
cranky characters and bad spelling
of Madanie Peruzzi's letter, which
moved her by its Italian exuberance,
even while her own English reserve
shrank from a full response to its
caregsiog expressions. Now she saw
nothing else remaining to her, and
took out once more her aunt's epistle
to decipher its quaint lines word by
word, and to fancy herself, as far as
that was possible, an Italian girl be-
neath Madame Feruzzi'ft matronly
wing. Felicid*8 father had been one
of those attenuated, long-visaged
Italians with a chuckle always lurk-
ing in his hollow cheek, and a gleam
of fire and malice in his e>e, who
never run into raptures of patriot-
ism, and caress their native land
rather by stinging proverbs of affec-
tionate depreciation, than by positive
praise; and as for Felicia's mother,
that excellent and homely woman
was distinguished by nothing so
much as a fervent jealousy of every-
thing Italian, restrained in expres-
sion, but all the more earnest in
thought. Had Mrs. Antini known
or suspected that the first-born baby
daughter of whom she was so proud
was to be the sole blossom of the
family tree, nothing in the world
would have induced her to yield the
naming of the child to her hnsband,
and forego the privilege of Bettling
her nationality in her cradle. As it
was, when the father added the ca-
ressing syllables of an Italian dimina-
tive to the little girl's name, and
called her Felicita, the English mo-
ther asserted her Independence of all
the laws of euphony by cutting short
the pretty word into the Saxon
abruptness of Fellie. Between these
two the girl grew np more disposed
to the mother's side than the father's,
a steady little Englishwoman. If
ever Felicia gave her mother a pang,
it was when she sang with her
father, exercising the voice which
she derived from him, in music which
was somewhat above Mrs. Antini'a
comprehension, though she coald not
well condemn it, or showed herself
fluent in the tongue which the
Italian's homely wife had never suo-
ceeded in acquiring. The good wo-
man showed her annoyance only by
a little bustle about the house, and
pretence of indifference— a very little
additional irritability of temper —
moods which both husband and
daughter fully understood, but which
were not serious enough to make
dispeace or discontent in the little
household which, on the whole, was
affectionate and happy. Then the
Italian died, and was laid in English
ground, and grew holy 'with all the
sacred recollections which sanctify
the dead ; and Mrs. Antini subsided
out of her housewifely bustle into
the calm of widowhood, and then, as
if her strength followed her active
duties, into ill health and invalidism,
and Felicia's care. That time was
sad, but still happy; for the two
women, who were sione in the world,
were still together, and took comfort
in their mutual affection as only mo-
ther and daughter can ; and then
came a sore blank, a heavier void,
and henceforth no one reduced the
Bweet syllables of Felicia's name into
that homely Fellie, which now would
have been sweeter than any music to
the orphan's ear.
All this passed throogh the girl's
mind as she sat in her little London
attic, among the smoke and the spar-
rows. She could not marry the
young shopkeeper. It was no use
trying to reconcile herself to the ne-
1851]
Fdkita.^Part I.
191
eesBity-^tbe thing w« impMsiMe;
BO there remained to Felieia only her
fhtber*8 diatftot relatives, her ua-
known annt, her paternal conntiy,
and the Italian which she already
began to forget After a time ehe
began instinctiyely to gather her
little property togkher, and prepiore
for bar departore. Hie boose she
was leaving was not one to be moeh
regretted ; bat when she took her
little wardrobe ont of the dMwers,
and knelt on the floor at her lonely
packing, the occnpatkm was sorrow-
lal eooQgh. She thought to herself—
ae it was so hard to set oat of the
habit of thinking — what would her
mother say ? and felt a pang of dis-
tress cross her mind at the idea of
new habits and associations, against
which that mother's pKjodiees and
antipathies wonld have been so nroch
excited. The novelty at that moment
did not strike Felicia pleasantly— she
did not think of the delights of the
joaniey, of the change, of all thwe
waa to see, and of the unknown
events to be eneoontered, whioh,
even becanse they are unknown,
please the yootbfbl fancy. She was
going by herself and for heieelf, she
who had been all her life one of a
lamily — going from evervthing she
knew and was familiar with ; so she
packed ap the black dresses with
some few tears falling among theffii
and many sighs.
A very few days after this, having
warned her annt of her coming by a
letter, Felicia set oat with a sad
heart. She was attended to the rail*
way by a little gronp of the yoang
women connected with her relative's
** establishment," who had taken up
Felicia's cause with warm ^prit de
€6rp8, and who for various reasons
(partly because she was tacitly under-
stood to have rejected the young
master of the place— an assertion of
the female privilege which all women
more or less enjoy ; partly because of
her relationship to their employer;
partly for her lonely condition, and
even a little for her foreign name ittd
blood, and the undefined superiority
which the possession of another lan-
guage carried over her unlearned
companions) admired and protected
ttod copied Felicia. It was somethmg
to look back upon their faces as they
TOI* LXXXVL
walked np and down by the aide of
the train before it started, and ran
after it to the very end of the rail-
way platform, kissing their hands,
waving their handkerchiefs, and
wiping tbeir eyes. They had to walk
back all the way frotad London Bridce
to Oxford Street, and I daresay did
it with a very good heart, and tdked
of nothing else all day but how she
looked, poor dear, and what her perils
on the ymvMy might be. They were
but silly creaturts, most likely, with
tbeir little vanities and jealousit^s, but
this forlorn young woman was glad
of their svmpathy ; the beach of bish-
ops eoold Bot have consoled her so
well
We will not dwell upon the details^
of Felicia's journey. A solitary ghrP
in blaok, sitting back in the comer
of a carriage, with a thick gauze vdl
over her face, is not a very nnnsnal
traveller anywhere, and i^ perhaps
nowhere less interesting than on a
tourist's roQte abroad, where one ex-
Stcts bright faces and lively interest,
aking her way through Franee
with a few w^trds of French, and all
the reserve yet self-dependence of
an English girl, was bard enough*
work for Felicia. If she could have
travelled night and day throughout,
she might have done well enough ;
but the pause of a night was some-
thing from which tlie young traveller
shrank with dread, and she ivonld
rather have slept on the steps of the
railway or in any dark comer about,
than have ventured to enter the ter-
rible brightness of a hotel, and pro*
vide lodging and provision for heraelf,
as she had to do at Paris «id Mar-
seilles. Then came the sea, and she
breathed freely ; but up to that thae
Felicia saw very little of the way,
ventured to enter Into conversation
with no one, and found little comfort,
if it were liot in the occasional gleam
upon her of a kind old French face
in a snow-white cap, which smiled
a silent encouragement to her lone-
liness. The young people — the hap-
py peopte-*'the travelling ladles in
their English perfection of travelling-
dresses, or the fine Frenchwomen
who dazzled all the eyes which could
see with the graces of a Parisian
toilette, rather made the orphan
shrink within herself ; but the» was
13
192
Fdicita.—F0rt L
l^^'
still an old woniaD« liere wod there,
to hearten her with that magio of
kind looks, which, somehow, old wo-
men— much belied spedee of ha-
manity •— excel in when they will.
When the had reached the panting
steamboat which was to convej her
to Italy, Felicia threw herself npon
the hard sofa in the liUle cabin with
a sigh of relief and comfort No
more peril of hotels and railway
.oflSces frightened her imagination-^
her troubles were almost over. She
was ill, bat she was safe: she had
recovered the gift of speech, snd oonld
once more make herself anderstood.
60, venturing to take pleasare ia that
blue transparent sea, and wiatfally
gazing as ^ the old miracoloos moon-
taios heaved in sight/' and the silence
broke into all the noises of a port,
and opaque boats danced npon the
water which beneath them seemed
made of sunshine, our lonely young
traveller approached to her father*s
coantry. Later when the evening
fell, after great trials by means of the
customboase, Felicia reached Flor-
ence. She had been less than a week
on the way, and when the city of
Dante borat upon her in the evening
sansbine, among its circle of hills,
she conld scarcely realise to herself
the fact of being so Ikr away from
that familiar coantry which she fond-
ly called ^ home ;" then of having no
home snywhere in the world ; and
then, that what claim to home she
had was here. Home I there was not
even snch a word in the laoguage
which henceforth was to be her lu-
ggage ; henceforward her dearest re-
tirement could be only in etua (in
the house). Felicia drew her veil doeer
over her face as she drove across the
Arno, and with a certain indescrib-
able prejudice declined to be attract-
ed by the beauty of the scene. She
would not see the quaint bridge that
spanned the river, the tall houses re-
flecting themselves in the magical
stream, the grey Apennine heaving
up his mighty shoulders behind the
city, aod all the wonderful sunshine
and atmosphere which glorified the
Italian town. Then the vehicle
slackened tts paoe^ and Felicia^ heart
beat faster. Th^ had plunged out
«f the sunshine into the deep and
«old shadow of the Yia Giugnio,
where by thai time in the day sub-
liffht was impossible, save that which
blazed on the unequal rooft, and
dropped in downward lines aslant;
from the deep Tuscan cornice at the
corners of the lanes which fell into
this street Then Felicia's conveyance
stopped before a great door, flanked
by two large windows, strongly barred
with iron. After a little interval the
doof swung open, and a maSd-servsot
appeared; a dumpy, cheerful litUe
Tuscan, bustling and good-tempo*-
ed, who conducted Felicia up-staics
with a rnnning flood of words, to
which the stranger, in her nervous
agitation, found it quite impossible to
attend. Some one met them on the
stairs, and Felicia*s heart leaped to
her month. This must surely be her
aunt at last >Sbe made an embar-
rassed trembling pause, but the pss-
senger went on without noticing her.
So they continued up and up those
lengthy stairs, the heart of the young
stranger sinking more and more the
farther she ascended. The stairctse
was indififerently lighted, and dosed
doors frowned on her upon the land-
ing-places. Poor Felicia ran over all
her life in her thoughts as she went
up these steps—the little sabarban
house which was home, the frerii,
fair, tiny English apartments, the
kind mother, the familiar liiis. Now
she was here among strangers, many
hundred- miles away from every one
who knew her, and painfully doubtful
of her new relations, and the recep>
tion she should meet with from them.
Thus her whole peaceful past history,
with its mdancholy ending of fare-
wells and deathbeds, went by her ejes
like a picture as she ascended tibiese
stairs.
This house, from cellar to roof, was
Madame Peruzzi*s — her property, al-
most her soto property ; a little estate
in a town frequented by the wander-
ing English and the other wealthy
nations who are given to travel Her
own apartments were in the third
Btorv, not quite the highest, but next
to the attics — the third story, count-
ing by legitimate floors, but, including
entresais, somewhat more like the fifth.
When Felicia reached this elevation
she found her aunt at last awaiting
her, not much less nervous than her-
self, though ^Madame Peruzzi's age
1869.]
JWtcdo.— Pari J.
193
aod d^nity kept ber in her own
ftpartmenta to await her Tisitor. The
old ladv stood with ber hand upon
the little marble table before ber, in
a somewhat agitated pose, as if she
bad been standiDg for her portrait.
She wore a black gown with a tight-
fitting jacket, fuid large mosaic
brooch. Her scanty grey hair was
pat np in a little knot at the back
of her head, its ooionr and distri-
bation being abundantly evident
from the want of anything in the
shape of cap — a paiofal deficiency,
which pnzzled her niece extremely
at the first glance, when it appeared
to her that somethiog, she coold not
tell what, was wanting in Madame
Perozzi's toilette. The old lady*s
ears were heavily weighted with
round bosses of mosaic to correspond
with her brooch. She wore lace frills,
about her wriokled and yellow hands,
and the hollow cheek and gleamiog
eye were less comely in Madame Pe-
mzzi than they had been in the fami-
liar face of Felicia's father. Still
there was sufficient resemblance to
wake a flood of afieotiooate recollec-
tions in the orphan*s mind. She
made a few hasty steps forward, half
shy, half ^ager, and tnen, with a mo-
mentary start of dismay, found her-
self suddenly clasped in ber aunt's
arms. These arms were rather bony,
and gave a somewhat grim embrace ;
and as the long brown face bent over
ber, and the old grey uncovered head,
it may be forgiven to the stranger if
sbe felt this first ebullition of aSeo
tion somewhat overpowering. Felicia
was glad to slide out of her'aunt*s
arms, aod drop into the first chair
which offered itself. Madame Pe-
mzzi had a perfumed handkerchief
in her hand, and the least possible
fragranoe of garlic in her breath.
She was overflowing with affection
for her beloved Antonio's child, her
dearest niece, her sweet Felicita.
Tbe flood of rapid words and caress-
log^ expressions took away the poor
girl's breath ; she dropped softly
into a chair, holding her little tra-
velling-bag clasped in her hsnd.
Madame JPeruzqi seated herself be-
side her, and poured out inquiry
after inquiry : How long had she
been on the way? — how wonderful
that sbe should have come so soon !
was not she bippy to find herself in
Florence ?^were not the skies always
cloudy in England ? — how could An-
tonio, poor Antonio I have existed so
long in that dismal country? And
to die without seeing Italy ajrain! —
without leaving his child under his
sister's care I Ah, heavens! what a
fate I Such were the welcoming
words with which Madame Pbruzzi
greeted ber niece.
In the meantime, Felicia glanced
round her, and silently took in a little
picture of the scene. Tbe room
fronted to the street, and had two
windows hung with fringed muslin
curtains— not so white as might have
been desired; between them was a
marble table, supported on feet which
had once been gilded, and supporting
a long narrow mirror. This and the
round table, also topped with marble,
on which Madame Peruzzi bad been
leaning, were the grand articles in
the room. The rest of the furniture
consbted of an old-fashioned sofa
with cushions, aod chairs which were
not to correspond. The floor was
uocarpeted, and consisted of tiles,
dark-red and diamond shaped, on
which every footstep resounded. In
one corner, a stove made of terracotta
projected a little from the wall ; some
pictures— very bad copies from tbe
cheap Florentine manofactories of
such articles — were hung round the
room; books were not to be seen,
neither were there any materials for
woman's work, or the least trace o
that litter of life and occupation
which the tidiest of apartments un-
Qonsciously and appropriately at-
tains ; everything was cold, bare, and
penurious, Felicia had ^een many a
poorer room which had no such
meagre expression. The penury here
was not poverty of means ak>ne, but
poverty of life. As she looked, only
half conscious of observing, her
aunt*s monologue went on. Madame
Peruzzi did not require much aid in
maintaining the conversation. Sbe
plunged into a hasty description of
what were to be tbe future pleasures
of Felicia's life — the Gasme, the
Pergola, the Casino balls, to which a
dear friend of Madame Peruzzi could
gain them admission, the approach-
ing delights of the carnival. Felicia
listened with silent dismay and be.
194
wilderment. She did not compre-
bend the ont-of-doon life described
to her. These thiDgSi it was to be
supposed, were gaieties Doderstood
to be generatly agreeable to people
of ber age, but they only cbitled and
frightened the stranger, who, sadly
fatigued and worn out with her jour-
ney, startled by new circumstances
and the change of every domestic de-
tail around her, would have been
much more pleased to hear of a room
bhe could retire to, to rest a little,
and cry a little, and make up ber
mind to the novel condition in which
she found herself. This, at lost,
Felicia took courage to ask for
timidly. Then Madame Peruz2i led
her by au open door Into a little
narrow strip of a room which opened
from the sitting-room, where a little
dressing-table stood before the win-
dow, and a little bed occupied the
end of the apartment **Thi8 is thy
apartment, relicita mia; thou shalt
be very happy here," said Madame
Peruzzi, looking round with some
complacence. *'See thou the sweet
Madonna over thy head, and the
blessed water. These were my Be-
gina's, when the dear girl lived.
Thou art my daughter now, and I
have no other: be happy, my eoni,
with thy brother Angelo and me."
Felicia* sat down upon her trunk,
which had been carried here, though
she had not observed it, feeling a
little faint. Even then she was not
left alone ; and when the maid called
Madame Perazzl from the Aala^ the
door of communication was still left
open. Felicia did not move in her
first moments of loneliness, but sat
still upon her trunk, witb ber eyes
fixed upon that op!en door. She
scarcely felt courage to rise and close
it; she sat gazing at it with a for-
lorn and dumb dismay. Looking at
that, she seemed to be looking at the
entire circumstances of her new life.
There was no other entrance to the
room, and all her JEoglish privacy
and individuality seemed to faint
away from ber at this sight She
bad not even taken off her bonnet, or
loosed from ber weary shoulders the
•eloak which was heavier than usual
with the weight of dust produced by
an Autumn day's journey. She could
not cry,^e could scarcely breathe;
Fdieita.'^Part L [Aug.
she sat apathetic and miserable, look-
ing at ber exposed apartment. Here
was not the shelter which even ber
London attic gave her. Tn this place
no one understood what was implied
in the idea of home. Then came an
interval of silence and quiet, which
could not be called repose ; she heard
Madame P^uzsi's voice at some
little distance, giving orders to her
maid ; she could hear, even without
wishing it, what Madame Pferuzzi said ;
and only roused herself to the desperate
possibility of dosing ber door when
the colloquy seemed almost over.
Pure Tuscan, with all its resounding
syllables and soft terminations, but
certainly not the liquid Italian, the
melting accents which sentimental
travellers delight to record; on tbe
contrary, a couple of English scolds
at high words could not have made
more commotion than was created
by the perfectly peaceable conference
of Madame Peruzzi and ber maid.
However, the old lady, by an extra-
ordinary discretion, respected the
closed door of Felicia's room ; and the
stranger, after some breatbless listeo-
ing, roused herself to change ber dress
and shake off the weary travelling-
garments full of dust which weighed
her down. She had been kindly re-
ceived ; she had nothing to compUin
of, and yet her heart sank. Her
aunt's words buzzed in her ears, like
painful indications of a life unknown
to her. What were the Oasine and
the Pergola, the winter's balls and
carnival, to a sober English girl in
mourning, brought up in tbe hum-
blest section of the English middle-
class, and accustomed to reckon upon
things totally different as the most
important matters of life? Felicia
was not wise enough to be quite
above the fascination of such pro-
mises, but to have these hopes held
out to her in the first hour of ber
arrival, in a house so very moderate
in its pretensions, as matters of es-*
seotial importance, seemed to ber
something so gravely and sadly ridi-
culous, that, once out of Madame
Perruzzi's presence, she could scarcely
believe ber in earnest She made
ber simple toilette slowly, to gain a
little time to think ; she persuaded
herself that it wos impossible to ibrm
any proper idea of the life and bouse
1869.]
FkUeUa^ParlL
195
to which she bad come, till time
flhoold iDfonn her folty on the sub-
ject ; she thoQgbt of her father and
the stories he iised to tell her of his
own coQDtrj. Bat her father had
been lon^ absent from his coantrj,
bad acquired other habits and tastes,
and remembered only the delights of
ble yoQth, quaint rural customs, and
primiti?e pleasures, which In the
telling had seemed as delightfbl to
Felicia as to himself, but which she
had connected with the luxuriaot
vineyards and shadowy olive gar-
dens, the Italian farms with their
primitive wealth and labours, and
which she was sadly at a loss to adapt
to these meagre apartments, where
everything was poor and unlovely,
and where no beauty made up for
the English comfort, which was out
of the question here. The result of
Feliciii's deliberations was, that she
became too much puzzled to deli-
berate further; and experiencing a
slight revulsion of personal comfort
when she had bathed her face,
brushed out her hair, and changed
her dress, at last opened, with more
courage than she had felt in cl<»sing
it^ the door of her chamber, and found
herself once more in presence of her
aont
** If Angelo had but known thoa
wert here," cried Madame Peruzzi,
"nothing would have detained him,
Fdicita mia — not his most dear
friends — ^he is so anxious thou shouldst,
be happy with us. Ah I he is good,'
very good, my son. If Angelo had
stood in his father's place, we should
have been people of fortune, my soul ;
but the Signor Peruzzi was one of
seven eons, and that which is in seven
parts is less to each than if all were
one, like Angelo, thou knowest But
he haa good friends, very good friends
— ^he is not neglected : they remember
that he is a Peruzzi, and thou shalt
have thy share of thy cousin^s ad-
vantages, though thou and I, my
Felicita, are not noble like Angelo.
Bat what then? we shall enjoy our
life the same, and he is a goud son.
Bat tell me. Carina ; thy father An-
tonio, did he never speak to thee of
mef
** Many times, aunt,*' said Felicia,
faltering a little, for her Either did not
alwaya speak with enthusiasm of his
sister.
''And desired thee to come to us
when he died, the good Antonio I did
he not so!^* continued the aunt.
^ You forget my mother was then
alive," said Felicita, with sorrowful
pride : " while she lived, he coukl wish
me no other guardian.*'
''Thy mother, ah! who was thy
mother, carina?'* said the old lady,
raising a little her capless head;
** not a rich milor*s daughter, Anto-
nio told us. I know not the customs
of thy country : if she was poor, and
he was poor, why then did they
marry? My poor Antonio! was it
not a sad lifeT
"They married beeanse they were
fond of each other," said Felicia, with
a rising colour, ** and my father did
not think his life sad : we were verv
happy — more happy than I cap tell
you; every thbg went well with us
then."
''He was always good," said Ma-
dame Peruzzi, *' but toon wilt pardon
me, Felicita, if to live in that cloudy
island, and to labour all one's days,
seems to me a sad life. And Antonio
left thee a little fortune, did he not ?
Thou art rich, Felicita mia? We
labour but for our children, my soul.
If they are well, all is well. Ah !
if I could but see my Angelo rich, I
should die with joy."
''If Angelo thinks like me, aunt,"
said Felicia, quietly, " he would rather
have his mother than be rich. One
can work and live, but one cannot
have a second father and mother.'*
^'Carina mia! thou shalt have a
second mother — thou art my own
child !" cried the old lady, with a sud-
den embrace. Felicia unconscious-
ly slid out of it with embarrass-
ment as soon as she was able, and
did not feel so happy as might have
been expected. Strangely enough, at
this pathetic climax of the inter-
view, two ludicrous ingredients in
the novelty of her position tempted
Felicia at the same moment to
laugh and to be slightly ill tempered.
One was. a puzzling question, which
ran through all her musings, and kept
her in an annoying but ludicrous un-
certainty—whether her aont Peruzzi
had forgotten to put on her cap, and
was unaware of it? and the other
was a secret and hopeless longing for
that great feminine English luxury,
a cup of tea. 8he drew back, uncon-
196
I^ieita,—Part L
[Ang.
Boioasly puttiog np her band to tbe
crimped frill of her moorDiog coHar,
which her aani's embrace had dis-
turbed, and feeling herself more and
more obetioately and perversely
Eoglish io proportion as she per-
ceived how different everything else
was aroand her, .Id tbe midst •f
sQch questioning and such involun-
tary resistance, the afternoon wore
to an end. The impossible tea ap-
peared not for the refreshment of
tbe yoQDg Englishwoman, and Ma-
dame Peruzzi, if she had forgotten it,
certainly did not discover the absence
of her cap.
A little before six o'clock Angelo
came home. Angelo was tbe only
son of his mother, a young Floren-
tine of two-and-twenty, but looking
more youthful than he was, fresh,
adolescent, and beardless, with a face
which attracted his coasin's shv re-
gard in spite of herself. Good looks
are more common among the men
than among the women of Tuscany,
and Angelo Penizzi*s looks were sun-
ny and frank and candid, with a de-
gree of simplicity in the pood humour
beaming from them, which an Eng-
lish youth of the same years could
hardly have exhibited. He was not
dark, but simply brown, with hazel
eyes, a laughing, curved opper-lip,
and so entire an absence of any-
thing like care or thought in his face
that the grave young girl beside
him, although younger than he,
looked with a certain wistful envy-
ing and anxiety at his unclouded
countenance, feeling herself . ages
older than he was, and wondering
over his inexperience. Felicia her-
self was not quite twenty, and, Eng-
ii^h though she was in feeling, had
.one of those remarkable Italian faces,
not always beautiful, which it is not
easy to forget. Her eyes were blue,
with a gleam of latent fire in their
depths ; her hair of a colourless dark-
ness, like twilight, not black, but
without light; her face long and
oval. When she grew old, she would
be like her father — a suggestion which
at tbe present moment was not Very
complimentary, but at present she
was something more than pretty,
though less than beautiful. Tbe two
young people looked at each other
with mutual curiosity as. young peo-
ple use; each was rather more a
mystery to the other than it is com-
mon for young men and young wo-
men to be, for the serious English
girl in her mourning was about as
great a puzzle to Angelo as the
thoughtless young Florentine was to
Felicia ; but they began their mutual
examination with mutual good-will.
Shortly after Angelo^s arrival they
were called to dinner, which was
served in another apartment rather
more bare than the first, at the other
end of a long passage. Here Felida
began her experiences of Italian house-
hold economy. Tbe meal was long
and various, but the stranger's plate
went away again and again untouch-
ed, and she was fain to plead extreme
fatigue as .the cause of her want of
appetite. Poor Felicia ! The dinner
was a errand dinner, made in her hon-
our. Soup, a compound of hot water,
grease, and maccaroni, made a rather
unpromisiog beginning. Then came
very thin slices of uncooked ham and
sausages, to be eaten with bread and
butter ; then a grand frttto — pieces
of disguised fish and vegetable fried ;
then a dish of meat boiled out of
its senses, surrounded with extraor-
dioary vegetables. About this time
Felicia ceased to be able to observe
what was brought to the table — a
whiff of garlic, a fragrance of cheese,
enveloped the apartment Madame
Peruzzi kept up (without anv slang)
a stunning conversation with the
dumpy cheerful' little maid, who
came and went perpetually with the
various dishes, and Angelo partook
of all with a cheerful gusto which
threw poor Felicia into dismay. She
eat looking at them all without being
able to say a word. Oh for that im-
possible cop of tea ! oh to be able to
forget the flavour of that maccaroni !
but it was as impossible to obtain the
one as to escape the other, and Feli-
cia sat silent, sick, and disgusted,
scarcely able to keep her chair till tbe
ceremonial was over, longing to be
alone, and find in rest the only com-
fort which seemed to remain for her.
Fortunately, however, nobody was
surprised that she should wish to go
to rest, immedfatelv. She had more
than a traveller's license ; it was evi-
dent that, traveller or no traveller,
there being no amusement in the way.
1859]
FOieU^^PaH I
197
tkiU was sopposed to be tbe most
seosible thing ibhe ooald do. Madame
Pernzzi herself retired to her own
room immediately. Aogelo went oot,
the boose fell into profound sileDoe,
and into a darkness as profound.
Felicia looked oat ft-om her high
window ; there lay the street, deep
down, with its Mat glimmer of scanty
lamps under the sJiadow of these lofty
houses, each defending itself, with its
deep o^erhanffing comers, firom any
invasion of light from the sky. The
sounds which from that depth reach-
ed Felicia at her high window were
drowsy and Ikint, as though the town
were dropping to sleep ; but the lights
were briUiaot in one great house
opposite, where carriages bmn to
arrive, and through the open door of
whidi Fdicia saw a vision of passing
ladies in all the glcnries of evening
dress; while in an apartment almost
opposite her own, thinly veiled by
a mnslfai curtain, the lady of the
boose was having her own toilette
oompleted to receive her guests. This
was the true Italian evening division
of the community ; amusement for
those who had amosemeot — for those
who had not, sleep. Angelo was at
his eafi and the theatre, fiis mother,
whom nobody oared to seek, and who
had consented to relinquish her hopes
of pleasure — his mother was in bed.
Such was the proper and natural ar-
rangement of thingi*, as it seemed, at
Florence. Felicia lay down to her
rest an incipient rebel. Might it not
be possible to change all that ?
CHAFTBB IL
^ This is kind of thee, oarina/^ said
Madame Peruzzi next morning, as
Felicia and she sat together over
their coffee. " Angelo is late in bed,
as he Deeds to be, for due rest, poor
boy, after a pleasant night He will
tell us of his pleasures when he wakes
—-and DOW I shall no longer drink my
co£fee alone. Thou wilt make a new
fife, Felicita mia, for me.'*
" 1 am glad you will like me with
yon, aunt,'* said Felicia, who was,
however, puzzled by the entire abaenoe
of disapproval with which tbe old
kbdy mentioned her son's late hours.
"Is it Angelo's occupation whi<ih
keeps him out so late ?"
** His occupation ? What is that,
my soul?" asked Madame Pernzzi.
" Didst thou not hear him say he was
S>ing to the Pergola to hear Norma?
e shall take thee one of these daya"
" Does he go there often ?" asked
Felicia, with still a troublesome ter-
ror lest she should hear her cousin de-
Qgnated as a conductor or member
of the orchestra, an intimation which
would not have been very delightful to
her. Madame Peruzzi put her hand,
with a playful momentary pressure,
upon Felicia's hand.
** For what dost thou take my An-
gelo, my child? Is he old? is he
past his pleasure ? When there is no
better gratificatioD, where should he
go but to the theatre ? And as for me, I
am old — my day is over — I go to bed.**
" But Angelo, my aunt, has he
then command of his time ?'' said Fe-
licia, with timidity, glancing round
the apartment, which bore so many
visible signs of bare and meagre
poverty. "Has he not^employment
— does he not do anything ? I mean
— in England the young men have
always something to do.*'
" My soul, we have enough," said
Madame Peruzzi, with a beaming
smile. "Why should Angelo weary
himself with labour? In England I
have heard they are compelled to
work to keep off melancholy and
miserable thoughts, but thou knowest
not vet our Italy, where it is pleasure
to live. No, Felicita carina. My
Angelo has good blood and a brave
^irit He takes his pleasure in his
youth, for youth is the season of
pleasure. At my age one heeds no
longer what comes or goes. A new
orima donnas or a grand spectacle, is
but little to me. I should lose the
whole if I but lost my spectacles, but
it is difibrent with Angelo and thee.'*
Felicia prudently kept silence and
made no rejoinder. She contented
herself with remembering that, after
all, the country and its customs were
new to her, and that she was not quite
qualified, on twenty-four hours' ex.
198
Fslmth.'^PaH L
[Aug.
perlenoe, to reToIatrooiase this boose-
koM, and f>roteBt egaiost its habits of
life — which was ao QDQtaal amoont of
modeBty and sense for a girl of nioe-
teen to exhibit, as everybody mnst
allow. AocordiDgly, for this day at
least, she was content to see what
should happen, and find out the oar
tnral course of events in her annt's
honse. Aboot twelve o'clock, Angelo
made his appearance, and ate his
breakfast good-hnmoaredly, enter-
taining his mother and consin with
his lust night's adventures; for An*
gelo was as good a son as Madame
Peruzzi called him, and would not
have done an intentional slight to his
only relatives for anything in the
world. Then the young gentleman
disappeared for the day ; he had vari-
ous engagements with various ac-
qnalotancep, which, be honestly re-
gretted, prevented him this day
from showing her ancestral town to
bis cousin. When he was gone the
old lady followed Felicia to her room.
Madame Peruzzi proposed to ord^r a
carriage, and drive her niece to the
Cascine, where all the world spent its
afternoon ; and the careful annt was
solicitous to see what were the
stranger's equipments, and if her
drees was satisfactory. She looked
a little grave over the poor girl's
unvaried black. It was no longer
necessary, she said, to wear so much
mourning, — no one knew in Florence
who those sable garments were worn
for, and she dislikol the dress for her
own part, though she wore it herself
in the house, for economy's sake.
These remarks revived in Felicia a
Mttle temper, which she bad always
possessed. Bbe had no desire to go to
the Cascine; she would tnuch prefer
seeing the town, the Duomo, the Oanh
panile, the pictures of which her
nther had told her. Madame Peruzzi
shook her head^ and went away with
smiling pertinacity. Then at four
o'clock the carriage came. The old
lady bad done herself iojostioe when
Ae said she was too old for pleasure.
She made her appearance now in a
toilette which astonished Felicia,
with a very nnall ultra - Parisian
bonnet gay with arti6cial flovRess^
and a little parasol, like a bright-
coloured butterfly, and eream-colonr-
^ gloves, freah and fragrant They
made an odd contrast as tb^ took
their seats together in the little
backup carriage — the old lady so
gay, and the young one so perfectly
plain and unadomM. As they drove
down the Luni^' Amo in the after-
noon sunshine, Felida no longer shot
her ejes to the beaety of t^ scene.
As the houses disappeared, and the^
passed out of the gate in full sight
of the blue Apennines, contracting
their noble link of enclosure towards
the west, and all the tender meadows
bai^king In the sunshine in the low
Vale of Amo, her heart for the first
time was touched towards her father's
country. These farmhouses softly
seated among the verdant grass, with
the deep shady arch sometimes pass-
ing under the entire building, and
the square tower raising its little
upper-story above the red-tiled roof,
bore a pleasant look of home which
comforted the longing in her mind.
It was good to take refuge some-
where. Italian homes might be in
these rural houses: though an upper
floor in tlie Via Qiugnio recalled
few recollections of the domestic
sanctuary. As Felicia amused her-
self with these imaginations, and
Madame Peruzzi occupied her active
old senses in recognising and identi-
fying most of the persons they met
on the road, their carriage 'drove
along through level lines of trees,
flat and formal, with stretches of
green meadow-land on either side, to
an open space in front of the great
Dairy— a square brick building, from
which the place takes its name.
Here the Florentine world was at its
height of occupation. Here Madame
Peruzzi's carriage drew modestly in
to the ranks, and stood with the
others in close square, contributing^ a
little rivulet to the stream of talk
spreadiog around. Everybody was
talking, laughing, flirting, making and
confirming engagements. Throogb
the narrow lanes left between the
carriages, youths like Angelo, and
indeed Angelo himself— a sight toler-
ably welcome to the eyes of bis
cousin— mingled with elder and leas
prepossessing men ; while ladies leant
out of their carriages, making free
use of gesture, voice, band, and fhn
— ^ladies with miniature bonnets, dis-
dosmg each a mass of glossy black
\m.1
h%lr and a pair of jewelled ean^
ladies so fine that a euspioioo of pro-
Tiocialism clouded the magnificeDoe
of their toilettes ; bat not lovely, not
pretty — the least comely of Italian
women. When Angelo discovered
bis mother's modest vehicle among
the crowd, he made haste towards
ber with a ftioe glowioff with pleasure
—the Coaatess PioasoTa had jast in-
vited him to dinner. His satisfaction
reflected itself with a double glow in
the cooorenance of his mother, who
bent over him with delighted looks.
**We »ball not see thee to> night,
then, my Aogelo ?*' she said, pressing
her son's hand. Other loungers fol-
lowed Angelo, till Felicia, sby and
strange^ became quite bewildered by
the names and voices, and by the
universal Italian, which had been for
some years unfamiliar to her, and of
which she had not yet recovered the
habitnal use, in the midst of so much
conversation, without taking part in
it^ with a do2sen people talking across
her, and- Madame Peruzzi halfstand-
iog in the carriage, and excited with
an indulgence evidently very unusual,
ready to respond to all, and answer-
ing three at a tima Felicia^ who
might have been amused at a great
distance, leant back in ber corner
quite overpowered, and longing to
escape from the confusion and crowd.
Then came the flower-women, with
their great flapping hats and pearl
necklaces, who thrust little bouquets
into her hand, to the extreme con-
fu8k>n and dismay of the stranger,
who did not know the custom of the
place, and was equally reluctant to
take and afraid to offer money for
them. When the^ moved home-
ward at ]a»t, Felicia sighed with
relief, and Madame Peruzzi subsided
in the highest state of gratification
into the corner of the carriage, and
hegui to explain to her niece what
great people were some of those who
had addresBcd her. It was all for
Felicia's sake that her good aunt had
undertaken this expedition ; but the
kindne» in the mean time was its own
reward.
The Via Giugnio, however, did not
look less meagre and gloomy than
before, as once more they ascended
the long stairs and reached their own
apartments. Everythiag picturesque
FelicUa.---Pan L
199
and bright out of doors— within,
poverty and plainness devoid of every
pretension to beauty ; once more the
penurious chilly life, which found no
pleasure in itself, and, when left alone,
had no resource but sleep. The
dinner of that day was by no means
so grand as the previous one ; Angelo
was doubtless a great deal better off
at the Oountesa Picasola's, not to
speak of the honour. The grea^
soup, the oily vegetables, the black
dish of fried rice, the incomprehen-
sible sweets and sours of the meal,
were once more too much for Felicia.
She retured hastily, as soon as with-
drawal was permissible. Betired,
but to what? There was not a
book visible, so that resource was
impossible; and glad though she
would have been to take her work
and spend her evening, as she had
spent many an evening with her
mother, Felicia found that equally
out of the question. Madame Peruzzi,
indeed, accompanied her niece to the
soio^and seated herself in a corner
of the sofa, yawning horribly; bat
no lamp was brought into the room,
nor did she ask for any, and the
twilight gathered quick and grey
over the apartment, in whi(!h at last
it was only possible to perceive the
coloured fabric of Madame Peruzzi's
dress, and the white glimmer of Feli-
oia's work on the little marble table.
Vainly the stranger tried to be amus-
ing, to interest her relative by either
remarks or questions, or to draw out
ber curiosity concerning England and
the customs of that country. Madame
Peruzzi sat swallowing vast yawns,
nodding in her corner of the sofa,
answering in monosyllables. Poor
Felicia was in despair. When she
became convinced that it was mere
cruelty to detain ber aunt, she in her
turn became silent, and favoured the
escape of the unfortunate old lady;
but when Madame Peruzzi had made
her escape, it was still scarcely nine
o'clock, and what was the solitary
girl to do ? She had been shy to ask
tor light, expecting every moment the
advent of the maid Marietta, and
that tall Roman lamp with two
lights, which had reminded her on
the previous evening of the lamp of
a carriage, as swung in Marietta's
hand, and leaving her person invie.
200
JMM*fa.-.Part J.
[Aug.
ibie. It came along the long paaeage
firom the other end of the faooBe, bat
no light eadie throagfa the darknefls ;
and when at hat Marietta herself
appeared, it was but to ask if the
SigDorina wanted anything before
she went awav for the night. With
hesitation and fidterin^, Felicia pat
forward her hamble desire for a light.
A light 1 — there was only oil enoogh
in the lamp to light the Signor An-
gelo to bis own room» when he should
come in. What ooald Marietta do?
Tet the kind-hearted Tascan coald
not leave the stranger withoat ex-
hausting herself with expedients to
supply what she wanted. At length
a sodden idea stnick Marietta. She
darted back to her odd little kitchen,
and reappeared in a few mioates with
an old blue tea-cap in her hand,
which she placed on the table, to
Felicia's great amazement Then
Marietta produced a matchbox,
struck a match, and lighted a little
floating wick which sailed on the
sarfaoe of a little pool of oil. " Eoco,
Signorina!** she cried triumphantly.
Yes, behold it I— the domestic lamp
— ^the evening illumination. The
good-natured girl coald not be suffi-
ciently pleased with herself for the
idea, and went off in a little flush
of exaltation, making the door ring
behind her as she dosed it to cele-
brate her clever expedient, and the
extraordinary inclination of the Sig-
noriaato sic alone through the soli-
tary night.
When Marietta was gone, and
Felicia sat by herself in that dreary
apartment, with her little light
twinkling feebly oat of the tea-cup,
and herself and it gloomily reflected
out of the dark depths of the mirror
between the windows, Felida^s first
and momentary impulse was a laugh
of self-ridicule; but the laugh soon
subsided into very different feelings,
and i)efore she was aware, her eyes
were surprised with heavv tears.
The gloom and solitude of the house,
where no one moved but herseK the
total isolation in which she stood,
the apparent impossibility of making
any one understand her, oppressed
her heart There was no sleep in
her young eves or her restless mind,
and the only occupation which oc-
eorred to her for the moment was a
desperate fit of home^icknesB aod
longing, in which any refoge in her
mother's country, however miserabte,
seemed better than the condition in
which the stood. That was, however,
as foolish as it was vain. After a
little interval she dried her eyes, aod
took up her unsteady taper to cany
it tenderly to her own room. There
she tried a little arraneement to keep
herself amused ; and wnen her eimul
possessions were in perfect order—
order scarcely more psarfect than that
which she disturbed, but stili some-
thing which amused and occupied
her — she took out a humble little
piece of embroidery, and tried to
work. But working by that little
floating light in solitude, amidst the
gloomy shadows of the Via Giugnio,
was not so easy as some people
might suppose, especially when one is
haunted with recollections of a bright
family table, on which the lamp
burned clear, and love was warm,
and fiftther and mother smiled upon
their only child. Kow all that re-
mained to her was Madame Pemzzi,
asleep in her room, and the young
Florentine, who did not know what
home or industry was, and who
managed to forget poverty and a
useless life by the perpetual amuse-
ment of one kind or another, which,
in his mother's eyes, was only natural
to bis youth. Felicia's heart sank
as she sat in her dark bed-chamber,
trying to do her embroidery, and try-
ing still more to keep her thoughts
from interference in other peopled
concerns. Her aunt and cousin
were poor, very poor, yet no thought
of occupation or employment seemed
to enter the mind of Angelo. What
benefit to him was the Countess
Picasola and her invitation ? said
Felicia to herself. What was to be-
come of him if he did nothing, and
could do nothing ?^and yet what
had she to do with it? She per«
plexed herself to such an extent that
she threw down her work, and went
to the window to refresh herself with
the fresh air. Just then a carriage
drew up at the great house opposite,
waiting for the great lady, whom
Felicia once more saw through the
thin blinds, finishing her evening's
toilette. Other ladles, young slen-
der figures in floatkig laoe and
1859.]
JWicite.— Part /.
201
muslin, had joined her, ere she ap-
g eared below at the door, to enter
er carriage. Felicia looked on with
a certain wiBtfuIneBs, not envy, bat
BomethiDg more like wonder at the
differences of providence. When the
echoes raised by their departure had
died awi^y she still stood leaning
out, looking np and down the deep
gtilf of street There was little to
f^ee, save the irregular line of lofty
houses, and far below an occasional
passen/irer, but the air at least soothed
her. Then Felicia, with a low laugh
and a deep sigh, resigned herself to
the necessities of her position, and,
unable longer to resist the gloom, the
silence, and the solitude, lay down at
last and went to sleep.
CBAPTER lU.
In this monotonous and uncom-
fortable life the weeks ran on rapidly
esough — slow as they passed, yet so
devoid of interest, when they were
gone, that they seemed no longer
than a common day. Felicia tried
bard to convey her own ideas to the
minds of her friends, but without
much visible success, and she came
to modify her own opinions concern-
ing them, as she gained greater ex-
perience. Madame Peruzzi, though
she retired to rest at eight o'clock,
and suffered no litter of feminine
occupation to be visible in her«a^,
was not the less a careful mother,
Dor scorned to use her needle and her
ahears for the comfort of her house-
hold, though Felicia found it almost
impossible to persuade her aunt to
bring her mending and darning into
the sitting-room, or to share with
her those cheerful and sociable do-
mestic labours. It was against
Madame Peruzzi's conscience to have
her private labours suspected. She
would not for the world have had
one of her visitors discover her or
her young companion at work ; and
as the old lady had ereatly fallen out
of acquaintance — ^if she ever had any
acquaintance with the little Floren-
tine world of fashion — and was
visited only by old ladies of her own
standing, it was not so easy to find
a willing and suitable chaperone for
Felicia as might have been supposed,
and accordingly the projects for tak-
ing her out and supplying amuse-
ment for her evenings, which the old
lady had been eloquent upon at first,
soon dropped out of remembrance,
and were mentioned no more. And
Felicia found that her cousin, though
living, after his kind, the life of a
young man of fashion, was neverthe*
less a good son, innocent and without
guile, who did not hesitate to bestow
his foil confidence on his mother, and
was entirely trusted by her in return.
How it was that under these circum-
stances Angelo, without the slightest
idea of wrong-doing, was abseut from
home every night, and how, in spite
of the extreme poverty of the me-
nace— a poverty which became more
visible to Felicia every day^no idea
of doing anything for himself or his
family to improve his position, or to
provide* for the future exigencies and
expansions of life, seemed ever to
occur to his mind, became less a
mystery to her as she became more
acqnaioted with her new sphere.
Felicia was, however, English enough
and woman enough to have a strong
inclination towards reform, and a
great impatience of those evils which
everybody else seemed so contented
with. The cousins, were, moreover,
much attracted towards each other ;
and ere they had been long together,
the usual result to be hoped or ap-
prehended from the Ikmiliar inter-
course of a young man and young
woman, both good-looking and well-
dispositioned, seemed in a fair way
of coming to pass. Now and then
Angelo stayed at home, the lamp
was lit, Felicia produced her em-
broidery, Madame Peruausi dozed in
a corner of the sofa, and the meagre
little sala brightened into a kind of
magical version of home, an impos-
sibility brought to pass by a dawn-
ing of something different from the
mild domestic affections which are
supoo^ed to have their centre there.
Ana then conversations ensued — con-
versations unlike everything which
the young man had ever taken part
in before, and which tfaey carriea on
202
FeUcUa.-'Fart I
LAug.
alone, the mother beiog pleasantly
absent and lost in dreams. On one
of these nights, pleasant to botb, and
mach longed for by Felicia, Angelo
directed hi? inqoiries in a somewhat
marked and significant manner to
England and English customs, a little
to the surprise, but much to the
satisfaction, of his cousin.
** I wish yon could but go to Eng-
land, Angelo," cried the young re-
former, determined not to lose her
opportunity ; ^ I cannot describe to
yon how different everything !?. I
do not suppose yon can understand
me when I tell you — if any one had
told me, before I came here, what I
should find in Florence—"
**Doe8 Florence disappoint you,
then, my cousin?'* asked the young
man.
*^Ye8, in some things," said Feli-
lia ; ** in others, no ; but you do,
Angelo."
^' I ? and how V said Angelo, with
a smile.
<' Because I do not know what is
the good of you," said the young re-
volutionary demurely.
'*Nor I either,** cried her cousin,
who thought her frankness a sally of
humour. " Why should there be
any good in me? is that necessary
in your England ?'*
" I did not say there was no good
in you ; that is not true," said Feli-
cia. '* But you are of fu> use^ cousin ;
you ought to be so different Had
you been born an Eof^Iishman, you
would have been busy all day long —
labouring, exercising your faculties,
helping on the work of the world.
Every man in England is trained to do
that, and knows it is his duty. You
would have gone out to work, and
come home to rest, if yon had been
born an Englishman, Angelo."
''Should I have been happier, my
cousin ?" said the young man.
" Happier 1 — what has being happy
to do with it ?" cried Felicia with a
little burst of vehemence. *' Does it
make yon happy to go to your cifi f
are yon happy when you are at the
Gascine or in the theatre ? Yon know
quite well you are only amused ; and
that is so different Ah, Angelo!
that makes all the difference. People
in England do not think it necessary
to be always amused ; but we all try»
when we have the chance, to be
happy."
''But you do not all succeed, my
cousin ?" said Angelo ; ^ and your
Englishman, Felicita mia— your Eng-
lishman who goes out to work, and
comes in to rest — what shall he do
to be happy ?"
The young Italian asked the ques-
tion with a certain bitterness and
personality; for Angelo was by no
means acquainted with the instincts
of English womankind, and had not
sufficient experience to know that
the existence of the special English-
man, whom he susjpected, would have
much moderated, in all probability,
his cousin's earnestness on his own
behalf. Felicia, for her part, faltered
in her answer, blushed crimson, and,
by her hesitation, convinced the
young Florentine that his suspicioos
had some foundation.
" I do not know — I — I cannot tell,"
she said with confusion, unable to
shot out from her mind, at that
embarrassing moment, that English
youthful imagination which supposes
happiness to mean love and the
youog home and household, which
is the first instinctive suggestion of
insular comfort and virtue. In spite
of herself, Felicia could not help
thinking if Angelo* instead of a Flo-
rentine man - about - town, had been
that same imaginary Englishman of
whom they spoke, what visions of
some little snrburban house might
have been floating in his imagina-
tion, and what a fanciful little para-
dise— perhaps the only refined and
beatified conception of his life -
might have risen to him out of a
little waste of imaginary tables and
chairs. That, at least, was her wo-
manish conception of the subject ;
but something sealed her lips, and
she could have done any other im-
possible thing sooner than betray to
Angeld the momentary suggestion of
her own heart.
'^Tben if you do not know, and
cannot tell, my cousin, I mupt tell
you of a happiness, or an amuse-
ment—I know not how yon will call
it— which is falling to me," said An-
gelo, with gaiety which looked some-
what forcd. "There is a country-
woman of thine, Felicita, on the
other side of the way, young, and
1859.] Frftcite.— Pari L 203
richi aod pretty—a wSlfal little wo- '^ I mean if the heiren taarries
man ; and she does me the honoar me, my coosio," said the yonog
to smile upon me.^' man.
It was DOW Felic1a*8 turn to feel a Felicita was silent ; her own mi-
little iDvolnntary bitterness. Thoogh comfortable sensations, and the inex-
ehe could have done any spite to plainable mortification she felt in
herself the moment after, by way of ner heart, prevented her from any
pnnishmcDt for her weakness, she word or hint of opposition. She
Jelt a momentary blank in her face, went on with her embroidery very
and pang in her heart, Bnt she swiftly and qaietly, while Angelo,
very speedily regained the mastery, very well pleased with the imprea-
and made an answer of coogratnla- sion he had produced, and with a
tion which seemed forced only to great deal of boyish mischief and
herself. Angelo went on fluently self-complacency seconding some feel-
with his brag and his description, ings more rerious, was silent also,
The young lady of his story was one letting his laughing glance travel
of the slender white figures whom round the apartment, and finding,
Felicia had watched so often issu- with a rapid pierception of the pic-
ing from the door of the house oppo- turesque, something rather attractive
Bite into the carriage which carried in the scene. The room not half
them away to nightly amusement or lighted, with its two unshuttered
daily airings. She was very young windows gleaming through the mus-
— only sixteen — an orphan, and a lin curtains, and all the darkness of
great heiress, —so much Angelo knew; the night beyond them; the tall
and, led on by the evident interest, Boman lamp, with its two unshaded
and perhaps the slight pique percep- lights shining steadily from the little
tible in the tone of his cousin, the marble table ; Madame Pernzzi, a
young man poured into her eager dark shadow in the comer of the
ears everything he had heard con- sofa, leaning back upon her hard
coming the young Englishwoman, cushions, with her grey head veiled
and perhaps a little more. bv the darkness ; the whole darkly
" Tery rich—a great heiress ; — and gleaming in the narrow mirror,
how have y<ni met her, Angelo?" which gave such strange depth to
asked Felicia, with an unconscious em- the shadows and prominence to the
phasis upon the you, which proved light Then Angelo returned to the
that she considered great heiresses light, and the face it shone on, the
rather out of the young Pernzzi's point of highest ilhimination in the
way. picture. Felicia was making won-
■^ I have met her in society, my derful progress with her work ; her
cousin,** said the laughing Angelo, hands mov^ as hands only can
who immediately quoted a list of move when the heart is agitated and
great names which still further con- the thoughts in full career. The
fused and troubled Felicia. " We young man looked at her white clear
are poor, it is trne— very poor," said forehead, on which the lamp shone,
the light-hearted Florentine ; *" bat at the graceful stoop of her head, her
that is not in Florence what it is in eyes cast down, and ber lips firmly
thy country: the saints defend ns, closed. The whole face was very
we are all poor I Tet they will ask grave, deeply silent, with that inde-
thy idle unfortunate cousin to. their soribable disapproval and mute re-
assemblies, Felicita, while they see him sfstance on its every feature which
still in possession of a tolerable coat people abroad are fond of character^
and a pair of gloves. Gloves, heaven ising as the insular look of stone,
be praised, are cheap in Florence, so, The expression strack Angelo : he
though I am poor, I can still see mj could not flatter himself that there
heiress. And what toyest thou. Fell- was pique or personal ofifence in it ;
cita? if all progresses, as, to say the somehow it seemed a dumb reproach
truth, all be^rs promise of progress- upon his levity, and touched, with a
ing, thy poor cousin may not long singular pain unknown to him be-
bepoor.** fore, the light heart in his Italian
** Do you mean if yon marry the breast : higher things than belonged
heiress, Angelo ?" aakdl Felicia. to hi» life ; virtues, and honours, and
a04 FdUita.^Pari L [kog.
heroisms nnkDOwn seemed somehow There was a pause, and then Angelo
to beam upon the wistful gaze of answered with great oompoeore and
Angelo oat of that silent nncomma- laagbiog self-posseision :
nicating face.. '*Yoa take this matter mndi too
" Feiicita I 8ordla mta," he said, gravely, my cousin. If she will
softly, Qsing the tenderest title of marry me, can I help it? In thy
kindred, which by no means meant coantr^, is it not everybody's doty
the exclusive sister of oar preciser to be rich ? And so long as one does
tongue — ** yoa disapprove of me — not steal nor cheat, does it matter
yon think me wrong : shot not np how ?^'
thy thoughts in thv lips — speak 1 I "You do not know my country,
will listen like a child.'' nor anything about it," aaid Felicia.
^ Why should I speak V and Fell- " There are men who hold such
cia, availing herself, however, of the sentiments in England, but not such
permission with all the eagerness of men as you."
nitherto restrained eloquence — *' why " My couein," said Angelo aflSsc-
should I speak ? you do not under- tionately, '* what kind of man, then,
stand me. To me, because I know am It**
you, and know that tltere are bet- '* The men who say such things,
ter things in you, it is terrible to see and think such things," repeated
vou throw away your life and dis- Felicia, "are men without inno-
bonourit Tcs, dishonour it, Angelo ! cenoe, without honour, without
Would her friends permit you to heart — men who ' have tried the
marry this heiress ? would she, do world and failed — whom no one
you think, if she lived with us a loves nor trusts— who are shunned
week, continue to think you her when they are successful, and scorned
equal ? and besides, women every- when they are not. No, Angelo—
where are obliged to marry for for- not such as you."
tune, and you pity and scorn them " Ah, Feiicita 1 ^ou speak easily,"
for it ; but men, Angelo I men who said Angelo, growmg grave ; '* you
can work, is it possible that you can think of your own country. Your
calmly think of doing the same Englishman, who goes out to work
thing?" and comes home to rest, do you
'* Why should not I ?" said the think I do not sometimes envy him ?
young man with an amused and — I and many more than me. Bat
amazed smile. ''My little English what can I do? — what is there in
cousin, does no one do as much in Florence, in Italy, for any man?—
your country ? I am poor, you know mosaics and copies from the gal-
It only too well ; and as for your leries— porcelain. Shall I go to La
work, Feiicita, I know not what I Doccia, my cousin, and learn that
could work at, nor how I should craft ?— or would you have me work
learn, for here is nothing to do in in alabaster ? I will be faithful and
Florence. Why then must I refuse to obedient, Feiicita : which <will you
be enriched, should that good fortune bid me do?"
oome to me, by a good little wife ?'' Half affronted, half impressed, no
" Perhaps not, if she made love to longer desirous to continue the con-
vou, and you had only to accept versation, and perhaps as anxioos
her," said felicia, with a litUe scorn ; by this time to escape to her own
** but it is you who mast woo and apartment as her aunt herself coald
say you love her* Do you love her, be, Felicia made no answer. Ang<:lo
Angelo?" had said very little; but someboir
As she looked him in the face in he had unsettled the confident and
her frank indignation, Angelo re- certain standine-ground upon which
sponded by a bright intimidating his cousin stood. 8he began to feel
look, which took Felicia much by confused and dizzy, and to ande^
surprise. She did not repeat her stand dimly, as theory always does
question, but drooped her head with when it comes in contact with
a confused involuntary agitation, of reality, that arbitrary injunctions
which she wiui mightily ashamed, are not much to the purpose, and
185».]
F^Ua^^Part L
205
that more tiiioffs than abstract right
and wrong male op the snin of most
human mattera She was not great
in argnment or reason, as girls of
nineteen rarely are ; she was yoaog
and arbitrary and imperative, as be-
longed to her youth, and impatient
of those vulgar external obstacles
which stood in the way of what
ought to be. If there was nothing
for Angelo to do in Floreoce or in
Italy, that very fact wss wrong.
Why was there not any thiog to do ?
She was indined to wk the question
angrily — to demand that somebody
should be pointed out to her to bear
the blame. Whose &ult was it ? If
not Aogelo's, at least that of the
people or the government But some-
thing closed Felicia^s lips ; she wss
vexed, oonfased, embarrassed— every-
thii^ was wrong.
In the silenoe which ensued, Ma-
dame Peruzzi gave signs of reviving
animation. This old lady, who had
no knowledge nor oonoeptton of
Aogelo*s heiress, had designs of
her own of a less ambitious kind—
designs very probably not much
different from those which may be
entertained by English mothers, but
80 much honester and more innocent,
that this matchmaker had not the
slightest conception of any harm in
them, or that it was at all neoesBary
to diagoiae or conceal her schemes.
Madame Peruzzi was siipply and
ingenuoosly of opinion that Felicia*s
tiny fortune should not be suffered
to go out of the family, and that
her fifty pounds a-year would make
a very comfortable addition to the
income of her cousin. This idea re-
conciled hei: to sit up till ten, nay,
even till eleven o'clock-* if her doze
upon the sofa could be called sitting
up— to encourage the iktHL-teU of the
Toung people. Their silence roused
her now, as their conversation had
not succeeded in doing. She raised
herself, a queer old figure, from her
comer of the sofa. Long before this
time Felicia had ceased to hope that
her aunt, unawares, had forgotten to
put on her cap. She got up with her
scanty grey hair fiilling into disorder,
rubbing her eyes, which were dazzled
by the light ** My ohUdren," said
Madame. Femzzi, *' I love to see you
talking together. Ah, it is such hap-
pinesB when minds ave sympathetb!
but it is late."
'*Tes," cried Felicia, with unusual
promptnees, putting away her work;
** and we have kept you up and dis-
turbed ^our rest, aunt It is selfish.
I fear it is my &ult ; for Aogelo,'*
she added, with a little girlish pique
and misphief, " Angelo is very happy
at the wfl^ when there is no better
entertainment to be had."
*' True, my soul," said the matter-
of-fact mother, gravely, ^* and well it
is thus. Yet be does not grieve to
lose his pleasure now and then for
thy sake. He is slow to commend
himself, my good Angelo ; but I
know he loves well to be with
thee."
This speech produced some awk-
wardness to both the penons con-
cerned. Felicia shot a rapid, mis-
cfaievoQfl^ half - malicious glance at
her cousin. He, the honest fellow,
meaning no harm, only laughed and
blushed; for that he should be more
than half in love with his young
relation, as was very evident, and
yet confide to her his heiress ho])es,
did not strike Angelo as anything
eztraordinarv. He did not quite
understand her scruples on the sub-
ject The reluctance with which the
heroes of novels in England accent
the wealthy hands of heiresses, would
have been simply and totally incom-
prehensible to Angelo; and Felicia's
indignation was entirely lost upon
a mind innocent of any intention
which he would be ashamed to own.
He could understand somewhat bet-
ter, and felt flattered by the slight
spark of pique and malice which she
exhibited — that was jealousy, the
other was something mysterioas and
unezplaioable. As for Madame Pe-
ruzzi, who had not heard a word of
the conversation, and who could not
suppose them to be on other than
the most satisfactory terms, she
looked on with great complacency
upon their good-night, and enfolded
her niece in a sleepy embrace, with as
much fervour as was compatible with
that comatose condition. She thoaght
ker scheme was progressing famous-
ly, and she was excmingly weU con-
tent
While Felicia sought her own
apartment with feelmgs mufih lees
206
FeUeita.—Fart I [Aug.
Bfttisfactory. What, if Angelo were
ever so iodostriously inclined, what
was the young man to do ? True, it
was very easy to say that carving
alabaster or fitting together the tiny
morsels of mosaic was better than
idleness — better than the poverty
closely approaching want which ex-
isted, without any effort to remedy it,
in Uiis household ; but^^ after all,
Felicia had learned to yield some
weight to the name of Pernzzl, and
even her own humble antecedents did
not lend much countenance to the
idea of a handicraft, Asgelo had no
genius; he was not a painter or a
sculptor or a musician born, as a
young Italian having any connection
with romance had a right to be. He
had no connection widi romance, the
honest fellow I He could read his
own language, and that was about the
sum of his ^ucation : if he spoke
pure Tuscan, that was by virtue of
his birthplace, and no credit to him-
self; and his few epistolary efforts
were not likely to impress any one
with high Ideas of his attainments in
literature. Ambition in its humblest
shape— even that power of "better-
ing himself," under the flattering in-
fluence of which the very maid-ser-
vants rejoice in England — was closed
to Angelo. He might condescend,
if Felicia succeeded in impressing
her own ideas upon him, to daily
labour ; but no hope of enterprise or
possibility of ambition was there to
stimulate Angelo. It was the young
man's fortune to belong to a nation
caressed and admired and flattered
out of everyday existence. If An-
gelo was idle, he was no more idle
than his country ; if Angelo con-
tented himself with those barren
amusements which stood in the place
of life and happiness, he did but
what all Italy was doing. Italy, like
Angelo, vegetated on the enouffh
which supplied her merest unavoida-
ble wanta Italy, like Angelo, did
her best to content the higher part of
her with the past ; and to make her
sunshine of climate, as he made his
sunshine of youth, stand in the place
of all the real foundations of national
joy and prosperitv. Generations of
such as Angelo had blossomed and
degenerated on the same soil. How
then was Angelo to blame?
Perhaps Felicia's cogitations were
neither so distinct nor so abstract,
for Angelo Peruzzi was much more
present to her thoughts, and more
immediately interesting, than any
vision of Italy ; still they ran in Urn
channel, and perhaps' she was not
sorry to find such excuses for her
cousin. However, heated and agi-
tated as she was by the conversation
which had just ended, she was glad
to find her usual refuge from henelf
at her window, where the wind re-
freshed her pleasantly, though it
was now nearly the end of October,
and not so warm as it had been.
It was a moonlight night, and moon-
lisht had a picturesque effect on the
Yia Giuenio. Her eyes were caught
irresistibly by the irregular line of
house-tops, the broad white lights and
impenetrable depths of shadow, where
here and there a cluster of windows
shone like molten silver, and on
either side of them the high opposite
houses blotted out the line, and left
but a tall dark blank of wall, mys-
terious and gloomy in the shada
Presently Felicia^s observation was
attracted by something more imme-
diately interesting; her eyes turned
involuntarily to the house opposite
which she had watched so often, bat
from which her cousin^s tale, if she
had been perfectly mistress of herself,
would have turned her eyes now.
At the opposite window, almost on
a level with her own, was a little
white figure unrec(^nisable in the
darkness, for the high roof of the
opposite house kept Madame Perus-
zi*s habitation in complete shadow.
This little figure, whoever it might be,
found out Felicia shortly after
Felioia discovered it, and straight-
way began to make signals and
telegraphic gestures across the street*
waving a tiny hand out of a wide
white sleeve, nodding a little head,
and making every demonstration of
friendship possible at the distance.
Dismayed, astonished, and perhaps
not without a more particular pang,
Felicia retired iVom the window:
Her first idea was that she had been
taken for Angelo, and a flush of indig-
nation and pain, too strong for her
control, overpowered her at the
thought ; but when she sat down
with her brow and her heart alike
1859.]
Thi MoiUr ^ Smdmt*9 Jfarrative of the 16.
207:
throbbiDg to thiok it over, Felicia
grew calmer. It most, after all, have
been herself^ and Bhe alooe, for whom
these salatationa were intended.
Angelo'a room was at the other aide
of the hoQ8e; Angelo most have
spoken to his heiress of his cousin.
Felicia's yexation and pain subsided
gradaallj. She saw herself, however,
in a strangely embarrassing confi-
dential position between two people
whose iDcipient relations to each
other affronted her own sel^regard as
much as they offended her judgment ;
■he felt herself involved in a clan-
desUne correspondence, which most
likelj, becaose her heart and her own
affectioDS were engaged in prevent-
ing it) her girlish pride and honour
would move her to encourage. What
could she do? Felicia pressed her
hands , against her hot forehead,
which throbbed and beat to their
touch, and with growing pain and
perplezitv confoaed her brain and
heart with thiDkiog. A yoaog woman,
a very young girl, an Ecglisn woman,
who oQght not to be permitted to
fall into this Snare, was the little
stranger who had jost made these
eager salutations to her at the win-
dow. But if she undeceived this
almost cbild, if she did what real
honour and duty demanded of her,
the forlorn young creature trembled
at the interpretation which might be
put upon her conduct They would
say she did it because she herself
loved Angelo ; they would say it was
jealousy^ self-interest — things that
her face and her heart burned to
thiok of. What could she do?---
suffer the whole to go on, and *' sacri*
fice herself,** and^ to save her own
pride, connive at the future misery
of all parties ? Felicia lifted her face
from between her hands, and pat out
her light, and crept softly to rest in
the dark, as if thus she could escape
from her own sight and thoaghts.
She had seen h^y a sudden prophetic
intuition what was coming upon her ;
but 08 yet, thank heaven, there was a
little breathing-time. The moment
when she was called to do anything in
the matter was not yet come.
THE MASTER OF SINCLAIR'S NARRATIVB OF THE '15.
It will be in the recollection of
many people that Sir Walter Scott
has more than once referred, in a
manner calculated to excite a lively
interest, to a manuscript volume
written by the Master of Sinclair.
Befog an account of the affair of
** the fifteen " by one who took an
active share in it, expectations of
instrttction and interest might natu-
rally be embarked in such a produc-
tion, even though it were not thus
recommended, aM came from the pen
of a stupid instead of a very clever
raao. Scott, indeed, entertained the
idea of publishing the book, and was
restrained, not by any fear that it
would lack interest in the eyes of the
wcNrld, but by certain misgivings
about the propriety of letting loose
so iKxrb and spiteful an attack on
nuuiy men whose grandchildren were
alive, fie wrote an introductory
notice to the work, which begins as
if it were intended for the press, but
ends with the following paragraph,
which shows that intention to have
TOL. LXZXVL
been abandoned : ** The following
memoirs are written with great
talent and peculiar satirical energy.
They are intended as a ' jastification
of the author's own coodact. but
are more successful in fixing a charge
of folly and villany upon that of
others than in excalpating his own.
They will be a precious treat to the
lovera of historical scandal, should
they ever be made public. The ori-
ginal memoirs, written by the hand
of the author, are in the library al
Dysart But there are other tran-
scripts in private collections, though
some, I understand, have been de-
stoyed to gratify those whose ances-
tors fall under the lash of the Master.
It 18 remarkable that the style, which
is at first not even grammatical, be-
comes disengaged, correct, and spirit-
ed in the course of composition."
These mysterious Memoirs, with
Sir Walter's Introduction, are now
before us in a handsomely printed
volume, for which the reader will in
vain search the advertisements of the
14
208
Th4 MouUr of Sinclair'i Narratm ^f the *15. [Ang.
pablisher, or the Bbelvesof the cir-
eulatiDf? library. Tbe beet way, per*
haps, of coDcealiDg a thing in print
at the present day, b to pat it into a
bine book, and have it ** presented to
both Honses of Parliament by com-
mand of her Majesty." A method
of accomplishiog a reserved privacy
approaching, bat not reaching, snch
concealment^ is to print a work for a
select book-clab — a practice which
we mast by no means be held as con-
demning. It fornishes many a book
of interest and instraction to the
limited circle who ciin appreciate that
intc^rest end instraction ; and if a
wider circle demand it, there is seldom
anything to prevent the work from
being poblished to them. The Mas-
ter's Memohv hare been printed by
k c)ab, of which the small number
predicates stringent selectness — the
number of copies brought into exist-
ence, is we believe, precisely seventy-
five. It often damps the ardour of
the critic, who must write upon the
most prominent book of the day, to
remember that it has been already
peruaed by every reader of his re-
view ; that all have anticipated him
in their private criticisms, and that
he is, on that account, preaching to
an impatient and intolerant audience.
In gathering a few characteristic
flowers from the garden of the Mas-
ter's Narrative, we run no risk of en-
countering this cause of weariness,
whatever the reader may think of
the inherent merit of what we set be-
fore him.
The Master was a scholar— such as
were made, in those days, of well-
born Scotsmen, partly by home, and
partly by Continental education :
they had not the precise learning
communicated by the Engliah nni-
rersities, but what they had was ex-
tensive and serviceable. His Me-
moirs are fall of classical metaphors,
allusions, and quotations. He had
genius, but it ran to waste, or worse,
for it was ever driven about by the
infioence of a restl««8» scheming, in-
subordinate disposition. Within his
own sphere, he was a sort of Sbafres-
bnry in capacity, intrigue, and vola-
tility— but there was a touch of
ferocity in his blood, coming out in
acts of sanguinary violence, which
were apart from the sphere of tbe
intriguing chancellor, and are indeed
more in character with the Ruthvens
and Bothwells of the sixteenth cen-
tury, than with an oflioer in Marl-
borough's wars.
A character such as this was natu-
rally surrounded by many vivid at-
tractions to the greatest and the
most real of romancers, bat we do
not find the Masrer in bodily shape
among Sir Walter's characters. One
might fancy hid fierce impetuosity in
Fergus Mlvor, and his accomplish-
ments and subtle malice in Rashleigh
Osbaldiston ; but Scott was too great
an artist to copjr in a full-length por-
trait from real life, and so disarrange
the nice adjastment of his grouping.
He showed his interest in the matter
not only in reference to the book now
before us, but in presenting, as his
contribution to the Roxburgh Club,
the official record of the great tragedy
of the Master's career^his trial be-
fore a court-martial for the slaughter
of two brothers, members of the distin-
guished house of Shaw of Greenock.
There were three of these Shaws in tbe
army of Marlborough — one died d
honourable wounds in a siege, the
other two were slain by the Master,
their brother officer.
The cause of this tragedy was a
charge by Shaw which no soldier
can endure with equanimity. At
the baUle of Wvneodaal be was
heardr calling out in an admonitory
and imperious voice to the Master,
his superior officer. He afterwaids
said publicly that his reason for call-
ing out was, becaase the Master bent
or <*dncked" to escape the balls.
Tbe Master sent him a challenge;
but Shaw postponed a meeting .till
after he Should visit his brother, who
had been mortally wounded before
Lille, and expressed a disinclinatkMi
to a duel unless it were forced upon
him, referring to a resolution wbtcb
he had adopted apparently on ac-
count of some fatal affair in which
be had been previously engaged.
The Master, infuriated, sought bim
out immediately. A soldier saw them
together, the Master striking Shaw
over the head — swords drawn, and
Shaw's sword bent and useless be-
fore he was despatched. The elder
1859.]
Ths Master of Sindair'i Narratite of the '15.
209
brother, Captain Shaw, it appears,
charged the Master with having
sheattied himself in a sort of paper
breastplate which tnroed the point
of the sword — an odd and not
very practicable - looking expedient,
thi»ngh Xenophon tells ns of linen
tfieoraxiB or breastplates among the
Greeks. He spoke openly, too, of
the probability that the Master
woald murder him also. Sinclair
rode op to the head of the regiment,
and held fierce controversy with his
▼ictim. He was heard to say that if
it wtsre not for the risk of injuring
others standing near, he would shoot
him there. The words were no sooner
oat of his mouth than he fired, and
the other brother fell dead from his
horse. Sir Walter Scott says, *' Both
tbe^e rencounters, as they are
called, were conducted without se-
conds, and would now scarcely be
thought to come within the forms
demaoded by the modern rules of
honour, though they do not seem to
have shocked the British oflScera of
the period, or to have giFen much
scandal to Marlborough.'' The sen-
tence of the court was death, with a
recommendation to mercy. The re-
maining brother strongly pressed
Marlborough to refuse this recom-
mendation. The duke took the
matter with his usual lofty calmness,
and in a letter, without a word of in-
dignation or sympathy, said to Sir
John, " I was so much concerned,
that I would not venture so far as
ba!9 been practised in the army on
the like occasion, without first con-
sulting and heariog the advice of the
attorney and solicitor general.'' In
the end it was found that the mercy
recommended could not be shown.
The Master, however, escaped by
fleet riding. A traditionary anec-
dote describes him as encounteriog
a {startling remiulscence of these
•vents in after life, when he was
Kvisiting his native country in dis-
guise. He wanted a swift-running
fo*itman — a valuable commodity in
tboee days of slow coaches and bad
road?. An aspirant to the office,
who did not identify his formidable
interrogator, when questioned on
his qualifications, by way of refer-
ring to an example of his prowess on
a notorious occasion, said he had
kept up with the Master of Sinclair's
hitrse when he fled for his life after
the murder of the Sbaws. The
Master is said to have dropped down
in a fit; but, by his own account,
neither this nor anything else pressed
very heavy on his conscience. To-
wards the conclusion of his narrative,
he says that the cause of all his suf-
ferings was the perseverance of, his
ancestors and himself in serving the
royal family faithfully though hon-
estly, and that the ungracious re-
ward he met with ** was too much to
make any man hang himself "~ an
odd eflect of excessive ill-usage, *' I
vow to God," he continues, ** I am
not sensible as yet, nor was 1 then,
of any other crime except this of my
original sin ; for 1 hope it is not that
of my having on all occasions pro*
fessea ane unbounded zeal for my
poor country, which I defy man and
the devil, and both their aides-de-
camp and agents, to make out that
I have not kept strictly up to in all
the course of my life."
Such was the position of the man
"who occupied his leisure, and, as it
seems, his desponding heart, in writ-
ing a narrative of the unsuccessful
enterprise in which he had a con-
siderable share. The afi^air of the
'15 has a much more important
place in history than that, of the
MS, though it must be admitted
to be far less fruitful in romance:
The ktter, coming upon a period of
profound tranquillity and security,
passed with the brilliancy and also
the terrors of a meteor. It waa
attended by an amount of success
wonderful when compared with the
elements whence it arose; while its
predecessor, on the other hand, was
nearly as remarkable for failure, in
conditions from which success might
have been legitimately expected. A
desperate struggle between the two
great parties, on the death of Queen
Anne, was a thing to anticipated,
for as yet the stranger race had not en-
tered into possession ; and although
they had the technicalities of a mi-
nute act of Parliament to plead in
their favour, it might be considered
yet doubtful whether the country at
large had acceded to the arrangement.
210
The Master of Sinclair's yjarrative qf ^ '15.
[A»g-
When the other affair broke ont, there
had been peaoefal ppsBeflsion for thirty
year?. Adverse claims were almoet
forgotteo, at least by the most acate
and practical of the English politic
eians, and the supporters of the Han-
over sQCcession covered a wide enough
area to possess within themselves
both a government party and a
powerful parliamentary opposition.
That daring the thirty years so char-
acterised a Jacobite feeling shonld
have grown np in Scotland sufficient
to frighten the empire by the march
to Derby, can only be accounted for
in one way — by the wrongs and
iDsuIts encountered at the hand of
the imperial government, owing to
the sway of ruJers who were resolved
to overlook, or who could not see,
national affections and idolatries in
the country which had become one
with Eogland through the Union of
1707. In no other way is it possible
to account for the Hanover succession
having survived the crisis of 1715,
and having been actually subjected
to j;n»te)r perils in 1745.
But even admitting that many of
the events which created in Scotland
so protracted a Jacobite nationality
occurred in the period between the
two insurrections, it is Impossible to
look back without wonder at the
complicated maze of difficulties and
dangers through which our present
aettlement naseed scathless. The
first ftiint ana gradual departure from
the pure line of hereditary descent la
not in itself perhaps so remarkable a
thing as it seems at this day. It is a
fallacy to suppose that principles like
those of hereditary succession were
better understood, and followed to
their conclusions, in former ages than
in the present. Like all other mat«
ters which admit of a complex and
subtle development, the canons of
hereditary representation were refined
from time to time by the clever
men who improved on the practice of
the day. ' It was long ere it became
obvious that a grandson by the eldest
was a nearer heir by pure hereditary
descent than the second son himself.
When the failure of issne rendered
necessary a retrospect to the descend-
ants of some previous generation, it
did not seem of much moment how
fku* it went back ; and it was hard
sometimes to see why a grandmother's
descendant, who did not bear the
name, had a preferable title to those
of a great-grandfather who did. The
wars of the Roses are a bloody testi-
mony to the incomplete settlement,
in their age, of the absolute principles
of hereditary representation.
The HevoIuUon of 1688 was of
course the first ordeal — it can scarcely
be called one of the perils — of tlM
Hanover settlement, since it is scarce-
ly possible that any of its promoters
imagined that they were preparing a
throne fbr the descendants of the un-
fortunate Queen of Bohemia. That
that aflfair should have passed off so
easily must ever be a marvel, how-
ever successfully philosophical histo-
rians mtLy set forth the political and
ecclesiastical causes of which it was
the effect. In the production of this
marvellous effect, indeed, some caoaes
operated of too trivial a natnre to
receive encouraging comment from
philosophical historians. Prominent
among these — and so important as a
cause of the Revolution, that but for
it that great event wonld, to all
hnman appearance, never have taken
place — was the fact that, down to
the middle of June in the year 1688,
the Princess Mary was the heiress of
the British throne by right of birth,
and was expected to nil it by all who
did not anticipate that a miracle would
be performed to defeat the claims of a
heretic princess, the wife of the heretic
ruler of the United Provinces. Her
husband was the grandson of Charles I.
It is true that they had no children,
but Mary was only twenty-six years
old, and the Prmcess Anne gave
promise of leaving a numerous pro-
geny. Nor was this state of mat-
ters much altered by the birth of a
son to King James. The warming-
pan story made matters the same as
if no son had been born : the story of
a spurious offspring was firmly be-
lieved. Perhaps there were states-
men who, knowing the contrary,
propagated this belief for their own
ends. But it would be as preposter-
ous now to maintain that the charge
was true, as to maintain that the
nation at large did not believe that
goodv Wilks had smuggled in at
a side- door the babe passed off as
a royal infant. Now, inasmach as
1859.]
The Matter qf Sinehir's Narrative of the 15.
211
to fhe Boman Catholics fhis InfiiDt
wu tbe embodied miracle of their
prajere, he was to the Protestant
pabllc tbe ''Pretender" which be
was afterwards desigoated in Acts of
Parliameot Thus the birth of a
prioce did oot injare the Priooeas
Mary*8 claims to tbe sacoessioo, and
only tended to jostify the policy of
letting her fill tbe throne before her
time. It seems clear that the Bevo-
lotion conld not have been carried —
at least without a civil war— bat for
the warming-pan story; and so it
was that a fbolish lie removed the
first great impediment to the present
settlement The snccession to the
crown did not then appear to be
changed ; its course was only slightly
anticipated, and there was no reason
to expect a ftindamental departure
from tbe reigning line. Mary, it is
true, had no offapriog, but she was only
twenty-six years old ; and even should
sbe remain childless, there was her
sister Anne, the mother of many
children. When Mary died, it mat-
tered little that her husband should
remain trustee for those who were to
come. The next ordeal of peril came
with the death of the Duke of Glou-
cester, tbe last of the children of
A.nne. The fate of that family makes
erery one who reads pause and reflect
on so sad and strange a memorial of
the wonderful ways of Providence.
We speak of the children of poverty
dying early from neglected ventila-
tion and insalubrious food ; and here
were seyenteen princely children,
each an additional pledge for the
tranquillity of a mighty empire, and
one after the other each consigned to
tbe tomb—
**PmIllda mon «qao polMt pede paupenun
tabemas
Xes^BMlue torreg.*'
After this last hope had departed,
the English Parliament set about, like
thorough men of business, to find an
heir to the throne, and made their
selection of a royal family as dispas-
sfooately as if they were selecting a
chairman of committee. The many
desceadants of Obarles I.'s danghter
— they now amounted to about thirty
or forty, seated on divers European
thrones, great and small— were pass-
ed over, and for sufficient reasons the
ehoioe fi$li on a family almost un-
known to Britain, since she wlio con-
nected it with the old royal family —
the daughter of the Scottish James —
had departed nearly a hundred years
before to share the unhappy throne
of the Palatinate. Nor were the
Parliament content to take tbe heirs
of this princess — a numerous group
— in the lineal order of sncoeesion.
Passing over her elder children, they
selected, for their Protestantism, the
descendants of her youngest daughter.
This remarkable piece of legislation,
the Act of Succession, in virtue of
which our gracious Qaeen now worth-
ily occupies the throne, caused won-
derfully little discussion in Eng-
land. But it found an unexpect^
enemy elsewhere. Scotland had not
been consulted in the choice of a soy-
ereign, and it was taken for granted
that she would with becoming do-
cility follow England step by step
through that labyrinthine genealogi-
cal path which led to the feet of the
Electress Sophia. But Scotland, in
the matter of Darien and other
things, had run up a score of grievous
injuries from her powerful neighbour,
and she vowed, in shape of an Act of
Parliament, that until these were re-
dressed tbe prince who might be
sovereign of England should be dis-
qualified for the sovereignty of Scot-
laud. This was the great peril of
the Hanover settlement for both na-
tions armed themselves and raised
troops, and a war between them
seemed inevitable — a war in which
tbe Jacobite interest in England
might with good grace side with the
Scots. It was not until tbe pro-
tracted and perilous negotiationa
and tbe still more protracted ana
perilous debates in the two legislar
tures, were crowned by the iJnion,
that this peril was averted.
At tbe point which our history
reaches, eight years afterwards, we
would, if we read it for the first time
like a new novel, be prepared to see
the Stewarts* cause triumphant, or ex-
cluded only by a desperate struggles
The old warming-pan story had died
the natural death of popular fallacies.
No one doubted that the boy left by
James 11. when he died in exUe was
his son, though it was the policy oT
the legislature still to call him the
Pretender hi Acts of Parliament.
212
The l£a$ter of Smdair's Narrative of the 15.
f^Ug.
The veneraMe ElectresB Sophia, tbe
daughter of a British priooees, whose
mother had talked to her of the tradi-
tioDS of her owd native land, and had,
indeed, in her days of adversity, gone
back, and occapied a hoose in Drurj
L&ne, was deao, and the Psrliaonent-
ary line of saccession had gone a step
still farther away from the genealogi-
cal Qaeen Anne, with all her devo-
tion to the Chnrch of England, had
A Kcret favonr — surely a natural one
—for her brother's family ; and acate
statesmen, such as St. John and Go-
dolphin, had calculated on the restor-
ation of the exiled hou^e as so proba-
ble that they had carefully established
an interest there, and were ready to
serve it with all becoming fidelity
'when the proper time came.
Bat most unexpectedly to those
who, as the leading statesmen of the
day, should have known the public
feeling best, the fact came to be
apparent that the inhabitants of Bri-
tain, with but few exceptions, liked
the Hanover succession. Had the
earlier monarchs of the race been
better versed in British feeling, or
better advised, there would have been
DO insurrections to break in upon
the popularity of the settlement
But George L, who had been brought
up at a little despotic court, had pro-
bably leas notion of constitutional
liberty even than the expelled Stew-
arts. He was naturally and by
training a despot Bnt he had been
trained in the handling of different
institutions, and consequently was
not so able as the Stewarts to work
the British system of government to
despotic ends. It was like setting a
general officer to command a fleet,
or an admiral to command an army.
With all the desire in the world to
be absolute, the misplaced leader
would blunder in the tactics and
mishandle the material. In one
thing, however, George I. succeeded :
it was in treating all those who did
not side with the Court— the Opposi-
tion, in short — as enemies, if not trai-
tors. Fortunately for his own peace,
as well as the fortune of many emi-
nent statesmen, he knew not how
many of his most trusted advisers had
been making terms with the Court
Of St Germains. But those whom
he saw in the position of palpable op-
portion he did all that was la hit
power to drive into the position of
rebels, and with fome he was sac-
oessful. The motives of men driven
to such a course by irritated vaa-
ity or disappointed ambition are
neither noble nor good. But the
world is the world — " the blood will
follow where the pincers tear," aod
the early Hanoverian govern meats
made their own enemies. In the
contest thus created, personal char-
acteristics are more interesting than
events, and the chief spirit of the
Master of Sinclair's book b in its
personal sketches — the sketches of a
pencil deeply dipped in gall. With
all his crimes upon his head, how-
ever, he was better entitled thaa
many others to speak out Whether
it was pure choice or dire necessity
that sent him into the insurgent
camp, he was a member of a stanch
Jacobite hoose, and had a legitimate
right to profess devotion to the cause
of the exiles. The only full personal
narrative of the *15 heretofore relied
on came from a far more polluted
Een — that of a perfidious priest, who
ad been chaplMin to tlra army —
E reached to it of the divine right of
logs, and the sacrilege of touching
the Lord's anointed; then at the
end turned, and gave evidence against
thoee who were brought to the scaf-
fold, saying it was an atonement for
his sins in having countenanced the
unnatural rebellion agabst the happj
constitution and settlement ; — such is
a brief but sufficient account of the
author of ** The History of the late
Rebellion, with original Papers and
Characters of the principal Noblemen
and Gentlemen concerned in it, by the
Eev. Mr. Robert Patten/'
To return to the Master — his
characters are varied, but chie^y,
as we have hinted, of a dusky
hue. In this as in other insurreo-
tions are to be found the innumer-
able grades of character and conduct
that can find room between two very
far distant extremes. At the ex-
treme right we find the real honest
devotees — the men to whom their
cause is a religion, for which they are
embarked in a crusade — who count
it little less than profanation to cal-
culate results, but love the cause all
the better for its hopelessness. From
1859.]
The MaaUr (tf Sinclah^i Nmrative qf the 15.
213
tin begioniog tl^y haye kid their
accoaDt with d«ftth. aod what to
them 18 far worse thaD death — the
downfall of an ancient hoose, and the
acatteriDg of their roined offijpriog
over the earth.
On the extreme left again we have
those who have co<illy calcnkted np-
.on the oatbreakf with all its cala-
mities to friend and foe, as a scheme
of personal aggrandisement, and have
wilfully fed the flames of honeftt
eDthnsiasin to serve their own base
ends, providing in the mean time for
their nltlmate safety, and even in
the midst of their insarrectionary la-
boars framing little connter-schemes
of treachery for profiting by the de-
feat of their machinations and the
roio of their followers. History —
British history, at least — has very
few sach men, bat among their small
number most be conntra Mar, the
great author of the insnrrection, and
at the same time the representative
of an old heroic house. He had
been one of the most suecessfal
working agents in carrying that
Union, from which he afterwards
spoke of relieving his countrymen as
from a degrading bargain, in which
they had been sold to an enemy.
He promoted an association among
the Highland chiefs for the protec-
tion and promotion of the Hanover
succession, boasting that they were
at his disposal for this acceptable
end. He offered his services with
the TDOet profuse adulation to the
new king, who treated him with im-
prudent scorn ; and it was after all
this that he raised his standard at
Braemar, and spoke in their own
spirit of brave enthusiasm to the
brave enthusiasts who gathered round
it. He provided carefully for his pre*
sent safety, and in his long exile
made many an abject offer of services,
and many a vain effort to be restored
to the favour of the Government.
The Master seems to have considered
it bis great mission to exhibit this
man's character in all its attributes of
odioosness ; and the unwearied relent-
less zeal wherewith he pursues this
task reminds one, by the associa-
^on of contrariety, of the gilding the
leAoed gold and the painting of the
lily. Mar was deformed in person,
as one may see in the general sat
of hife dubious eonntenance, though
courtly painters have evaded the de-
fect The Master, of course, does not
fail to make the best of this misfor-
tune, which, he says, was inherited
from his mother, the countess* ^ He
profited nothing by her but the
nump he ha-^ got on his back, and
her dissfilnte, malicious, medditoff
spirit.** We are now fairly started
with Mar and his merits, and we get
on in this fashion: "Having nO
obligations to nature, and so few to
his father and mother, and none but
that of debt to the rest of mankind,
so soon as he was capable of any-
thing, he seemed to think himself
in a state of war with the whole;
f<Mr it has often been observed that
those who are bom with such na-
tural defects, used to revenge them-
selves on Nature bv doing her as
little honour as she has done them ;
which I believe the reason for that
Laoedemonifin law for destroying
these monstrous productions the
moment they were born. His ori-
ginal sin both by his fether and
mother giving him as small title to
honour as estate, he soon gave him-
self up as bv instinct to his hereditary
and natural penchant — villany and
lying. The first act of hostility he
committed was defrauding of his
creditors." And here we have soma
details of private matters not, if trae,
very honourable to him, until he
emerges into more illustrious feats in
private life. The Master, it will be
observed, in this sketch, follows the
method of the Newgate Oalendar,
and the popular lives of eminent
malefactors, where the first symp*
toms of an evil disposition, displayed
in domestic life or private society,
afterwards expand into more conspi-
cuous and public criminality. ^ Am
he grew older," says the Master,
following these models, ** his inherent
Tillany and his interested ambition
grew with him ; he soon found that
when he had done his best, .the small
matter he could pilfer from his credi-
tors was but a trifle to his extrava-
gance. He abandoned himself to
the Court, and declared war against
his country. He truckled as an un-
derling till the Union, at which time
he was made Secretary of State for
Scotland, to which it was not the
214
ne Mtuter of Smdaif^t NmroHwof thg *I5.
[Aug.
internt or iDfloeBce be had in bis
eonotry, or the least good quality,
recommended him to the EogKeh
Court, bat the hardy dispoeition they
fooDd in him to min and betray his
country." Then again follow de-
tails which somewhat iotermpt the
torrent of the Master's savage abnse.
We pass oyer the specific services
which Mar performed for England, and
against his oonntry, as we are told,
hi carrying the Union, and content
ourselves with the Master's pithy
general opinion both of the measure
and the man.'
*' It is demonstrable that his only
and great qaality was that of under-
mining bis country, and committing
the pin against the Holy Ghost, by
treacherously, for a piece of money,
betraying it ; the blackest and at-
trociousest of crimes, ne^er to be
forgiven by Gk>d Almighty, and I
think ooght never to be foigiven,
and impossible to be forgot, by men ;
for no day has paesed since the
making of that dismal Union that
we have not foond the sad effects of
it And to show he never repented
so long as he received the least part
of the reward of his fratricide, at
the time of the pretended invasion
he was the great promoter in bring-
ing up to I^ndnn, in triumph, those
of the best families of his country."
After this fhshton the Master gives
the story, with comments, of the
Earl's progrera from the Union to
the ineurrecUon which he instigated
and headed. It is difficult to know
what may be found in the inner re-
ceflses of a crooked mind. It has
often been hinted that the Earl's mwr*
riage, just before Queen Anne's death,
to a daughter of a great Whig house,
was one of his strokes of policy for
the purpose of strengthening his in-
terest with the Hanover party. But
the Master stands alone in bis way of
giving voice to the supposition, and
shows on the occasion a facility in
using the slang of the cock-pit and
the race-course not often to be found
in print, at least in the last century.
After referring to the servile but on*
accepted offer of his services to King
Qeorge, the narrator says : — *' Be-
sides this letter to King George, he
made use of another precaution, whM
was marryh)g an English lady some
time before, whose family interest he
was in hope might keep him in place
to reconcile the Whigs to him, and at
least get him of the ready to keep np
his credit for some time, in case the
Queen should happen to die, which aH
foresaw, and he sent off grazing. To
bring that about, as I sm told, he
was forced to give her in jointure all
that was called his estate. I have
some reason to think he cheated her,
by pretending to give her what was
not in his own name, and if so, not
his own ; and I am sore, if it was not
his own, it was cheating his son and
family." His wife was the Lady
Frances Pierrepont, the daughter of
the Duke of Kingston. She nar-
rowly escaped a strange destiny, for
Mar^s brother, Erskine of Grange^
notorious for having kept his own
wife a prisoner in one of the didtant
Hebrides, had put himself in posses-
sion of the legal means for conveying
Lady Mar to Scotland as an insane
woman. How she would have been
dealt with we may infer from his
treatment of Lady Grange, and his
vindication of it on the ground that
there were no means of properly
treating insane people in Scotland.
The Countess's sister, no less a pe^
sonage than Lady Mary Wortley
Montague, rescued her with a chief-
justice's warrant, just before she was
taken across the Border. The ori-
ginal cause of Lady Grange's abdnc-
.tton was, that she knew some dark
secrets passing between Mar in exile
and her husband, who, by audacious
and vigilant hypocrisy, kept himself
on a slippery steep as a sound Whig
and Presbyterian. The plot against
the Countess seems to have had a more
purely sordid reference to reversion-
ary interests in house property.*
But this is digression. Let us come
back to the Master, where we fiod
him exhibiting the Earl ignomini-
ously repulsed from the Court, and
turning his path northwards.
"But these precautions and submis-
sions did not serve his turn, being so
odious to the English Ministry who had
so long known him, and the same who
had employed him formerly — who
* For an inquiry Into the plot against Lady Mar, see Magazine for Sept 1849.
1859.]
The Matter of Skuktir't Narrative of Ike *16.
216
Intted him as those who make vse of
poison do a ^nomoos mooster — after
squteziog, as th^ though^ the poiaon
oat of huD, threw him away, baviog no
farther occasloa for him, and imagioiog
him BofBcieotly recoropenaed for betraj-
ing hU coaotry. PiDding himself in a
most deBpicablo conditioD, and that there
was no mercy to be expected from him
either from the Court or his creditors, of
which there was no want in Scotland, as
well as in London, .... thus reason-
^ly lijoking on himself as one detested
and abhorred by all mankind, he could
not pardon hia ooantry and oonntrymen
the evils which he himself had done them,
and imaftiaed thehr hatred proportioned
to his ydlaoy, and soppoeed tb^'d spare
him on no occasion if be did not haaten
to prevent ihem. On these oonsidera-
tioos did he double his diligence, and re-
solve to strike the iron while hot. Hay-
ing DO other game to play — knowing
that the mobs and broils in England bad
roused the Scots Tories, who were very
attentive to all that passed there, which,
according to their laudable custom, they
magnitted to cheat themselves— he did
nor know how far, with his management
and making^ use of so faTonrable a eon*
jonciioo, he might work them up before
things turned stale, and while their spirits
were io a ferment ; !( by the force of ly-
ing^ and making them believe he was
trasted by the English Jacobites and ihe
King, he should succeed in raising them
— no matter what came of it — he should
lose nothing, not so much as a reputa-
tion."*
We are tempted to eoll one other
little flower of rbetorio from thia
garden ; it comes in jast after Mar
i rrpreeeored as having acted a noble
part in refosing to ooaoteDanoe a
capitolation after all seemed loat
Mar only gets credit for haTiog n^go*
tiated privately for himself, and asoeiw
taioed that he wonU not be ioclnded
in any indemnity. Henoe, when he
acts the high-minded patriot who
will not disboooor bis sacred eaose
by capitulation, his magnanimity
leoeives no better treatment than
this :— '• But after all that soene of
yillaoies, his whole life, and the
iDnomerable lies and forgeries, the
impurience of snch a wretch as
ve knew him and represented him
to oorselves, was of all things the
most iosnpponabla Nor did we
know what be was not capable of,
after all be bad done, for the same im-
pudence was a salve for all he ooald
do."t
Bat enough, perhaps, of this kind
of matter. Let ns gite at least one
instance to show that the Master^
rhetoric was not all devoted to vita-
peratioo. In the portion of the insur-
gent army which fled at SherifT*
mnir fell the yoang heir of the house
of Strathmore— a youth of rare pro-
mise, the objeol of many eulogies, not
the least graoefhl of which, though
tinged by olasftical pedantries, is this :
— ^"'When hefonnd all taming their
backs, he seized the colours, atid per-
suaded fourteen, or some such num-
ber, to stand by him for some time,
which drew upon him the enemyls
fire, by vvhi(^ he was wounded In the
belly, and going off, was taken and
muraered by a dragoon ; and it may
be said, in his fate, that a rnill-
stooe crushed a brilliant He was the
yonng man of all I ever saw who ap-
proached the nearest to perfection,
and had a just contempt of all the
little lies aod selfish tricks so ne-
cessary to some, and so common
amongst ns; and bis least quality
was, that he was of a noble ancient
family, and a man of quality. For-
tune eeems to be invidious to those
of worth, since she gives a long lifb
with Incapacity to some, and Joins a
short life to rreat merit in others.
Those whose life is of any coose-
queoee fell early, and those who
never will be good for anything are
eternal-^ther that they appear to be
BO, or that oomparattvely wifb the
others they absolutely are so. Chance
and death agree in fiirgetting one who
is good for nothing.*^
There is no occasion for expending
pity on those followers of Mar who
were to any extent like-minded with
himself, and led to the enterprise
either by disappointed ambition or
self-interested calculation. Nor hi
pity the proper tribute to the berdo
zealots who accepted the cause with
all its dangers aod terrors, unless In-
deed that pity be so mingled with
admiration as to lose its ordinary
oharacteristics. But there was a
dass— and, as it happened, the most
♦ Pp: 67, 76.
t P. 296.
t P. 2t1.
216
The MatUr qf Sinclair's Narrative of ike '15.
[Aug,
▼aloable to his parpoaes, and there*
fare to be ffaioed at all oost-^a wboee
fate, sacrtficKl as they Kleotlessly
were to selfish ambitioo, it* is im-
possible to reflect without deep oom-
passioo. These were the Highland
ciaos. Their pecaliar iostitattons
were still fresh and ▼igoroos amoog
them ; bat these were so different
from the other institntioos of the
empire, that the Gelt was begraning
to stand helplessly apart — an agent
to be gained and nsed by any bold
speculator. He ooald easily ha?e
been rendered a tme and fatthfol
servant to the new dynasty ; he wss
as easily rendered a troablesome
eneoiy. Later events have shown
with what honest fidelity he has
borne the hard and dangerous work
of oar national wars. Pecnliarly he
wss the cbild which a kindly paternal
goveroroent could have trained to all
good uses. But he found the es-
tablished government harsh, exacting,
aod suspicious ; and so he fell a
prey to the tempter holding out
the right hand of fellowship and
treachery.
It infers no reproach to the chiefs
of dans to suppnse that they were as
free to adopt the Hanover cause as
that of the Stewarts. Of allegiaoce^
in its modera acceptation, they had
no distinct conception. They were,
indeed, far too great in their own
eves to be amenable to such an obliga-
tion. They treated with, rather than
gave allegiance to, governments
Md dynasties. If they admitted
themselves to be subsidiary to King
Jauies or Queen Anne, yet they were
not exactly subjects^ but rather sat-
fragans or electors. The side tbsgr
might take in any monarchical dis-
pute was a matter more of policy
than of duty, and would be adjusted
by suoh rules as those, for instance
which influeooed a German grand-
duke or margrave in the disputed
•lection of an emperor. The extent
to which these chiefs possessed lands
and ruled over tribes, without any
title according to law, and in defiance
of sdverse titles granted by the sove-
feign aod sanctioned by the courts of
law, is a curious chapter in British
hMtory which has yet to be written.
Before the commencement of the
eighteenth century, most of the chins
conformed so far that their chidi
nominally professed to hold their
lands of the Crown ; but even then
the power of the law was not always
effective in giving it to the proper
representative of the house according
to the laws of feudal descent, if it
suited the policy of the clan that
another member of the fntnily — ao
uncle or a cousin, perhaps — should
rule over them. There pa<«ses briefly
across the Master*s narrative one sep^.
however, who, even down to the *15,
would not acknowledge the feudal
superiority of the Orowo in any shape,
or hold their lands by royal charter,
which thejr disdainfully calWd a
sheepskin title. This was the clan
of ** rough Keppocb," who held sway
in the ragged recesses of 61eu Speao
aod in Glen Boy, renowned for ita geo*
logic phenomenon. Since the family
which had virtually ruM this terri-
tory for centories would not accept
of a feudal title from the Crown, it
was necessary, for the sake of unifor-
mity, that some one else should get it
— ^the lanr could no more put up with
uncluurtered lands than nature with a
vacuum. The fortune of obtaxuing
the feudal investiture fell natoraily to
the Huotly family, who, like the hoose
of Argyll in the south, were grad-
ually *' birsing out," as it was termed,
the smaller septs around them, es-
pecially those who were troublesome
from a hankering after Lowland
beef and mutton, which they con-
sumed without paying for. Eep-
pooh and his dan were in some
measure prt^tected in the exercise of
their old Highland rights by the
feudal owner of the soil, but gradually,
as was but* natural, their traclitiood
rights were extinguished by the title
supported by law. The Master of
Sinclair, a Pif«shire man, with all the
ignorance of Highland fashions natural
to a Lowlander of that age, tells us, in
this ungenial fashion, of the arrival of
Keppoch and his men to the insurgent
camp:-r^
" Keppocb, a Highland chief, and vas-
sal, or rather tenant, of tiuotlie, came
to Perth with tm> hundred and forty
men. He had never been witli us b^
fore; but hearing of a battle, and that
there was plund-sr, got hia men toge-
ther, and robbed the other Highland-
men who were going home straggling
1859.] The Matter of Sindair'* KarraHfie tf the 15. 217
wiUi the pillage of oar baggaire, Aod mrlike Bpirit aad the stnbboro conr*
what Uiej had taken out of the lovr age of ibeir anoeators still slambertd
ooQDtry. And baviDg secured it) lie and jo the atordj frames of tlie Low*
his folks took an Itching to see that j^q^ peasantry aod the English yec^
country where so many good tbings ^^ ^^^ ^re these qualities ooold
were got, being so often invited, and j^.^^ erorciae. the meo reqoired hi
being told, before he left home, that we ^ g ^ , ^ j^ J ^
^J'i^.l^ir^U^^^^^:^':^ ^^^ thrse^con^ 5a« to be 'disSS
STu^tmrrd in!;:^^^^^^^^ P»--? •^fjn.wr Tl.e Hi,hl«.de«^
the,man of the Highlands who ia no lesa on >^e ©Iber hand, w^ masters <rf
famous than the others for hia address w«»f own peculiar discipline and
in fobbing and lore to money, struck tactics^ aod these were of a kind
instontly up with him, and be, in a day which, though not destined to per*
or two^ took no more notice of hia mas- manent approval and adoption, wen
ter HuLtly than any of the others."* memorably formidable lo regotof
This is not in exact conformity troops not specially trained to com
with modem romance pictures of a ^ith Uiem. They brooght at tha
•'i*bel chieftain sod his band," but »«« time their own simple and
with a little tinge of the If aster's effective amos to the field, and lo a
natural causticity in it, it U a fi*ir manner they provided their own con-
type of the light in which a Lowland miasariat, without depending tithes
fcentleman of that day viewed a «? Bobeidy or military chest. The
Highland clan. He concludes this Master, with all his social prfjadioes
episode of the Eepi^ooh meo by say- Agftinst the Highlanders, could not
log that <* the leader sUyed, and re- ^^^ to see th<»ir transcendent valoo
oeived a good pay ; but the men went «• iosorgeot troops, especially in so
borne, tUe greater part of them a i"-regulated a camp as that of
few days after, aod not long ere all Mar. Some litUe incidents in the
weie gone, took what they liked best narrative show the diffioolty aod
on the road, that they might not re- o^^^ the hopelessness of bringing
torn empty-handed." ^^^^ '^^*^ of Lowlaoders into fight*
As the Highlanders were quite a ^ condition, Hontly ral-ed among
peculiar people in their social posi* the sturdy crofters of his Aberdeeo-
Uon, so also were they distinct from •bh-e domains a troop of lighi-horso
the rest of the British ooromunity in thus sketched off': *' A troop of forty
the formidable charaoteriaUo, that or fifty great lubberly telhiws in
they possessed arms and knew bow bopneis, without boots or any sodi
to use them. They were, in fact, the thing, and scarce bridles, mounted
only element oat of which an amy on long-tailed little horses Ism than
coold be improvised, and they were^ the men — who were by much tho
therefore, the most valuable of all greatest animals of the two— without
adherents to those who wero entering pwtols. with great, rusty muskets tied
mi a coolest with the esUblished on their back with ropes—and these
goverameot, iti army, and its re* be called light horee. I moat own
sources. Hence it was that the the grotewjue figure these made
Highlanders, when properly handled, moved everybody's laughter, and sooo
gained their surprising victories ; and got the other hundred and sixty horse
tut, whether as friends or foes, the he brought along with him the same
descendants of the Scottish borderers D»no of light-horse* though they did
and of the English yeomen, who had not deserve it more than thwe who
sustained the glory of their respee- oame with Marshall, who were almost
tive districts in the toughest and «^l galloways as well as those wbo
bloodiest contesto of former centurin, came with Hunlly.'^ The Master, as
were useless lumber in the field, and * trained soldier in Marlb*iroogb'e
bad either to be cut down or to v<^ra, aod a man not much aocnn*
run away. Our European wars tomed to modify either his opinions
showed then, and have proved in or the method is which he ezp' eased
many a conflict of later days, that the them, found abundant opportxm&ty
• P. 267. \ P. 16a
SIS
Tke MoiUr of Sindair't Narrative of the 15.
[Lug.
tor ezefeiinn^ his critical powers on
the ill'CODditiODed org^oisation of the
troops with which he reouired to act.
He gives a very sarcastic accooot of
the efibrts to fortifj the camp at
P^rtb, condacted byaneogioeer whom
he designates rightly or wrongly a
French dancing • master. He has
now and then, too, the satisfactioD of
feoordlog such palpable defideccies
as the drafting m of three baodred
musketeers withoat flints. He told
their officers that <Mt was better to
have three hundred fewer, for the
ikioment they came to any action,
these men mast ran away, and by
their example carry others with them,
and coald not fail to rain the whole,
or mutiny, for no man is so stapid but
knows the want of a flint ; and being
low-coantry men, they neither had
swords nor pretended to make nse of
any, whi6h was the mad excase when
It was complained the Highlanders
wanted firearms."* Between High-
landers with swords, and Lowlanders
with only flintless maskets, there coald
be no rational compariBon, however
mad the Mister deemed the excase for
not providing the Highlanders with
fireaj-ma
The Master perfbrmed a rather
signal and original feat in this war,
which he describes with singular
modesty. It was the captore of a
Tssselby a small fragment of a troop
of dragoons. The vessel contained a
supply of arms for the Government —
the temptation of coarse to the cap-
tora She lay in Burntisland harboar.
The object was to seize her by a
detachment from the camp at Perth
— « difficult operation, while Argyll
was posted in great strength at Stir-
Hug. The leader of the expedition
mounted a man behind each dragoon
for the purpose of doubling his force,
and the cavalcade crept quietly along,
aToiding villages, to the margin of the
Forth. The master of the vessel was
qnietly secured in an alehouse ashore,
and the capture was easily effected.
Trained, however, in the strictest
mflitary school of the day, the Mas-
ter's spirit was much disturbed by
the irregularities of his followers.
* We seized several small boats the
minute we came into town, and after*
placing a few sentries about the town
— wliich, by th^ way, was no easy
task, since nobody cared to stand-—
we forced some townsmen to go
along with ours to bring in the ships.
. . . Nor were there sentries to be got
to post about the town, or if any paSed
would others relieve them ; nor would
any hold the few horses of th<«e wbo
had gone to seize the ships, who went
a-stroiliog through the town and loosed
their bridles. It is not to be conceived
how those people's tongues, «nd other
unruliness in going into alehouses,
confounds at all times, but more at
night, the uoluckv officer who has
the command of them ; for there^ no
want of advisers, sometimes tw^ty
speaking at onoe, and all equally to
the purpose, but not one to obey."
Then at last, when the vessel was
secured, and the precious oargo of
arms had to be removed to the camp,
at Perth-— 'the most serious part of tiie
expedition, from the risk that the
convoy would be intercepted by a
detachment from ArgylPs army — ^the
Master says of his grievances, and his
unceremonious rem^y for them : *' Of
the fifty baggage-horses, for we had
no more, none would load, or, if they
did, not above four fir^ocks. Afto;
humbly begging these fellows to put
in more to no purpose, I gave them
round, without distinction, a hearty
drubbing — the most persuasive ana
eonvincing argument to those sort of
men." On the march back ** some of
the command went off without leave
to pay their respects to some minister,
whom they had a mind to tease ; and»
as those irregular folks generally con-
trive it, they returne^ before break
of day with noise." When he had
reached Anohterarder, a village illu^
trious in ecdesiastical controversy, a
new difficulty awaited him, not from
the on watchfulness of his Lowland
force, but the too suspicious vigilance
of a body of Highlanders who were
sent thitber to meet him. Wbetha
from real misapprehension, or the
iofiaence of some wayward caprice,
they refused to acknowledge him.
** I ordered," he says, ** those to march
who I saw there ; but they were so
far from obeying that thev pretended
they did not understand me, and
♦ P. 143.
1859.] Th$ MoHer of SineMr's Narratm of the 'Ifi. 21ft
most cocked their pieces and preBeot- and bat a small portion -of them could
ed to shoot me, aod some lay down oq get commiEsioas. " There was, in*
their bellies to take the better aim. deed/' says the Master, "a Deoea?
If I could havo spoken to them, I sity of giviog those of followii^
wonld have offered myself prisoner : commissioos, for thoagh not officers,
had I offered to ran away, I was a there was no other way of bringiog
dead man ; but by forciog myself to them into a form and subordination
look pleased, and as a friend, I stop* — ^a commit^ion patting them uodw
ped their fary till an officer came the obligation of obeying ; and Wk
who understood me." He told them clan being wilHn|^ to lose their namo
that the Duke of Argyll was within and job immediately nnder another
three miles of them, and galk)|>ed chief, every chief pretcDding to an
away; whereat, In rather co^neyish eqaality, they conld not well ha^
grammar, he says, ^ It is incredible to less than that of colonel." Purther on
believe how them fellows rnn and is mention of another Highland spa*
overtook the horse on being told ciality, not to be easily reconciled with
that." the ordinary notions of military etk*
This little incident is one of the qaette aod discipline. There was under
many which exemplify the precarions consideration tne propriety of si^
onderstandiDg between the Lowland in^ an association not to soe for terms
gentry and tlie Highlanders tbroogh- without the consent of the majority
out the enterprise. Thoagh these of their body. There were two drafts
were so invaluable an element, as of the document Uid on the table;
we have seen, in an insurrectionary and Mar, taking np one of them, said,
force, and were numerous, there was " it was neither English nor gram-
no one who knew how to handle them mar ;'' a remark which the Master,
after the example of Montrose and who could not miss so good ao
Dundee. Though the chiefs might opportunity, palk ''most iinpodent
be too great to exercise the vulgar in his lordship, who of all men knows
duty of allegiance, their followers bad the least of either." He continaesr
an allegiance of a devoted and ab- " I spoke first, and took exception at
aorbiog character. But it was due that clause of both where we were
neither to Stewart nor Guelnh, but to bound in honour never to accept or
their native or adopted chief. Where sne for terms without the consent ot
he went they went, without ulterior the majority ; and desired to have it
question. Thus tho Fraser High- explained what was meant by the
tenders had been led out by Fraser* majority— whether it was the majority
dale, the legal owner of the estates of the signers or the majority of tiie
on which they lived— a chief reluc* whole ^ntlemen at Perth, or only
tantly followed for want of a better, the majority of such as my Lord
But the chief of their adoption and Mar pleased to call Sir John
allegiance, the virtuous and gentle M'Leau was not long of taking off"
Lovat, having in the mean time es- the mask, and very haughtily said,
caped from France, arrived at Inver- ' It was not left to the majority of
ness, where he found it his interest ^ose my Lord Mar pleased to call;
to take the Government side ; and his clan were all gentleoien, and they
his clan, whenever they heard of his had as good a title to judge of things:
happy return, scampered off just as others.' It being not at all safe^
before the battle of Sheriff'muir, and and of no manner of good, to contra*
gathered round him in their native diet a point of that kind, it was
wilds of Stratheerick. It was use- dropped, since it reached the whole
less to officer the Highlanders other- common Highlandmen at Perth, Sir
wise than through their own patri- John having explained it very clearly,
archal hierarchy, and every attempt Only some took the liberty of thkJt-
to combine clans together and tell ing it very hard that a clan, who
them off in companies and battalions amongst them all had not one hun-
onder regimental officers was ruin- dred a-year, should pretend to seven
ons. Mar^s camp had a plethora of or eight hundred votes in an afl^
gentlemen in comparison with the of that consequence, which neither
proper material for rank and file, related to their chief nor them ; and
22d
Ifu Master of Sinclair's Narrative of the '15.
[Aug.
by tbst means the Highlande..
who we dant not dispute were gen-
tietneo — ^mo^t benoeforth determiDe
In one sense tbe Muter eeems to
have dieoerned with considerable
shrewdorae tbe cbaracteristics of a
Highland •rmjr — he knew tbe pecoH*
aritfies wbioh made bad troops of them
in tbe bands of a leader who had not
enffieieot military ^nins to discover
ib these pecaliarities, when well di-
rected, the elements orefiective power.
When forecasting — which he did with
the benefit of knowing what it acta-
ally was — tbe fate of the enterprise, he
says, '*Tbe Higblandmen would rise
ont of hopes of plander» and woald
do as they bad always done, which
tbe bibtory of Montrose, and, since
that, of my Lord Dundee, was enough
to convince anybody of; which is,
they certainly desert in three events :
First, they'd weary and go home If
they ooold not come to action soon ;
the second, if they fight, and get the
victory, plunder following, on that
tiiey'd be sore to go home with it;
tbe third is, if they are beat they run
straight home. So, go as it would,
we of tlie low couotry must be left in
tbe lurch, Tbe Higblandmen, on the
Other band, being encouraged by hav-
ing Dotbiog to lose, and it not being
worth anybody's while to pursue them
into their hills, where an army must
be fatigued and ruined with hunger
and cold, would soon make their
peace as they had always done, or
at least trust to it, when we would
Ml tbe sacrifice, and be the Jest of
all the people of common senile in alt
Europe, by not only losing our
estates, but our honours. '^f
The Master is not more gracious
to tbe individual character of some of
the Highland leaders. Of the cele-
brated Brigadier Macintosh of Bor-
lum, he says, ** He had neither rank
nor any distinguishing thing about
bim except Ignorant presumption, and
an affected Inverness- English accent,
not common, indeed, amongst High-
landoien ; and if I mav be allowed to
quote the character that a lady gave
of him — who I wish most of our men
hud resembled either in sense or any
other thing— I mean my Lady Nairoe,
• Pp. 275.
who, regretting heartily her hns-
bond*8 being concerned where Mac-
intosh was commander, said be had
been herding of Highland cattle
these eight-and-twenty years till he
was turned oz himself." Macintosby
however, was the leader in the most
gallant enterprisea of the insurgent
army. He carried a detachment
across the Firth of Forth in open
boats, though it was jealously
watched by vessels of war. He
established himself in Leith Fort,
where, so long as it suited him to
remain, he bade defiance to the Dake
of Argyll. He managed again to
elude tbe vigilance of tbe enemy,
and evacuating tbe fort to march
southwards, joining the Borderers
under Kenmore, and afterwards the
English insurgents of the north
uuder Forster. He and his High-
landers imparted life and heroism to
the defence of Preston, and when the
lazy luxurious Forster made up his
mind to capitulate, the Brigadier and
his followers were still for fighting it
out, and dying in harness rather than
on the scaffold. Macintosh com-
pleted his bold adventorons career
by escaping from Newgate with a
few of his followers, not through
arrangement and connivance, but by
knocking down the turnkeys and
reaching the open street
It is said that the decorum of the
bench was somewhat disturbed when,
at the reassembling of the court
next day, . it was stated that the
prisoners who should have been in
the dock had still to be caught
Some of tliem were again appre-
hended, but Macintosh and the
majority got clear out of London, a
feat more wonderful for Highlanders
than even the knocking down of the
officers of Newgate. The London
populace, though they were then
rather thirsty for Jacobite blood,
have a ready sympathy with a feat
like this. Macintosh became popu-
lar among them, and they recalled
the various incidents of bis intrepid
career. A street-ballad of the age,
which treats his colleagues with
small respect, bestows some charac-
teristic compliments on the rough
Brigadier. We are tempted to tran-
t P. 28.
The Mditer of Sinclair's Mrraiiw ^ the 15.
221
gcribe from it thoee stoozas whicb
have apecial refereoee to him :•-;•
utftelntnsh \n a toMler ht%wt\
AimI of btK frl«nd« be took bU leAve ;
Umo Nortbttm*t«rlftnd be drew,
Ad4 marcbed Hlfing wtib a jwUl crev.
WUb a fa, ia, la, ra, aa, ra, da.
Ifaelntofb be abook bia bead
TV) lee bid aolrtiera all )te dead ;
* It wah not fur th« Uioa nf ibna^,
Bttt I fear we're teken hy oor foeew*
Wltbafs)a,4cc
If adntneb la a taliant aoldler.
He carriud a musket on bia aooolder ;
*Coi-k yoar pistola, draw your rapper ;
Damn yoa, Fi«t«'r, for yua*n* a ttallor/
VVlUiafa,la,4c
Mv Lord Denrentwater to Foster did laj,
*Tbou bast pruT^d onr rulo tbisi very day;
Tb<>u pnin)foedi»t to atartd our friend.
Bat tfaoa baai pntv«rd a rogae In tb' end* •
Witbafi^la,&c.
Hy Lord Derwentwater to Ucblleld did
ride,
Wftb cimch and attendanta by bia side;
He swore if be di«d on tbu poiot at the
sword.
He'd driuk a gade bealtb to tbe man tbat
belored,
Wnb a &, la, dsOi
Then Foster traa brougbt in from our own
bomt^,
Leariitg oar estates for otbers to come ;
*Tb<iu tre«cb«rou8 dog, ibua bant us be-
trayed ;
We all «re rufned,' Lord Derwentwater said.
WUh a fa, la, decL
My Lord Derwentwater be ia oonifemned.
And near unto bis latter end ;
Hb pour iady she did cry,
* My poor Dvrweniwater ibeo moat dlei'
Witb a la, b^ dKi.
My Lnrd Derwentwater be la dead.
And frtttii itto iMidy tbey UNik bis bead.
But Haelntf >fb and others are tied,
To fit bis bat uu anotber man's bead.''
Hud there been many Maciotosbes
in tlie iiisurgeDt camp — or rather bad
tbo^ ID higher commaod sbowo the
some prompt aud^icity of resolve and
dat»biug n&pidity of action — the tenor
of British history might have been
to some considerable extent changed.
Sir Wiilter Scutt, who koeir more of
the iLtricacies and remote fioorces of
hi8 own cuaDtry*8 history than aoy
other man, attached to his copy of
the Master's Memoirs a note on the
oaoseB of tbe failare of If ar*B attempt,
fnli of wisdom and tmtb. Tbe epto*
ions it coDtainB are ])erh8pe to some
extent to be ibuod in his ordioary
published work?, bnt we are not
aware tbat anywhere in these tbey
are expressed in so eondedsed and
erapbatio a shape.
"Tbe same toaxid judgment which
dictated to the Duke of Argyll a pro-
oraetinatlog and cautious train of opera-
tions* reeoromeDded to Mar vigour and
deoirioD^ An established government
always grows stronger, while an insur*
rection gradually becomes weaker; its
ohiefd disagree^ and its ioferior member^
unsupported by any regular system c^
fiuance, desert for subsisttnoe, or render
tbemselvtrS detestable by pluoderlng. It
is vain to say that Mar waited lor his
distant reinforcements, for the success of
a desultory army depends always more
on the celerity of its motions than on its
numerical force; snd as success never
fbils to strengthen its numbers, so in-
activity is sure to. impair them. Forth
is proverbially said to bridle the wild
Higiilsnder, but it did not bridle Oharlea
in 1146, and should not have bridled
Mar in 17 16. Mar's own arrival at Perth
should have been concerted with a move-
ment of the western olaue^-MacdotialdSi
CameroDs, Stewarts, Ac — toward AthoU
and Abeifoyle, and tbe beadd of the
Forth, whicb these ready soldiers could
easily have seized, while the Duke of
Argyll could hardly have marched to-
wards them without exposing the pass
at Stirling bridge to the iDRargentis who,
by passiug a body of men at Mar's own
town of Alloa hi ligbteni, could have
placed those left to defend the^ bridge
betwixt two firesi If it bad beeo judged
necessaiT', tbe movement of the weAtern
dans might have been oombined by a
oorresponding march of the insurgent
calvary, uiider Winton and K.enmore^
towards tbe Lennox, and as fur as Dry-
men. This would have bten more
judicious than their uoion with the
haudful of Northitmberland fox-hauters,
who seem never to have had any serious
thoughts of fighting, and soon uickeued
of it."*
Sir Walter remarlts tbat *' when
the iosurgents did at leogth move,
they seem to have been sbameruLly
negligent of intelligence, and the
battle of Sheriffmnir was on their
part a mere accident." Ihiaoenaore
IfUrodttciory Koiieef xvL
222
The MaUer of Sindaif^s Ifarrativ$ itf tke '15.
[AiV-
18 amply anpported by iocidtoto wbloh
the ^ftBter tella wilb » fioii of saroiB-
tic bre?itj — ba, for iofitaaoe, tbe fini
warDiDg of Areyll's approach to
SberiftiDuir. "liVe oontlaued in fall
march till three of the arteroooo;
abont which time our qaartermeaterB*
who had left ns a little before, came
back with a lame boy, who had ron
as hard as he coold to tell ns that
the Doke of Argyll was marchiog
throagh Doablaoe with his whole
army towards as, and said the lady
Sjppeoda?ie had sent him, whose
husbaod was io the army with qsl"*
They were at a loss how to act,
<* becaase it looked mean to halt such
a body of men on a foolish boy's
fitory, and yet it was dangerons not
to give credit to him." Tbe next
envoy was scarcely of a more dignified
character. " I heard that fresh intelii*
gence was come, confirming the for-
mer message. I ran to hear what
was said, and finding it to the same
purpose with tbe former, and that
it was an old woman sent by the
same lady, returned out of the crowd
after hearing Glengarry say that he'd
lay his life that since the Dake of
Ar^ll was came oat, he'd give ns
battle next momiDg." Oddly enongh,
by the wav, it was a clergyman taking
his morniDg walk, who, a few da^s
before, had given wamiog to the in-
Burgeots at Preston that Wills^s army
was upon tbem.
On tbe position taken up for the
night, the Master was more expres-
sively sarcastic ; he recommended
the immediate crossing of the AUaOi
and the guarding of all tbe fords
against the enemy ; but it was deter-
mined otherwise, the wading of the
river in a frosty night beiog deemed
a hozardous experiment on the con-
dition of tbe troops. Sinclair with
the rest of the horse was posted in two
adjAeent farmyards, deemed very con-
venient and strong, which perhaps
they would have proved as mere
posts of defence, but as bivouacking-
ground for a portion of an army
thev afforded no room fer deploying.
"These yards made the bottom of
the hollow; all the ground about
had a sudden rise from tbe houses
and yards for two hundred paces,
except towards the Boitb, vbeie we
were hard npon the river, which was
behind ns; for it can^t be properly
said we bsyd front or rear more than
it can be said of a barrel of faerriogs.
In this uneven groaod, with a I^
low way in it to better tbe matter,
were we packed in, and all tbe foot
round us almost as much straight-
ened as we." The HigUandera ad-
mired this method of screening the
troops, which the Master says, ''he
could forgive Cossacks, Calmucks, or
Tartars to do." For his own parl^
however, he protests he belmves
** eight thousand men—for we were
about that number — were never
packed up so close together sioce
the invention of powder; and I can
take it upon me to desire the most
ingenious eogmeer, after a month's
thinking, to contrive a place so fit
for the destruction of men, without
being in the least capable to help
tbeDaselves. Ood knows, had we been
attacked bv any three regiments of
foot posted on the high ground
about, they had cut us to pieces or
drove us into the river."
Tbe Master's inefficient exeeatios
of his command in the battle, laid
him open to heavy censure. The
Highlanders, who could not appre-
ciate professional objections to tbe
disposition of the army as a reason
for not fighting, suspected him of
treachery, and, as he maintained,
threatened his life. He withdrew
from tbe army soon after the battk
His motive does not appear to have
been cowardice, for that was not
among his defects ; nor could it pos-
sibly have been treachery, for no
man had less chance of a welcome, or
even an idemnity, from the €U)vero-
ment. He found refuge in tbe Gor-
don country. Mar sent an order for
his return by a navy officer, a mem-
ber of a noble house, and, by repute,
a brave and honourable man. whom
the Master, on account of bis dis-
agreeable mi:«8ion, introduces to the
reader with more than his usual
acerbity. This messenger, " as is
usual to sea captains, liked a saft
harbour and a bowl of punch better
than beating the main in a storm ;
and like himself, without thinking
•P,204.
1869.1
The Master of Sineiair*» ITarratwe <^ the *16.
of the bnsinefls he was going about,
providently took in qnaclrnple, or ra-
ther more provision of panch, in case
of accidents, to carry him to the next
alehouse or town, where he never fail-
ed to be several days of careening, till
a neap-tide, which was want of liquor
or want of credit, obliged him to
weigh anchor and set siul for another
port, where credit was fresh or liquor
abounding.
Before the Master could be induced
to go soutJi wards, the general scatter-
ing of the Jacobite army had begun,
and his comrades flocked to his
northern retreat. All had to seek a
refoge still more remote, where they
coold hide themselves until an op-
portunity came for leaving the king-
dom. His own choice of a temporary
refuge was Orkney. He describes
the terrors of the Pentland Firth, to
those who had to encounter it in
an open boat, with some spirit ; his
classical recollections, whether dur-
ing or after the passage, enabling
him to recall Virgil's description of
the waves asaailing the stars between
Scylla and OharyMis. After sundiy
adventures, he and his fellow-fugi-
tives drift ashore somewhere on the
mainland of Orkney. They found an
Orcadian hot on the moor, which he
thought might be the bothy of
a solitary shepherd, bat ** fonnd a
numerous family lived in it." On
his ^^ creeping in, the whole swarm
were struck with amazement.'^ He
wanted horses to convey the party to
Kirkwall, and, with hia characteristic
suspiciousness, says the father of the
family would not confess to having
horsM until the large sum charged
for their hire was tendered ; ^^ and
asked a groat, which I was obliged to
pay him beforehand, the only expe*
dient to persuade him to bring his
horses from the hill : his demand
being so extravagant, he was in fear
I should not stand to my bargain."
The description of his journey with
General £cklin and the other refngees
towards Kirkwall, has in it a touch of
humour, exceptional to everything of
the kind from the Master's pen by
having no malice in it. To the au-
thorities at TattersalPs it must be left
to decide on the breed of horses de-
scribed by him. ^* We mounted £ok-
lin on a strange species of a short-
legged, long-baclsed, low-bellied, big-
headed animal, which the fellow called
a horse : having saddled him with a
wisp of straw, and made stirrups and
bridle of the same, we put our bag-
gage on tbe otiters, and so began our
procession towards the capital, in
great doubts what to make of those
long-bodied low creatures in oar
e<^uipage, which furrowed the ground
with their noses, and seemed, to creep
through the heath, and wliich I was
rather inclined to believe was a large
sort of reptile than what they were
called." Arrived at Kirkwall, he finds
** the melancholy prospect of the ruins
of an old castle, the seat of the old
Earls of Orkney, my ancestors ;" and
in the gloom of an uncertain deten-
tion through a drizzly spring, near
this memorial of the ancient princely
grandeur of his house, he has oppor-
tunity for moralising on the vanity
of human greatness, and the folly
of trusting to the magnanimity of
princes. The restless spirit of the
man is uppermost even in these
reflections. He cannot reconcile pas-
sive obedience with temperaments*
like his own. "I wish from my
sool," he says, " that God in His pro-
vidence had created us with such a
degree of knowledge as could only
make us subservient to the will of
princes, and that there had been no
other end of our creation ; or, if it
must have been too much trouble to
them even in that case to drive us
like so many cattle, that He had<
been pleased to put some distin-
guishing marks of greater know-
ledge and authority on some families
above them, to help them to drive
the great herd : weM then be very
easy without any share of reason, and
these passions of ambition, glory,
vanity, love, revenge, and the like,
which disposes the soul to covet
things that nature tells us are use-
ful, and to persist in that will."*
Bnt though be could not find the
mark of the God to direct him to-
wards those he should obey, he saw
distinctly enough the mark of Ihe
beast in those base elements of hu-
manity that were made to serve.
VOL. LXXZYI.
• P. STO.
16
224
The Haunted and the Haunters; or^
[Aug.
" "What," he aayp, " does an Ireqnois,
a Negro, a Laplander, a Scota West-
ern Islander, nay, a Highlandraan,
think? Is it not hunting, fisliing,
stealing, plandering, and revenging
themselves upon their enemies ?
But vithont going further to seek
examples of the stupidity of men,
what does the greatest part of work-
people think? Of their work— of
eating, drinking, sleeping — to get
what's owing them — and a small
number of other objects. They are
almost insensible to all others, and
the custom they have of turning
in that little circle makes them inca-
pable of conceiving anything out of
it. If you talk to them of honour, re-
ligion, or the rules of morality, either
they don't understand, or they forget
in a moment that which is said to
them, and return, the minute, into
that centre of gross objects to which
they are accustomed. '^ But the man
could rise above this sad materialism
at times, and with sinoerity too; and
were there room, we might quote his
reflections over the scattering of the
enterprise, and the worthlessness of
those lives which were all that could
be saved out of the wreck in which
the fortunes of a party had been lost,
and tlie ndseries of civil war inflicted
on a people. But there must be an
end of his reflections, good or bad.
Space presses here, and time presses
on the Master, and the avenger wa^
at hand, and he is inclined, on the
whole, to save his worthless life. A
vessel is seized, and, after many hard-
ships and wonderful escapes, the Httle
party reach Calais, where the Master
makes his last of a multitude of quo-
tations from his favourite Virgil :—
**Per TsrioB cunt, per tot diflcrlmioa
rerom
Tendinitis in Latiom: aedes nbi fSitta
Ostendant"
THE HAUMTBD AND TBS HAUNTERS ; OR, THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN.
A Friend of mine, who is a man of
letters and a philosopher, said to me
one day, as if between jest and ear-
nest,— " Fancy I since we last met, I
have discovered a haunted house in
the midst of London."
*' Really haunted ? — ^and by what ?
—ghosts?"
'^ Well, I canH answer these ques-
tions ; all I know is this — six weeks
ago I and my wife were in search of a
furnished apartment. Passing a quiet
street, we saw on the window of one
of the houses a bill, *' Apartments
Furnished.' The situation suited us :
we entered the house — liked the
rooms — engaged them by the week
-r>and left them the third day. No
power on earth could have reconciled
my wife to stay longer ; and I don't
wonder at it."
" What did you see ?"
" Szc'use me — I have no desire
to be ridiculed as a superstitious
dreamer — nor, on the other hand,
could I ask yon to accept on my
afiirmation what you would hold to
be incredible without the evidence
of your own senses. Let me only
say this, it was not so much what
we saw or heard (in which yoa
might fairly suppose that we wers
the dupes of our own excited fancy,
or the victims of imposture in others)
that drove us away, as it was an on-
definable terror which seized both of
us whenever we passed by the door
of a certain unfurnished room, in
which we neither saw nor heard any-
thing. And the strangest marvel of
all was, that for once in my lite I
agreed with my wife, silly woman
though she be — ^and allowed, atter the
third night, that it was impossible to
stay a fourth in that house. Accord-
ingly, on the fourth morning I sum-
moned the woman who kept the
house and attended on us, and told
her that the rooms did not quite suit
us, and we would not stay out our
week. She said dryly, * I know why;
you have staid longer than any other
lodger. Few ever staid a second
night; none before you a third. Bat
I take it they have been very kind to
you.'
*■ They — who ?' I asked, affecting a
smile.
* Why, they who haunt the house,
whoever they are. I don't mind
1859.]
The House and the Brain,
them ; I remember them many years
ago, -when I lived in this house, not
as a servant; but I know they will
be the death of me some day. I
don*t care — I'm old, and must die
soon anyhow; and then I shall be
with them, and in this house still.
The woman spoke with so dreary a
calmness, that really it was a sort of
awe that prevented my conversing
with her farther. I paid for my
week, and too happy were I and my
wife to get off so clieaply."
" You excite my curiosity," said I;
*^ nothing I should like better than to
sleep in a haunted house. Pray give
nie the address of the one which yon
left so ignominiously."
My friend gave me the address;
and when we parted, I walked
straight towards the house thus in-
dicated.
It is situated on the north side of
Oxford Street, in a dull but respect-
able thoroughfare. I found the house
shut up— no bill at the window, and
no response to my knock. As I was
turning away, a beer-boy, collecting
pewter pots at the neighbouring
areas, said to me, *' Do yon want any
one at that house sir ? "
" Yes, I heard it was to be let."
" Let 1 — :why, the woman who kept
it IS dead — ^has been dead these three
weeks, and no one can be found to
stay there, though Mr J offered
ever so nmch. He offered mother,
who chars for him, £1 a-week just
to open and shut the windows, and
she would not"
" Would not 1— and why ? "
^^Tbe house is haunted; and the
old woman who kept it was found
dead in her bed, with her eyes wide
open. They say the devil strangled
her."
" Pooh I — you speak of Mr J .
Is be the owner of the house? "
" Yes."
"Where does he live?"
u In G Street, No. — ."
"What is he?— in any business?"
"Ko, sir — nothing particular; a
single gentleman."
I gave the pot-boy the gratuity
earned by his liberal iuformation,
and proceeded to Mr J—, in G
Street, which was close by the street
that boasted the haunted house. I
was lucky enough to find Mr J
at home— an elderly man, with in-
telligent countenance and prepossess-
ing manners.
I communicated ray name and my
business frankly. I said I heard the
house was considered to be haunted —
that I had a strong desire to examine
a house with so equivocal a reputa-
tion— ^that I should be greatly obliged
if he would allow me to hire it,
though only for a night. I was
willing to pay for that privilege
whatever he might be inclined to
ask, "Sir," said Mr J , with
great courtesy, " the house is at your
service, for as short or as long a time
as you please. Rent is out of the
question^*the obligation will be on
my side should you be able to dis-
cover the cause of the strange phe-
nomena which at present deprive it
of all value. I cannot let it, for I
cannot even get a servant to keep it
in order or answer the door. Un-
luckily the house is haunted, if I
may use that expression, not only by
night, but by day ; though at night
the disturbances are of a more un-
pleasant and sometimes of a more
alarming character. The poc»r old
woman who died in it three weeks
ago was a pauper whom I took out
of a workhouse, for in her child-
hood she had been known to some of
my family, and had once been in such
good circumstances that she had rent-
ed that house of my uncle. Slie was
a woman of superior education and
strong mind, and was the only per-
son I could ever induce to remain in
the house. Indeed, since her death,
which was sudden, and the coroner's
inquest, which gave it a notoriety
in the neighbourhood, I have so
despaired of finding any person to take
charge of it, much more a tenant,
that I would willingly let it rent-free
for a year to any one who would pay
its rates and taxes."
'^How long is it since the house
acquired this sinister character ? "
^ That I can scarcely tell you, but
very many years since. The old
woman I spoke of said it was
haunted when she rented it between
thirty and forty years ago. The fact
is that my life has been spent in the
East Indies, and in the civil service
of the Company. I returned to Eng.
land last year, on inheriting the for-
226
The Haunted and the Eaunten; or,
[Ang.
tone of an uncle, amongst whose
possessions was the boose in question.
1 found it sbnt up and nninbabited.
I wafi told tbat it was baonted, that
no one would inhabit it. I smiled
at what seemed to me so idle a story.
I spent some money in repainting and
roofirg it — ^added to its old-fashioned
furniture a few modem articles —
advertised it, and obtained a lodger
for a year. He was a colonel retired
on half-pay. He oame in with bis
family, a son and a danghter, and
four or five servants: they all left
the house the next day, and al-
though they deponed that they had all
seen something different, that some-
thing vras equally terrible to all. I
really could not in conscience sue, or
even blame, the colonel for breach of
agreement. Then I put in the old
woman I have spoken of, and she
was empowered to let the house in
apartments. I never had one lodger
who stayed more than three days. I
do not tell you their stories — to no
two lodgers have their been exactly
the same pbenomena repeated. It
is better that yon should judge for
yourself, than enter the house with
an imagination influenced by previous
narratives ; only be prepared to see
and to hear something or otber, and
take whatever precautions you your-
self please.^^
^^Have you never had a curiosity
yourself to pass a night in that
house?''
**Yes. I passed not a night, but
three hours in broad daylight alone
in that house. My curiosity is not
satisfied, but it is quenched. I have
no desire to renew the experiment.
You cannot complain, you see, sir,
that I am not sufficiently candid;
and unless your interest be exceed-
ingly eager and your nerves unusually
strong, I honestly add, that I ad-
vise you not to pass a night in that
house."
"My interest t« exceedingly keen,"
said I, " and .though only a coward
will boast of his nerves in situations
wholly unfamiliar to him, yet mv
nerves have been seasoned in such
variety of danger that I have the
right to rely on them — even in a
haunted boose."
Mr J said very little more;
he took the keys of the house out of
his bureau, gave them to me, — and
thanking him cordially for his frank-
ness, and his urbane concession to my
wish, I carried off my prize.
Impatient for the ex|>eriment, as
soon as I reached home, I summoned
my confidential servant — a yonng
man of gay spirits, fearless temper,
and as free from superstitious preju-
dice as any one I could think of.
" F ," said I, " you remember
in Germany how disappointed we
were at not finding a ghost in that
old castle, which was said to be
haunted by a headless apparition f —
well, I have heard of a house in Lon-
don which, I have reason to hope, is
decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep
there to-night. From what I hear,
there is no doubt that something will
allow itself to be seen or to be heard
— somethinjc, perhaps, excessively
horrible. Do you think, if I take
you with me, I may rely on your
presence of mind, whatever may
happen ? "
*' Oh, sir I pray trust me," answer-
ed F , grinning with delight
"Very well, — ^then here are the
keys of the house — this is the ad-
dress. Go now, — select for me any
bedroom you please; and since the
house has not been inhabited for
weeks, make up a good fire— air the
bed well — see, of course, that there
are candles as well as fuel.. Take
with you my revolver and my dagger
— so much for my weapons — arm
yourself equally well ; and if we are
not a match for a dozen ghosts, we
shall be but a sorry couple of Eng-
lishmen."
I was engaged for the rest of the
day on business so urgent that I had
not leisure to think much on the
nocturnal adventure to which *I had
plighted my honour. I dined alone,
and very late, and while dining,
read, as is my habit. The volume
I selected was one of Macanlay's
Essays. I thought to myself tbat I
would take the book with me ; there
was so much of healthfulness in the
style, and practical life in the sub-
jects, that it would serve as an anti-
dote against the influences of super-
stitious fancy.
Accordingly, about half-past iiin&
I put the book into my pocket, and
strolled leisurely towards the haunted
1869.]
7%e ffatue and the Brain,
227
house. I took with me a favourite
dog, — an exceedingly sharp, bold, and
vigilant bull-terrier, — a dog fond of
prowling about strange ghostly cor-
ners and passages at night in search
of rats — a dog of dogs for a ghost
It was a summer night, but chilly,
the sky somewhat gloomy and over-
cast, Still there was a moon — Mnt
and sickly, but still a moon — and if
the clouds permitted, after midnight
it would be brighter.
I reached the house, knocked, and
my servant opened with a cheerful
smile.
^ All right, sir, and very comfort-
able."
" Oh I " said I, rather disappoint-
ed ; *'*' have you not seen nor heard
anything remarkable?" .
"Well, sir, I must own I have
heanl something queer.**
"What?— what?"
** The sound of feet pattering be-
•hind me; and once or twice small
noises like whispers close at my ear
— ^nothing more."
" You are not at all frightened ? "
"I! not a bit of it, sir ; '' and the
man's bold look reassured me on one
point — viz. that, happen what might,
he would not desert me.
We were in the hall, the street-
door closed, and my attention was
now drawn to my dog. He had at
first ran in bagerly enough, but had
sneaked back to the door, and was
scratching and whining to get out.
After patting him on the head, and
encouraging him gently, the dog
seemed to reconcile himself to the
sitxiation and followed me and
F throogh the hoose, but keep-
ing close at my heels instead of hur-
rying inquisitively in advance, which
was his usual and normal habit in all
strange places. We first visited the
subterranean apartments, the kitchen
and other offices, and especially the
cellars, in which last there were two
or three bottles of wine still left in a
bin, covered with cobwebs, and evi-
dently, by their appearance, undis-
turbed for many years. It was clear
that the ghosts were not winebibbers.
For the rest we discovered nothing
of interest. There was a gloomy
little back-yard, with very high walls.
The stones of this yard were very
damp, — ^and what with the damp.
and what with the dast and smoke-
grime on the pavement, our feet left
a slight impression where we passed.
And now appeared the first strange
phenomenon witnessed by myself in
this strange abode. I saw, just be-
fore me, the print of a foot suddenly
form itself, as it were. I stopped,
caught hold of my servant, ana
pointed to it. In advance of that
footprint as suddenly dropped an-
other. We both saw it I advanced
quickly to the place; the footprint
kept advancing before me, a small
footprint — ^the foot of a child: the
impression was too faint thoroughly
to distinguish the shape, but it
seemed to us both that it was the
print of a naked foot. This pheno-
menon ceased when we arrived at the
opposite wall, noi- did it repeat itself
on retnming. We remounted the
stairs, and entered the rooms on the
ground floor, a dining parlour, a
small back - parlour, ana a still
smaller third room that had been
probably appropriated to a footman
— all still as death. We then vi^ited
the drawing-rooms, which seemed
fresh and new. In the front room I
seated myself in an arm-chair. F
placed on the table the candlestick
with which he had lighted us. I
told him to shut the door. As he
turned to do so, a chair opposite to
me moved from the wall quickly
and noiselessly, and dropped itself
about a yard from my own chair
immediately fronting it
" Why, this is better than the turn-
ing-tables," said I, with a half laugh
— and as I laughed, my dog put back
his head and howled.
F , coming back, had not ob-
served the movement of the chair.
He employed himself now in stilling
the dog. I continued to gaze on the
chair, and fancied I saw on it a pale
blue misty outline of a human figure,
but an outline so indistinct that I
could only distrust my own vision.
The dog now was quiet. " Put back
that chair opposite to me," said I to
F ; " put it biick to the wall."
F obeyed. "Was that you,
sir ? " said he, turning abruptly.
"I— what?"
"Why, something struck me. I
felt it sharply on the shoulder— just
here."
228
The HaunUd and the Eaunten; or,
[Ang.
"No," said I. "But we have
jugglers present, and though we
may not discover their tricks, we
shall catch them before they frighten
We did not stay long in the draw-
ing-rooms—in fact, they felt so damp
and so chilly that I was glad to get
to the fire up-stairs. We locked the
doors of the drawing-rooms — a pre-
caution which, I should observe, we
had taken with all the rooms we had
searched below. The bedroom my
servant had selected fur me was the
best on the flooi^-a large one, with
two windows fronting the street.
The four-posted bed, which took up no
ingonsiderable space, was opposite to
the fire, which burned clear and
bright ; a door in the wall to the left,
between the bed and the window,
communicated with the room which
my servant appropriated to him-
self. This last was a small room
with a sofa-bed, and had no com-
munication with the landing' place-
no other door but that which con-
ducted to the bedroom I was to oc-
cupy. On either side of my fire-place
was a cupboard, without locks,
flushed with the wall, and covered
with the same dull-brown paper.
We examined these cupboards— only
hooks to suspend female dresses — no-
thing else; we sounded the walls —
evidently solid — the outer walls of
the buifding. Having finished the
survey of these apartments, warmed
myself a few moments, and lighted
my cigar, I then, still accompanied
by F , went forth to complete
my reconnoitre. In the landing-
place there was another door ; it was
closed firmly. "Sir," said my ser-
vant in surprise, "I unlocked this
door with all the others when I first
came ; it cannot have got locked from
the inside, for it is a "
Before he had finished his sentence,
the door, which neither of us then
was touching, opened quietly of itself.
>We looked at each other a single in-
stant. The same thought seized both
— some human agency might be de-
tected here. I rushed in first, my ser-
vant followed. A small blank dreary
room without furniture — a few empty
boxes and hampers in a corner — a
small window — the shutters closed —
not even a fire-place — no other door
hot that by which we had entered —
DO carpet on the floor, and the floor
seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten,
mended here and there, as was shown
by the whiter patches on the wood ;
but no living being, and no visible
Elace in which a living being could
ave hidden. As we stood gazing
round, the door by which we had
entered closed as quietly as it had
before opened : we were imprisoned.
For the first time I felt a creep ctf
undefinable horror. Not so my ser-
vant.' "Why, they don't think to
trap us, sir; I could break that
trumpery door with a kick of my
foot."
" Try first if it will open to your
hand," said I, shaking off the vague
apprehension that had seized me,
" while I open the shutters and see
what is without."
I unbarred the shutters — the
window looked on the little back-
yard I have before described ; there
was no ledge without — ^nothing but
sheer descent. No man getting out
of that window would have found
any footing till he had fallen on the
stones below.
F— , meanwhile, was vainly at-
tempting to open the door, lie now
turned round to me, and asked mv
permission to use force. And I
should here state, in justice to the
servant, that, far from evincing any
superstitious terrors, his nerve, com-
posure, and even gaiety amidst circum-
stances so extraordinary compelled
my admiration, and made me con-
gratulate m>se1f on having secured
a companion in every way fitted to
the occasion. I wiUiogly gave him
the permission he required. But
though he was a remarkably strong
man, his force was as idle as his
milder efforts ; the door did not even
shake to his stoutest kick. Breath-
less and panting he desisted. I then
tried the door myself, equally in vain.
As I ceased from the effort, again
that creep of horror came over me ;
but this time it was more cold and
stubborn. I felt as if some strange
and ghastly exhalation were rising
up from the chinks of that rugged
floor, and filling the atmosphere with
a venomous iduence hostile to hu-
man hfe. The door now very, slowly
and quietly opened as of its own ac-
1859.]
The Bnue and ths Brain.
oord. We precipitated onrselves into
the laDding- place. We both saw a
large pale light — as large as the ha-
man figure, but shapeless and unsub-
stantial— tnove before us, and ascend
the stairs that led from the landing
into the attics. I followed the light,
and my servant followed me. It
entered, to the right of the landing,
a small garret, of which the door stood
open. I entered in the same instant.
The light then collapsed into a small
globule, exceedingly brilliant and
Tivid ; rested a mo nent on a bed in
the comer, quivered, and vanished.
We approached the bed and examined
it — a half-tester, such as is commonly
fonnd in attics devoted to servants.
On the drawers that stood near it
we perceive<l an old faded silk ker-
chief, with the needle still left in the
rent half repaired. The kerchief was
oovered with dust; probably it had
belonged to the old woman who had
last died in that house, and this
might have been her sleeping-room.
I bad sufficient curiosity to open the
drawers : there were a few odds and
ends of female dress, and two letters
tied round with a narrow ribbon of
faded yellow. I took the liberty to
possess myself of the letters. We
found nothing else in the room worth
noticing— nor did the light reappear ;
but we distinctly heard, as we turned
to go, a pattering footfall on the floor
— just before us. We went throu^
the other attics (in all four), the foot-
fall still preceding us. Nothing to
be seen — nothing but the footfall
beard. I had the letters in my hand :
just as I was descending the stairs I
distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a
faint, soft effort made to draw the
letters from my clasp. I only held
tbera the more tightly, and the
effort ceased.
We regained the bedchamber ap-
propriated to myself, and I then re-
marked that my dog had not followed
as when we had left it. He wss
thmi^ting himself close to tlie fire, and
trembling. I was impatient to ex-
amine the letters ; and while I read
them, my servant opened a little box
in which he had de{K>sited the wea-
pon^i I had ordered him to bring;
took til em out, placed them on a
table close at my bed-head, and then
occupied himself in soothing the dog,
who, however, seemed to heed him
very little.
The letters were short — ^they were
dated; the dates exactly thirty-five
years ago. They were e viden t ly from
a lover to his mistress, or a husband
to some young wife. Not only the
terms of expression, but a distinct
reference to a former voyage indi-
cated the writer to have been a sea-
farer. The spelling and handwriting
were those of a man imperfectly edu-
cated, but still the language itself
was forcible. In the expressions of
endearment there was a kind of rough
wild love; but here and there were
dark unintelligible hints at some
secret not of love — some secret that
seemed of crime. ** We ought to love
each other," was one of the sentences
I remember, " for how every one else
would execrate us if all was known."
Again : '' Don't let any one be in the
same room with you at night — you
talk in your sleep." And again:
" What's done can't be undone ; and
I tell you there's nothing against us
unless*^ the dead could come to life."
Here there was underlined in a better
handwriting (a female's), " They do !"
At the end of the letter latest in date
the same female hand had written
these words: *^Lost at sea the 4th
of June, the same day as "
I put down the letters, and began
to muse over their contents.
Fearing, however, that the train of
thought into which I fell might un-
steady my nerves, I fully determined
to keep my mind in a fit state to
cope with whatever of marvellous
the advancing night might bring
forth. I roused myself — laid the
letters on the table — stirred up the
fire, which was still bright and cheer-
ing— and opened my volume of Mac-
auTay. I read quietly enough till
about half-past eleven. I then threw
myself dressed upon the bed, and
told my servant he might retire to
his own room, but must keep him-
self awake. I bade him leave open
the doors between the two rooms.
Thus, alone, I kept two candles burn-
ing on the table by my bed-heail. I
placed my watch beside the weapons,
and calmly resumed my Macaulay.
Opposite to me the fire burned clear ;
280
The Haunted and the IHaunten; ^,
[Aug.
and on the heartb-rng, seemingly
asleep, lay the dog. In about twenty
minntes I felt an exceedingly cold
air pass by my cheek, like a sndden
draught. I fancied the door to my
right, communicating with the land-
ing-place, must have got open ; but
no— it was closed. I Qien turned my
glance to my left, and saw the flame
of the candles violently swayed as by
a wind. At the same moment the
watch beside the revolver softly slid
from the table — softly, softly — no
visible hand — it was gone. I sprang
up, seizing the revolver with the one
hand, the dagger with the other : I
was not willing that my weapons
should share the fate of the watch.
Thus armed, I looked round the floor
— no sign of the watch, Three slow,
loud, distinct knocks were now heard
at the bed-head; my servant called
out, " Is that you, sir ?"
"No; be on your guard."
The dog now roused himself and
sat on his haunches, his ears moving
quickly backwards and forwards.
He kept his eyes fixed on me with
a look so strange that he concentred
all my attention on himself. Slowly
he rose up, lUl his hair bristling, and
stood perfectly rigid,and with the same
wild stare. I had no time, however, to
examine the dog. Presently my ser-
vant emerged from his room ; and if
I ever saw horror in the human face,
it was then. I should not have re-
cognised him had we met in the
streets, so altered was every linea-
ment. He passed by me quickly,
saying in a whisper that seemed
scarcely to come from his lips,
" Run — run I it is after me I" He
gained the door to the landing,
pulle<l it open, and ru9hed forth. I
followed him into the landing invo-
luntarily, calling to him to stop;
but, without heeding me, he bounded
down the stairs, clinging to the bal-
usters, and taking several steps at a
time. I heard, where I stood, the
street door open — heard it again
clap to. I was left alone in the
haunted house.
It was but for a moment that I
remained undecided whether or not
to follow my servant; pride and cu-
riosity alike forbade so dastardly a
flight. I re-entered my room, closing
the door after me, and proceeded
cautiously into the interior chamber.
I encountered nothing to justify my
servant's terror. I again carefully
examined the walls, to see if there
were any concealed door. I could
find no trace of one— not one even a
seam in the dull-brown paper with
which the room was hung. How,
then, had the Thino, whatever it
was, which had so scared ^'im, ob-
tained ingress except •throL:ih .y
own chamber.
I returned to my room, shut and
locked the door that opened upon
the interior one, and stood on the
hearth, expectant and prepared. I
now perceived that the dog had
slunk into an angle of the wall, and
was pressing himself close against it,
as if literally striving to force his
way into it. I approached the animal
and spoke to it ; the ]X)or brute was
evidently beside itself with terror.
It showed all its teeth, the slaver
dropping from its jaws, and would
certainly have bitten ma if I had
touched it. It did not seem to re-
cognise me. Whoever bas seen at
the Zoological Gardens a rabbit fas-
cinated by a serpent, cowering in a
comer, may form some idea of the
anguish which the dog exhibited.
Finding all eflbrts to soothe the ani-
mal in v»n, and fearing that his bite
might be as venomous in that state
as if in the madness of hydrophobia,
I left him alone, placed my weapons
on the table beside the fire, seated
myself, and recommenced my Mac-
aulay.
Perhaps, in order not to appear
seeking credit for a courage, or rather
a coolness, which the reader may
conceive I exasrgerate, I may be par-
doned if I pause to indulge in one or
two egotistical remarks.
As I hold presence of mind, or
what is called courage, to be pre-
cisely proportioned to familiarity
with the circumstances that lead to
it, so I should say that I had been
long sufficiently familiar with all ex-
periments that appertain to the Mar-
vellous. I had witnessed many very
extraordinary phenomena in varioos
parts of the world — phenomena that
would be either totally disbelieved
if I stated them, or ascribed to super-
natural agencies. Now, my theoiy is
that the Supernatural is the Impos-
1859.]
The House and the Bram.
281
sible, and that ivhat is called super-
natural is only a something in the
laws of nature of which we have
been hitherto ignorant. Therefore,
if a ghost rise before me, I have not
the right to say, " So, thpn, the su-
pernatural is possible," but rather,
** So, then the apparation of a ghost
is, contrary to received opinion,
within the laws of nature — i. e, not
supernatural."
Now, in all that I had hitherto
witnessed, and indeed in all the won-
ders which the amateurs of mystery
in our age record as facts, a material
living agency is always required. On
the Continent you will find still ma-
gicians who assert that they can raise
spirita. Assume for the moment that
they assert truly, still the living ma-
terial form of the magician is pre-
sent ; and he is the material agency
by which, from some constitutional
peculiarities, certain strange pheno-
mena are represented to your natural
senses.
Accept, again, as truthful, the tales
of Spirit Manifestation in America —
musical or other sounds — ^writings
on paper, produced by no discernable
hand — articles of furniture mqved
without apparent human agency — or
the actual sight and touch of hands, to
which no bodies seem to belong — still
there must be found the msdium
or living being, with constitutional
peculiarities ca|)able of obtaining
these signs. In fine, in all such mar-
vels, supposing even that there is no
imposture, there must be a human
being like ourselves, by whom, or
through whom, the effects presented
to human beings are produced. It
is so with the now familiar pheno-
mena of mesmerism or electro-bio-
logy; tho mind of the person ope-
rated on is affected through a mate-
rial living agent. Nor, supposing it
true that a mesmerised patient can
respond to the will or passes of a
mesmeriser a hundred miles distant,
is the response less occasioned by a
material being ; it may be through
a material fluid— caU it Electric, call
it Odic, call it what you will — which
has the power of traversing space
and passing obstacles, that the mate-
rial effect is communicated from one
to the other. Hence all that I had
hitherto witnessed, or expected to
witness, in this strange house, I
believed to be occasioned through
some agency or medium as mortal as
myself; and this idea necessarily
prevented the awe with which those
who regard as supernatural things
that are not within the ordinary opera-
tions of nature, might have been im-
pressed by the adventures of that
memorable night.
As, then, it mas my conjecture that
all that was presented, or would be
presented, to my senses, must origi-
nate in some human being gifted by
constitution with the power so to pre-
sent them, and having some motive
so to do, I felt an interest in my
theory which, in its way, was rather
philosophical than superstitions.
And I can sincerely say that I was
in as tranquil a temper for observa-
tion as any practical experimentalist
could be in awaiting the effects of
some rare, though perhaps perilous,
chemical combination. Of course,
the more I kept my mind detached
from fancy, the more the temper fit-
ted for observation would be obtain-
ed ; and I therefore riveted eye and
thought on the strong daylight sense
in the page of my Macaufay.
I now became aware tliat some-
thing interposed between the page
and the light — the page was over-
shadowed : I looked up, and I saw
what I shall find it very difficult,
perhaps impossible, to describe.
It was a Darkness shaping itself
out of the air in very undefined out-
line. I cannot say it was of a hu-
man form, and yet it had more re-
semblance to a human form, or rather
shadow, than anything else. As it
stood, wholly apart and distinct from
the air and the light around it, its
dimensions seemed gigantic, the
summit nearly touched the ceiling.
While I gazed, a feeling of intense cold
seized me. An iceberg before me
could not more have chilled me ; nor
could the cold of an iceberg have
been more purely physical. I feel
convinced that it was not the cold
caused by fear. As I continued to
gaze, I thought — but this I can Dot
say with precision — ^that I distin-
guished two eyes looking down on
me from the height. One moment
I seemed to distinguish them clearly,
the next they seemed gone ; but still
282
77^ Haunted and the ffavnten; or^
[ADg.
two rays of a pale-blae light frequent-
ly shot through the darknej^s, as from
the height on which I half believed,
half doubted, that I had encountered
the eyes.
I strove to speak — my voice utter-
ly failed me ; I could only think to
myself, " Is this fear ? it is not fear !"
I strove to rise — in vain ; I felt as if
weighed down by an irresistible force.
Indeed, my impression was that of
an immense and overwhelming Power
opposed to my volition ; — ^that sense
of utter inadequacy to cope with a
force beyond men's, which one may
feel physically in a storm at sea, in
a conflagration, or when confronting
some teiTible wild beast, or rather,
perhaps, the shark of the ocean, I felt
morally. Opposed to my will was
another will, as far superior to its
strength as storm, fire, and shark are
superior in material force to the force
of men.
And now, as this impression grew
on me, now came, at la^t, horror —
horror to a degree that no words can
convey. Still I retained pride, if not
courage ; and in my own mind I said,
•* This is horror, but it is not fear ;
unless I fear, I cannot be harmed ;
my reason rejects this thing; it is
an illusion — I do not fear." With a
violent effort I succeeded at last in
stretching out my hand towards the
weapon on the table : as I did so, on
the arm and shoulder I received a
strange shock, and my arm fell to
my side powerless. And now, to
add to my horror, the light began
slowly to wane from the candles —
they were not, as it were, extin-
guished, but their flame seemed very
gradually withdrawn: it was the
same with the fire — the light was
extracted from the fuel ; in a few
minutes the room was in utter dark-
ness. The dread that came over
me, to be thus in the dark with that
dark Thing, whose power was so
intensely felt, brought a reaction of
nerve. In fact, terror had reached
that climax, that either my senses
must have deserted me, or I must
have burst through the spell. I did
burst through it. I found voice,
though the voice was a . shriek. I
remember that I broke forth with
words like these — "I do not fear,
my soul does not fear ;" and at the
same time I found the strength to
rise. Still in that profound gloom I
rushed to one of the windows — ^tore
aside the curtain— flung open the
shutters ; my first thought was — ^
LiQUT. And when I saw the moon
high, clea^, and calm, I felt a joy
that almost compensated for the pre-
vious terror. There was the moon,
there was also the light from the
gas-lamps in the deserted slumberous
street. I turned to look back into
the room ; the moon penetrated its
shadow very palely and partially —
but still there was light The dark
Thing, whatever it might be, was
gone — except that I could yet see a
dim shadow, which seemed the sha-
dow of that shade, against the oppo-
site wall.
My eye now rested on the table,
and from under the table (which was
without cloth or cover — ^an old maho-
gany round table) there rose a hand,
visible as far as the wrist. It was
a hand, seemingly, as much of flesh
and blood as my own, but the
hand of an aged person — lean,
wrinkled, small too — a woman^s
hand. ThW hand very softly closed
on the two letters that lay on the
table : hand and letters both van-
ished. There then came the same
three loud measured knocks I had
heard at the bed-head before this
extraordinary drama had com-
menced.
As those sounds slowly ceased, I
felt the whole room vibrate sensibly ;
and at the far end there rose, as
from the floor, sparks or globules
like bubbles of light, many-coloured
— ^green, yellow, fire-red, azure, Up
and down, to and fro, hither, thither,
as tiny Will-o'- the- wisps, the sparks
moved, slow or swift, each at its
own caprice. A chair (a^ in the
drawing-room below) was now a<l-
vanced from the wall without ap-
parent agency, and placed at the
opposite side of the table. Suddenly
as forth from the chair, there grew a
Shape — a woman^s shape. It was
distinct as a shape of life — ghastly
as a shape of death. The face was
that of youth, with a strange mourn-
ful beauty ; the throat and shoulders
were bare, the rest of the form in a
loose robe of cloudy white. It began
sleeking^ its long yellow hair, which
1869.]
The Hatiu and the Brain.
288
fell over its shoaldera ; its eyes were
not turned towards me, bat to the
door ; it seemed listening, watching,
waiting. The shadow of the shade
in the baokgronnd grew darker ; and
again I thought I beheld the eyes
gleaming out from the Summit of
the shwiow — eyes fixed upon that
^ape.
As if from the door, thongh it did
not open, there grew oat another
shape, equally distinct, equally ghait-
ly — a man*8 shajie— a young man's.
It was in the dress of the last cen-
tury, or rather in a likeness of such
dress; for both the male shape and
the female, though defined, were
evidently nnsnbstantial, impalpable
— simulacra — phantasms; and there
was something incongruous, gro-
te^^ne, yet fearful, in the contrast
between the elaborate finery, the
courtly precision of that old-fash-
ioned garb, with its ruffles and lace
and buckles, and the corpse*Iike as-
pect and ghost-like stillness of the
flitting wearer. Just as the male
shape approached the female, the dark
Shadow started from the wall, all
t^ree for a moment wrapped in dark-
ness. When the pale light returned,
tbe two phantoms were as if in the
grasp of the Shadow that towered
between them ; and there was a
blood stain on the breast of tlie
female ; and the phantom-male was
leaning on its phantom sword, and
blood seemed trickling fast from the
ruffles, from the lace ; and the dark-
ness of the intermediate Shadow
swallowed them up — they were gone.
And again the bubbles of light shot)
and sailed, and undulated, growing
thicker and thicker and more wildly
oonfused in their movement^.
The closet door to the right of the
fire-place now opened, and from the
aperture there came the form of a
woman, aged. In her hand she held
letttrs — the very letters over which
I had seen the Hand close; and be-
hind her I heard a footstep. She
turned round as if to listen, and
then she opened the letters and
.«;eemcd to read ; and over her
shouMer I saw a livid face, the face
as of a man long drowned — bloated,
bleached — seaweed tangled in its
dripping hair ; and at her feet lay a
furrn as of a corpse, and beside the
corpse there cowered a child, a miser-
able squalid child, with famine in its
cheeks and fear in its eyes. And as
I looke<l in the old woman's face, the
wrinkles and lines vanished, and it
became a face of youth — ^bard-eyed,
stonv, bnt still youth ; and the
Shadow darted forth, and darkened
over these phantoms as it had dark-
ened over the last
Nothing now was left but the
Shadow, and on that my eyes were
intently fixed, till again eyes grew
out of the shade w-^malignant, ser-
pent eyes. And the bubbles of liglit
again roee and fell, and in their dis-
ordered, irregular, turbulent maze,
mingled with the wan moonlight.
And now from these globules them-
selves, as from the shell of an egg,
monstrous things burst out ; the air
grew filled with them ; larvte so
bloodless and so hideous that I can
in no way describe them except to
remind the reader of the swarming
life which the solar microscope brings
before his eyes in a drop of water —
things transparent, supple, agile,
chasing each other, devouring each
other — forms like nought ever be-
held by the naked eye. As the
shapes were without symmetry, so
their movements were without order.
In their very vagrancies there was
no sport ; they came round me and
round, thicker and faster and swifter,
swarming over my head, crawling
over my right arm, which was out-
stretched in involuntary command
against all evil beings. Sometimes
I felt myself touched, but not by
them ; invisible hands touched me.
Onoe I felt the dutch as of cold soft
fingers at my throat. I was still
equally conscious that if I gave way
to fetir I should be in bodily peril;
and I concentred all my faculties
in the single focus of resisting, stub-
born will. And I turned my sight
from the Shadow — above, all from
those strange serpent eyes — eyes that
had now become distinctly visible.
For there, though in nought else
around me, I was aware that there
was a WILL, and a will of intense,
creative, working evil, which might
crush down my own.
The pale atmosphere in the room
began now to redden as if in the air
of some near conflagration. The larvsd
284
The Haunted and the Haunters; or,
[Aug.
grew In rid as things that live in fire.
Again the room vibrated ; again were
heard the three measured knocks;
and again all thiny:s were swallowed
up in the darkness of the dark Sha-
dow, as if out of that darkness all
had come, into that darkness all re-
turned.
As the gloom receded, the Shadow
was wholly gone. Slowly as it had
been withdrawn, the flame grew
again into the candles on the table,
again into the fuel in the grate.
The whole room came once more
calmly, healthfully into sight.
The two doors were still closed,
the door communicating with the
servant's room still locked. In the
corner of the wall, into which he had
so convulsively niched himself, lay
the dog. I cdled to him — no move-
ment ; I approached — ^the animal
was dead ; his eyes protruded ; his
tongue out of his mouth ; the froth
gathered round his jaws. I took him
in my arms; I brought him to the
lire ; I felt acute grief for the loss of
my poor favourite — ^acute self-re-
proach; I accused myself of his
death ; I imagined he had died of
fright. But what was my surprise
on finding that his neck was actually
broken — actually twisted out of the
vertebras. Had this been done in the
dark? — must it not have been by a
hand human as mine ? — ^must there
not have been a human agency all
the while in that room ? Good
cause to suspect it. I cannot tell.
I cannot do more than state the fact
fairly ; the reader may draw his own
inference.
Another surprising circumstance—
my watch was restored to the table
from which it had been so myste-
riously withdrawn ; but it had stop-
ped at the very moment it was so
withdrawn ; nor, despite all the skill
of the watchmaker, has it ever gone
since — that is, it will go in a strange
erratic way for a few hours, and then
comes to a dead stop — it is worth-
less.
Nothing more chanced for the rest
of the night. Nor, indeed, had I long
to wait before the dawn broke. Not
till it was broad daylight did I quit
the haunted house. Before I did so,
I revisited the little blind room in
which my servant and myself had
been for a time imprisoned. I had a
strong impression — for which I could
not account — that from that room
had originated the mechanism of the
phenomena — If I may use the term
— which had been experienced in my
chamber. And though I entered it
now in the clear day, with the sun
rering through the filmy window,
still felt, as I stood on its floor, the
creep of the horror which I had first
there experienced the night before,
and which had been so aggravated by
what had passed in my own chamber.
I could not, indeed, bear to stay
more than half a minute within those
walls. I descended the stairs, and
again I heard the footfall before me ;
and when I opened the street door,
I thought I could distinguish a very
low laugh. I gained my own home,
expecting to find my runaway ser-
vant there. But he had not pre-
sented himself; nor did I hear more
of him for three days, when I received
a letter from him, dated from Liver-
pool, to this effect :—
"HoNOTTBED SiK, — ^I humbly en-
treat your pardon, though I can
scarcely hope that you will think I
deserve it, unless — which Heaven
forbid I — ^you saw what I did. I feel
that it will be years before I can re-
cover myself; and as to being fit for
service, it is out of the question. I
am therefore going to my brother-
in-law at Melbourne. The ship sails
to-morrow. Perhaps the long voyage
may set me up. I do nothing now
but start and tremble, and fancy it
is behind me. I humbly beg you,
honoured sir, to order my clothes,
and whatever wages are due to me,
to be sent to my mother's, at Wal-
worth,— John knows her address."
The letter ended with additional
apologies, somewhat incoherent, and
explanatory details as to effects that
had been under the writer's charge.
This fiight may perhaps warrant a
suspicion that the man wished to go
to Australia, and had been somehow
or other fraudulently mixed up with
the events of the night. I say no-
thing in refutation of that conjecture ;
rather, I suggest it as one that would
seem to many persons the most pro-
bable solution of improbable occur-
1869.]
The HauB6 and the Brain.
285
renoes. My own theory remained
unshaken. I returned in the even-
ing to the hoase, to bring away in a
hack cab the things I had left there,,
with my poor dog's body. In this
task I was not disturbed, nor did any
incident worth note befall me, except
that still, on ascending and descend-
ing the stairs, I heard the same foot-
fall in advance. On leaving the
house, I went to Mr. J 's* He
was at home. I returned him the
keys, told him that my curiosity
was sufficiently gratified, and was
about to relate quickly what had
passed, when he stopped me, nnd
said, though with much politeness,
that he had no longer any interest
in a mystery which none had ever
solved.
I determined at least to tell him
of the two letters I had read, as well
as of the extraordinary manner in
which they hod disappeared, and
I then inquired if he thought they
bad been addressed to the woman
who had died in the house, and if
there were anything in her early his-
tory which could possi^y confirm
the* dark suspicions to which the
letters gave rise. Mr. J seemed
startled, and, after musing a few
moments, answered, "I know but
little of the woman's earlier history,
except, as I before told you, that
her family were known to mine. But
yon revive some vague reminiscences
to her prejudice. I wiU make in-
quiries, and inform you of their re-
sult. Still, even if we could admit
the popular superstition that a per-
son who had been either the perpe-
trator or the victim of dark crimes
in life could revisit, as a restless
spirit, the scene in which those crimes
had been committed, I should ob-
serve that the house was infested
by strange sights and sounds before
the old woman died — ^you smile —
what would you say ?"
** I would say this, that I am con-
vinced, if we could get to the bottom
of these mysteries, we should find a
living human agency."
^^ What I you believe it is all an
imposture f tor what object ?"
" Not an imposture in the ordinary
sense of the word. If suddenly
I were to sink into a deep sleep,
from which you could not awake me,
but in that sleep oonld answer ques-
tions with an accuracy which I could
not pretend to when awake — tell you
what money you had in your pocket
— ^nay, describe your very thoughts —
it is not necessarily an imposture,
any more than it is necessarily
supernatural. I should be, uncon-
sciously to myself, under a mesmeric
iufiuence, conveyed to me from a dis-
tance by a human being who had
acquired power over me by previous
" Granting mesmerism, so far car-
ried, to be a faot^ you are right. And
you would infer from this that a
mesmeriser might produce the extra-
ordinary effects you and others have
witnessed over inanimate objects-^
fill the air with sights and sounds ?"
" Or impress our senses with the
belief in them — we never having been
en rapp<n*t with the person acting
on us? No. What is commonly
called mesmerism could not do this ;
but there may be a power akin to
mesmerism, and superior to it — the
S^wer that in the old days was called
agio. That such a power may ex-
tend to all inanimate objects of mat-
ter, I do not say ; but it so, it would
not be against nature, only a rare
power in nature which might be
given to constitutions witli certain
peculiarities, and cultivated by prac-
tice to an extraordinary degree. That
such a power might extend over the
dead — that is, over certain thoughts
and memories that the dead may
still retain — ^and compel, not that
which ought properly to be called
the Soul, and which is far beyond
human reach, but rather a phantom
of what has been most earth-stained
on earth, to make itself apparent to
our senses — is a very ancient though
obselete theory, upon which I will
hazard no opinion. But I do not
conceive the power would be super-
natural Let me illustrate what I
mean from an experiment which
Paracelsus describes as not difficult,
and which tlio author of the Curioii-
ties of Literature cites as credible :
— A flower i>erishe8; you burn it.
Whatever were the elements of that
flower while it lived are gone, dis-
persed, you know not whither ; you
can never discover nor re-collect
them. But you can, by chemistry
286
T?ie Haunted and the Haunters; or,
[Aag.
oat of the barnt dast of that flower,
raise a spectram of the flower, jast
as it seemed in life. It may be the
same with a human being. The
Boal has as mnch escaped you as the
essence or elements of the flower.
Still you may make a spectram of it.
And this phantom, though in the
popular superstition it is held to be
the soul of the departed, must not be
confounded with the true soul ; it is
but the eidolon of the dead form.
Ilence, like the best- attested stories
of ghosts or spirits, the thing that
most strikes us is the absence of
what we hold to be soul — that is, of
superior emancipated intelligence.
They come for little or no object —
they seldom speak, if they do come ;
they utter no ideas above that of an
ordinary person on earth. These
American spirit-seers have published
volumes of communications m prose
and verse, which they assert to be
given in the names of the most illus-
trious dead — Shakespeare, Bacon —
heaven knows whom. Those com-
munications, taking the best, are
certainly not a whit of higher order
than would be communications from
living persons of fair talent and edu-
cation ; they are wondrously inferior
to what Bacon, Shakespeare, and
Plato said and wrote when on earth.
Nor, what is more notable, do they
ever contain an idea that was not on
the earth before. Wonderful, there-
fore, as such phenomena may be
(granting them to be truthful), I see
much that philosophy may question,
nothing that it is incumbent on phi-
losophy to deny — viz. nothing super-
natural. They are but ideas con-
veyed somehow or other (we have
not yet discovered the means) from one
mortal brain to another. Whether
in 80 doing, tables walk of their own
accord, or fiend-like shapes appear
in a magic circle, or bodyless hands
rise and remove material objects,
or a Thing of Darkness, such as pre-
sented itself to me, freeze our blood
— still am I persuaded that these are
but agencies conveyed, as by electric
wires, to my own brain from the
brain of another. In some consti-
totions there is a natural chemistry,
and those may produce chemio won-
ders— in others a natural fluid, call
it electricity, and these produce
electric wonders. But they differ
in this from Normal Science — they
are alike objectless, purposeless, puer-
ile, frivolous. They lead on to no
grand results ; and therefore the
world does not heed, and true sages
have not cultivated them. But sere
I am, that of all I saw or heard, a
man, human as myself, was the re-
mote originator ; and I believe uncon-
sciously to himself as to the exact
effects produced, for this reason : no
two persons, you say, have ever told
you that they experienced exactly
the same thing. Well, observe, no
two persons ever experience exactly
the same dream. If this were an
ordinary imposture, the machinery
would be arranged for results that
would but little vary ; if it were a
supernatural agency permitted by the
Almightv, it would surely be for
some definite end. These phenomena
belong to neither class ; my persua-
sion is, that they originate in some
brain now far distant; that that
brain had no distinct volition in any«>
thing that occurred ; that what does
occur reflects but its devious, motley,
ever-shifting, half-formed thoughts;
in short, l£at it has been but the
dreams of such a brain put into
action and invested with a semi-
substance. That this brain is of
immense power, that it can set mat-
ter into movement, that it is malig-
nant and destructive, I believe;
some material force must have killed
my dog ; it might, for aught I know,
have sufficed to kill myself, bad I
been as subjugated by terror as the
dog — bad my intellect or my spirit
given me no countervailing resistance
in my will.''
^^ It killed your dog I that is fear-
ful ! indeed it is strange that no ani-
mal can be induced to stay in that
house; not even a cat. Rats and
mice are never found in it.'*
" The instincts of the brute crea-
tion detect influences deadly to their
existence. Man's reason has a sense
less subtle, because it has a resisting
power more supreme. But enough ;
do you comprehend my theory ?" •
"Yes, though impt;rfectly — ^and I
accept any crotchet (pardon the
word), however odd, rather than
embrace at once the notion of ghosts
and hobgoblins we imbibed in our
1869.]
The Batise and the Brain,
287
DurBeries. Still, to mj UDfortuoate
honse the evil is the same. What
on earth can I do with the house ?"
" I will tell you what I would do.
I am convinced from my own internal
feelings that the small nnfurnished
room at right angles to the door of
the bedroom which I occupied, forms
a starting-point or receptacle for the
influences which haunt the house;
and I strongly advise you to have
the walls opened, the floor removed-
nay, the whole room pulled down.
I observe that it is detached from
the bo<ly of the house, built over the
small back-yard, and could be remov-
ed without injury to the rest of the
building."
" And you think, if I did that—"
^* YoQ would cut off the telegraph
wires. Try it. I am so persuaded
that I am right, that I will pay half
tlie expense if yon will allow* me to
direct the operations."
'^Nay, I am well able to afford
the cost; for the rest, allow me to
write to you."
About ten days afterwards I re-
ceived a letter from Mr. J , telling
me that he had visited the house
since I had seen him ; that he had
found the two letters I had described,
replaced in the drawer from which I
had taken them; that he had read
them with misgivings like nty own ;
that he had instituted a cautious in*
quiry about the woman to whom I
rightly conjectured they had been
written. It seemed that thirty -six
years ago (a year before the date of
the letters), she had married, against
the wi.sh of her relatives, an Ameri-
can of very suspicious character ; in
fact, he was generally believed to
have been a pirate. She herself
was the daughter of very respectable
tradespeople, and had served in the
capacity of a nursery governess be-
fore h er marriage. S!ie had a brother,
a widower, who was considered
wealthy, and who had one child of
about six years old. A month after
the marriage, the body of this brother
was found in the Thames, near Lon-
don Bridge; there seemed some
marks of violence about his throat,
but they were not deemed sufli-
cient to warrant the inquest in any
other verdict than that of ^* found
drowned."
The American and his wife took
charge of the little boy, the deceased
brother having by his will left his
sister the guardian of his only child
— ^and in event of the child's death,
the sister inherited. The child died
about six months afterwards — it was
supposed to have been neglected and
ill-treated. The neighbours deposed
to have heard it shriek at night. The
surgeon who had examined it after
death, said that it was cmaciatcl as
if from want of nourishment and the
body was covered with livid bruises.
It seemed that one winter night the
child had sought to escape — crept
out into the back-yard — tried to scale
the wall — ^fallen back exhausted,
and been found at morning on the
stones in a dying state. But though
there was some evidence of cruelty,
there was none of murder ; and the
aunt and her husband had sought to
palliate cruelty by alleging the ex-
ceeding stubbornness and perversity
of the child, who was declared to be
half-witted. Be that as it may, at
the orphan's death the aunt inherited
her brother's fortune. Before the
first wedded year was out, the Ame-
rican quitted England abruptly,
and never returned to it. He ob-
tained a cruising vessel, which was
lost in the Atlantic two years after-
wards. The widow was left in afl3u-
ence ; but reverses of various kinds
had befallen her : a bank broke — an
investment failed — she went into a
small business and became insolvent
— tlien she entered into service, sink-
ing lower and lower, from house-
keeper down to maid-of all- work —
never long retaining a place, though
nothing peculiar against her charac-
ter was ever alleged. She was con-
sidered sober, honest, and peculiarly
quiet in her ways ; still nothing pros-
pered with her. And so she had
dropped into the workhouse, from
which Mr. J had taken her, to
be placed in charge of the very house
which she had rented as mistress in
the first year of her wedded li?e.
Mr. J added that he had passed
an hour alone in the unfurnished
room which I bad urged him to
destroy, and that his impressions of
dread while there were so great,
though he had neither heard nor
seen anything, that he was eager to
288
The Haunted and the Haunteri; or,
[Aug.
have the walls bared and the floors
removed as I had suggested. He
had engaged persons for the work,
and would commenpe any day I would
name.
Tiie day was accordingly fixed.
I repaired to the haunted house — we
went into the blind dreary room,
took up the skirting, and then the
floors. Under the rafters, covered
with rubbish, was found a trap-door,
qoite large enongh to admit a man.
It was closely nailed down, with
clamps and rivets of iron. On re-
moving these we descended into a
room below, the existence of which
had never been suspected. In this
rogtm there had been a window and
a flae, but they had been bricked
over, evidently for many years. By
the help of candles we examined this
place ; it still retained some moulder-
ing furniture — ^three chairs, an oak
settle, a table — ^all of the fashion of
about eighty years ago. There was
a chest of drawers against the wall,
in which we found, half-rotted away,
old-fashioned articles of a man^s
dress, such as might have bees worn
eighty or a hundred years ago by a
gentleman of some rank — costly steel
buckles and buttons, like those yet
worn in court- dresses —a handsome
court sword — in a waistcoat which
had once been rich with gold-lace,
but which was now blackened and
foul with damp, we found five guineas,
a few silver coins, and an ivory ticket,
probably for some place of entertain-
ment lung since passed away. But
our main discovery was in a kind of
iron safe fixed to the wall, the lock
of which it cost us inuch trouble to
get picked.
In this safe were three shelves and
two, small drawers. Ranged on the
shelves were several small bottles of
crystal, hermetically stopped. They
contained colourless volatile essences,
of what nature I shall say no more
than that they were not poisons —
phosphor and ammonia entered into
some of them. There were also some
very curious glass tubes, and a small
pointed rod of iron, with a large lump
uf rock-crystal, and another of amber
— also a loadstone of great power.
In one of the drawers we found a
miniature portrait set in gold, and
retaining the freshness of its colours
most remarkably, considering the
length of time it had probably been
there. The portrait was that of a
man who might be somewhat ad-
vanced in middle life, perhaps forty-
seven or forty-eight.
It was a most peculiar &oe — a most
impressive face. If yon could fancy
some mighty serpent transfbrmed
into man, preserving in the human
lineaments the old serpent type, yon
would have a better idea of that
countenance than long descriptiona
can convey: the width and flatness
of frontal — the tapering elegance of
contour disguising the strength of
the deadly jaw — 5ie long, large, ter-
tible eye, glittering and green as the
emerald — ^and withal a certain ruth-
less calm, as if from the conscio^i.
ness of an immense powOT^JThe
strange thing was this — ^tbe instant
I saw the miniature I recognised a
startling likeness to one of the rarest
portraits in the world — the portrait
of a man of rank only below that
of royalty, who in his own day had
made a considerable noise. History
says little or nothing of him; bat
search the correspondence of his con-
temporaries, and you find reference to
his wild daring, his bold profligacy,
his restless spirit, his taste for the
occult sciences. While still in the
meridian of life he died and was
buried, so say the chronicles, in a
foreign land. He died in time to
escape the grasp of the law, for he
was accused of crimes which would
have given him to the headsman.
After his death, the portraits of him,
which had been numerous, for he
had been a munificent encourager of
art, were bought up and destroyed —
it was supposed by his heirs, who
might have been glad could they
have razed his very name from their
splendid line. He had enjoyed a
vast wealth ; a large portion of this
was believed to have been embezzled
by a favourite astrologer or sooth-
sayer— ^at all events, it had un-
accountably vanished at the time of
his death. One portrait alone of him
was supposed to have escaped the
general destruction; I had seen it
in the house of a collector some
months before. It had made on
me a wonderful impression, as it
does on all who behold it-— a face
1869.]
The Eofue and the Brain.
289
never to be forgotten ; and there
was that face in the miniature that
lay within my hand. True, that in
the miniature the man was a few
years older than in the portrait I had
seen, or than the original was even
at the time of his death. But a few
years! — why, between the date in
which flourished that direful noble
and the date in which the miniature
was evidently painted, there was an
interval of more than two centuries.
While I was thus gazing, silent and
wondering, Mr. J— said,
" Bat is it possible? I have known
this man.^'
" How— where? " cried T.
^^ In India. He was high in the con-
fidence of the Ri^ah of , and well-
nigh drew him into a revolt which
would have lost the Ri^ah his domin-
ions. The man was a Frenchman —
his name de V , clever, bold, law-
less. We insisted on his dismissal
and banishment : it most be the same
man — ^no two faces like his — ^yet this
I miniature seems nearly a hundred
LjfiftTS old."
Mechanically I tamed round the
miniatnre to examine the back of
it, and on the back was engraved
a pentacle ; in the middle of the
pentade a ladder, and the third step
of the ladder was formed by the
date 1765. Examining still more
minutely, I detected a spring ; this,
on being pressed, opened the back of
the miniature as a lid. Within-side
the lid were engraved ^* Mariana
to thee — ^Be faithfid in life and in
death to ." Here follows a name
that I will not mention, but it was
not unfamiliar to me. I had heard
it spoken of by old men in my child-
hood as the name borne by a dazzling
charlatan, who had made a great
sensation in London for a year or so,
and bad fled the country on the
charge of a double murder within
his own house — that of his mistress
and his rival. I said nothing of this
to Mr. J— ^, to whom reluctantly I
resigned the miniatare.
We had foand no difficulty in open-
ing the first drawer within the iron-
safe; we found great difficulty in
opening the second : it was not
locked, but it resisted all efforts, till
we inserted in the chinks the edge
of a chisel When he had thus
VOL. LZZXVI.
16
drawn it forth, we found a very
singular apparatus in the nicest
order. Upon a small thin book, or
rather tablet, was placed a saucer of
crystal ; this saucer was filled with a
dear liquid — on that liquid floated a
kind of compass, with a needle shift-
ing rapidly round, but instead of the
usual points of a compass were seven
strange characters, not very unlike
those used by astrologers to denote
the planets. A very peculiar, but
not strong nor displeasing odour,
oame from this drawer, which was
lined with a wood that we afterwards
discovered to be hazel. Whatever
the cause of this odour, it produced a
material effect on the nerves. We
all felt it, even the two workmen who
were in the room — a creeping tingling
sensation from the tips of the fingers
to the roots of the hair. Impatient
to examifae the tablet, I removed the
saucer. As I did so the needle of
the compass went round and round
with exceeding swiftness, and I felt
a shock that ran tibrougb my whole
frame, so that I dropped the saucer
on the floor. The liquid was spilt —
the saucer was broken — the compass
rolWd to the end of the room — and
at that instant the walls shook to
and fro, as if a giant had swayed and
rocked tliem.
The two workmen were so fright-
ened that they ran up the ladder by
which we had descended from the
trap-door ; but seeing that nothing
more happened, they were easily in-
duced to return.
Meanwhile I had opened the tab-
let: it was bound in a plain red
leather, with a silver clasp ; it ooa-
tained bat one sheet of thick vellum,
and 'on that sheet were inscribed,
within a double pentaole, words in
old monkish Latin, which are liter-
ally to be translated thus : — ^^ On all
that it can reach within these walls
— sentient or inanimate, living or
dead-— as moves the needle, so work
my wiU I Accursed be the house, and
restless the dwellera therein."
f^Wetbnndnomore. Mr. J burnt
the tablet and its anathema. He razed
to the foundations the part of the
building containing the secret room
with the chamber over it. He had
then the courage to inhabit the house
himself for a month, and a qmeter^
240
The Eaunted and the Eaunten; oVj
[Ang.
r
better- conditioned house oonld not
be found in all London. Snbse-
quentlj he let it to advantage, and
his tenant has made no complaints.
Bat my story is not yet done. A
few days after Mr, J had removed
into the house, I paid him a visit.
We were standing by the open win-
dow and conversing. A van contain-
ing some articles of forniture which
he was moving from his former honse
was at the door. I had just urged
on him my theory, that all those
phenomena regarded as supermun-
dane had emanated from a human
brain ; adducing the charm or rather
curse we had found and destroved
in support of my philosophy. Mr.
J was observing in reply, " That
even if mesmerism, or whatever
analogous power it might be called,
could really thus work in the ab-
sence of the operator, and produce
effects so extraordinary, still could
those effects continue when the
operator himself was dead? and if
^e spell had been wrought, and,
indeed, the room walled up, more
than seventy years ago, the proba-.
bility was, that the operator had
long* since departed this life;" Mr.
J , I say, was thus answering,
when I caught hold of his arm and
pointed to the street, below.
A well-dressed man had crossed
from the opposite side, and was ac-
costing the carrier in charge of the
van. His face, as he stood, was ex-
actly fronting our window. It was
the face of the miniature we had dis-
covered ; it was the face of the por-
trait of the noble three centuries
ago.
" Good heavens I" cried Mr. J-
"that is the face of de V-
and
scarcely a day older than when I saw
it in the Rijah's court in my youth I'
Seized by the same thought, we
both hastened down stairs. I was
first iTi the street; but the man had
already gone. I caught sight of him,
however, not many yards in advance,
and in another moment I was by his
side.
I had resolved to speak to him. but
when I looked into his face I felt as
if it were impossible to do so. That
eye-— the eye of the serpent— fixed
and held me apellboimd. And with-
id, about tile man's whole person
there was a dignity, an air of pride
and station, and superiority, that
would have made any one, habituated
to the usages of the world, heeitate
long before venturing upon a liberty
or impertinence. And what could I
sav ? what was it I would ask? Thus
ashamed of my first impulse, I fell a
few paces back, still, however, fol-
lowing the stranger, undecided what
else to do Meanwhile he turned the
comer of the street; a plain car-
riage was in waiting with a servant
out of livery dressed like a valet-de-
place at the cajriage-door. In an-
other moment he had stepped into
the carriage, and it drove off. I re-
turned to the honse. Mr. J was
still at the street door. He bad
asked the carrier what the stranger
had said to him.
. " Merely asked, whom that house
now belonged ta"
The same evening I happened to
go with a friend to a place in town
called the Cosmopolitan Club, a place
open to men of all countries, all
opinions, all degrees. One orders
one's cofiTee, smokes one's cigar. One
is always sure to meet agreeable,
sometimes remarkable persons.
I had not been two minutes in the
room before I beheld at table, con-
versing with an aquaintonoe of
mine, whom I will designate by the
initial G , the man — ^the Original
of the Miniature. He was now with-
out his hat, and the likeness was yet
more startling, only I observed that
while he was conversing there was
less severity in the countenance ;
there was even a smile, though a very
quiet and very cold one. The dig-
nity of mien I had acknowledged in
the street was also more striking ; a
dignity akin to that which invests
some prince of the East — conveying
the idea of supreme indifference and
habitual, indisputable, indolent^ but
resistless power.
G^ soon after left the stranger,
who then took up a scientific journal,
which seemed to absorb his attention.
1 drew Q aside — "Who and
what is that gentleman f'
" That? Oh, a very remarkable
man, indeed^ I met ham last year
amidst the caves of Petra— the scrip*
tnral £dom. He is the best Oriental
1859.]
The Enm and the Brain.
241
Dcholar I know. We joined com-
pany, had an adventure with robbers,
in which he showed a coolnes that
saved onr lives; afterwards he in-
vited me to spend a day with him in
a house he had bought at Damascus
— a house buried amongst almond-
blossoms and roses — ^the most beauti-
ful thing! He had lived there for
some years, quite as an Oriental, in
grand style. I half suspect he is a
renegade, immensely rich, very odd ;
by the by, a great mesmeriser I
have seen liim with my own eyes pro-
duce an effect on inanimate things. If
you take a letter from your pocket
and throw it to the other end of the
room, he will order it to come io his
feet, and you will see the letter
wriggle itself along the floor till it
has obeyed his command. Ton my
honour 'tis true: I have seen him
affect even the weather, disperse or
collect clouds, bv means of a glass
tnbe or wand. But he does not like
talking of these matters to strangers.
He has only Just arrived in England ;
says he has not been here for a great
manv years ; let me introduce him to
yon.''
^' Certainly I He is English then ?
What is his name ?"
" Oh I — a very homely one — ^Rich-
ards."
*' And what is his birth— his fa-
mily?"
'* How do I know f What does it
signify ? — ^no doubt some parvenu, but
rich — so infemaUy rich ! "
G drew me up to the stranger,
and the introduction was effected.
The manners of Mr. Richards were
not those of an adventurous traveller.
Travellers are in general constitu-
tionally gifted with high animal
spirits ; tbey are talkative, eager, im-
perious. Mr. Richards was cfdm and
subdued in tone, with manners which
were made distant by the loftiness of
punctilious courtesy — the manners of
a former age. I observed that the
English he spoke was not exactly of
our day. I should even have said
that the aceent was slightly foreign.
But then Mr. Richards remarked that
he had been little in the habit for
many years of speaking In his native
tongue. The conversation fell upon
the changes in the aspect of London
since he had last visited our metro-
polis. G then glanced off to the
moral changes — ^lit€arary, social, poli-
tical— ^the great men who were re-
moved irom the stage within the last
twenty years — ^the new great men
who were coming on. In ful this Mr.
Richards evinced no interest He
had evidently read none of our living
authors, and seemed scarcely ac-
quainted by name with our younger
statesmen. Once and only once he
laughed ; it was when G asked
him whether he had any thoughts of
getting into Parliament. And the
laugh was inward — sarcastic — sinister
— a sneer raised into a laugh. After
a few minutes G^ left us to talk to
some other acquaintances who had
just lounged into the room, and I
then said quietly —
*« I have seen a miniature of you,
Mr. Richards, in the house you once
inhabited, and perhaps built, if not
wholly, at least in part, in —
street. Ton passed by that house
this morning."
Not till I had finished did I raise
my eyes to his, and then his fixed my
gaze so steadfastly that I could not
withdraw it — those fascinating ser-
pent eyes. But involuntarily, and
as if the words that translated my
thought were dragged from me, I
added in a low whisper, ^'I have
been a student in the mysteries of
life and nature ; of those mysteries I
have known the occult professors. I
have the right to speak to you thus."
And I uttered a certain pass-word.
" Well," said he drvly, •* I concede
the right — what would yon askf"
^^To what extent human will in
certain temperaments can extend ?"
^^ To what extent can thought ex-
tend ? Think, and before you draw
breath you are in China I "
^* True. But my thought has no
power in Ohina I "
*' Give it expression, and it may
have: you may write down a
thought which, sooner or later, may
alter the whole condition of China.
What is a law but a thought f
Therefore thought is infinite — there-
fore thought has pow^r ; not in pro-
portion to its value — a bad thought
may make a bad law as potent as a
good thought can make a good one."
•* Yes; what you say confirms my
own theory. Through invisible cor-
242
The Haunted and the Haunten; or^
[kug.
rents one human brain may trans-
mit its ideas to other human brains
with tJie same rapidity as a thought
promulgated by visible means. And
as thought is imperishable — as it
leaves its stamp behind it in the
natural world even when the thinker
has passed out of this world — so the
tiiought of the living may have
power to rouse' up and revive the
thoughts of the dead — such as those
thoughts were in life — though the
thought of the living cannot reach
the thoughts which the dead note
may entertain. Is it not so ? "
^^I decline to answer, if in my
judgment, thought has the limit you
would fix to it ; but proceed. Yon
have a special question you wish to
put."
^* Intense malignity in an intense
will, engendered in a peculiar tem-
perament, and aided by natural
means within the reach of science,
may produce effects like those as-
cribed of old to evil magic. It
might thns haunt the walls of a
human habitation with spectral re-
vivals of all guilty thoughts and
guilty deeds once conceived and done
within those walls; aU, in short,
with which the evil will claims rap-
port and affinity, — imperfect, inco-
herent, fragmentary snatches at the
old dramas acted therein years ago.
Thoughts thus crossing eadh other
hap- hazard, as in the nightmare of
a vision, growing up into phantom
sights and sounds, and all serving to
. create horror, not because those
. sights and sounds are reallv visita-
.. tions from a world without, but that
they are ghastly monstrous renewals
of what have been in this world it-
* self, set into malignant play by a
malignant mortal. And it is through
«the material agency of that human
brain that these Uiings would ac-
.< quire even a human power — would
4. strike as with the shook of electri-
city, and might \i\\^ if the thought
of the person assailed did not rise
I superior to the dignity of the origi-
nal assailer — ^might kill the most
powerful animal if unnerved by fear,
. but. not injure the feeblest man, if.
J while his flesh crept, his mind stood
out , fearless. Thus, when in old
stories we read of a magician rent to
, • pieces by the fiends he had evoked —
or still more, in Eastern legends,
that one magician succeeds by arts
in destroying another — there nioy be
so far truth, that a material being
has clothed, firom his own evil pro-
pensities, certain elements and fluids,
usually quiescent or harmless, with
awful shape and terrific force; —
just as the lightning that had lain
hidden and innocent in the doud
becomes by natural law suddenly
visible, takes a distinct shape to the
eve, and can strike destruction on
the object to which it is attracted."
*^ You are not without glimpses
of a very mighty secret," said Mr.
Richards, composedly. " According
to your view, could a mortal obtidn
the power vou speak of, he would
necessarily be a malignant and evil
being."
" If the power were exercised as I
have said, most malignant and most
evil — though I believe in the an-
cient traditions that he could not in-
jure the good. His will could only
it\jnre those with whom it has estab^
lishcd an affinity, or over whom it
forces unresisted sway. I will now
imagine an example that may be
within the laws of nature, yet seem
wild as the fables of a bewildered
monk.
'* You will remember that Albertoa
Magnus, after describing minutely
the process by which spirits may bie
invoked and commanded, adds em-
phatically, that the process will in-
struct and avail only to the few —
that a man must be horn a ma^--
eian I — that is, bom with a peculiar
physical temperament, as a man is
born a poet Rarelv are men with
whose constitution lurks this occult
power of the highest order of intel-
lect;— usually in the intellect there
is some twist, perversity, or disease.
But, on the other hand, they must
p<:)sses9, to an astonishing degree, the
faculty to concentrate thought on a
single object — the energio faculty
that we call will. Therefore, though
their intellect be not sound, it is ex-
ceedingly forcible for the attainment
of what it desires. I will imagine
such a person, pre-eminently gitted
with this constitution and its con-
comitant forces. I will place him in
the loftier grades of society. I will
suppose his desires emphatically
1869.]
The Hou96 and the Brain,
248
those of the sensnallst — ^ he has,
therefore, a strong love of life. He
is an absolute egotist — his will is
coDcentred in himself— he has fierce
passions — he knon^ no enduring, no
holy affections, but he can covet
eagerly what for the moment he de-
sires— ^he can hate implacably what
opposes itself to his objects — he
can commit fearfal crimes, yet feel
small remorse — he resorts rather
to corses npon others, than to peni-
tence for his misdeeds. Circnm-
stances, to which his constitution
guides him, lead him to a rare know-
ledge of the natural secrets which
may serve his egotism. He is a
close observer where his passions
encourage observation, he is a minute
calculator, not from love of troth,
but where love of self sharpens his
faculties, — therefore he' can be a man
of science. I suppose such a being,
having bv experience learned the
power of his arts over others, trying
what may be the power of will over
his own frame, and studying all
that in natural philosophy may in-
crease that power. He loves life, he
dreads death ; he mlln to live on. He
cannot restore himself to youth, he
cannot entirely stay the . progress of
death, he cannot make himself im-
mortal in the fiesh and blood ; but
he may arrest for a time so prolonged
BA to appear incredible, if I said it
— that hardening of the parts which
constitutes old age. A year may age
him no more than an hour ages an-
other. His intense will, scientifically
trained into system, operate;*, in short,
over the wear and tear of his own
frame. He lives on. That he may not
seem a portent and a miracle, he cUea
from time to time, seemingly, to cer-
tain persons. ' Having schemed the
transfer of a wealth that suffices to his
wants, he disappears from one cor-
ner of the world, and contrives that
his obsequies shall be celebrated.
He reappears at another comer of the
world, where be rewides undetected,
and does not visit the scenes of his
former career till all who could re-
member his features are no more. He
would be profoundly miserable if he
had affections, — he has none but for
himself. No good man would accept
his longevity, and to no men, good
or bad, would he or could he com-
municate its true secret. 8aoh a man
might exist ; such a man as I have
described I see now before me! — ^Dnke
of y in the court of , divid-
ing time between lust and brawl, al-
chemists and wizards; — again, in
the last century, charlatan and cri-
minal, with name less noble, domi-
ciled in the house at which yon gazed
to-day, and flying from the law you
had outraged, none knew whither ; —
traveller once more revisiting Lon-
don, with the same earthly passions
which filled your heart when races
now no more walked through 3ronder
streets; — outlaw from the school of
all the nobler and diviner mystics ; —
execrable Image of Life in Death
and Death in fife, I warn you back
from the cities and homes of health-
ful men; back to the ruins of de-
parted empires ; back to the deserts
of nature unredeemed I "
There answered me a whisper so
musical, so potently musical, that it
seemed to eqter into my whole being,
and subdue me despite myself. Thus
it said —
"I have sought one like you for
the last hundred years. Now I have
found you, we part not till I know
what I desire. The vision that sees
through the Past, and cleaves through
the veil of the Future, is in you at
this hour; never before, never to
come again. The vision of no puling
fantastic girl, of no sick-bed somnam-
bule, but of a strong man, with
a vigorous brain. Soar and look
forth!"
As he spoke I felt as if I rose out
of myself upon eagle wings. All the
weight seemed gone from air,— roof-
less the room, roofiess the dome of
space. I was not in the body-—
where I knew not^-but aloft over
time, over earth.
Again I heard the melodious whis-
per,— " You say right I have mas-
tered great secrets by the power of
Will; true, by Will and by Science
I can retard the process of years:
but death comes not by age idone.
Can I frustrate the accidents which
bring death upon the young? "
"No; every accident is a provi-
dence. Before a providence snaps
every human will."
^^ Shall I die at last, ages and ages
hence, by the slow, though inevi-
244 The Haunted and the SamUn; or, Ths Bauee and the Brain, [Aug.
table, growth of time, or by the
cause that I call accident t ^'
^^ By a caase yoa call aoddeDt.''
^^Is not the end still remote?'*
asked the whisper, with a slight
tremor.
** Bwu^ed as ray life regards time,
it is still remote."
** And shall I, before then, mix with
the world uf men as I did ere I
learned these secrets, resame eager
interest in their strife and their
trouble — ^battle with ambition, and
use the power of the sage to win the
power that belongs to kings? **
"Too will yet play a part on
the earth that will All earth with
commotion and amaze. For won-
droos designs have yon, a wonder
yoorself, been permitted to live
on through the centuries. All the
secrets you have stored will then
have their uses — all that now
makes you a stranger amidst the ge-
nerations will contribute then to
make you their lord. As the trees
and the straws are drawn into a
whirlpool — as they spin round, are
sucked to the deep, and again tossed
aloft by the eddies, so shall races and
thrones be plucked into the eharm of
your vortex. Awful Destroyer-^but
in destroying, made, against your
own will, a Constructor I "
" And that date, too, is far off? "
"Far off; when it comes, think
your end in this world is at hand I "
" How and what is the end ? Look
east, west, south, and north."
"In the north, where yon never
yet trod — ^towards the point whence
your instincts have warned you, there
a spectre will seize yon. 'Tis Death !
I see a ship— •it is haunted — 'tis
chased — ^it sails on. Baffled navies
sail after that ship. It enters the
region of ice. It passes a sky red
with meteors. Two moons stand on
high, over ice-reefs. I see the ship
looked between white defiles — they
are ice-rocks. I see the dead strew
the decks — stark and livid, green
mould on their limbs. All are dead
but one man — it is you 1 But years,
though so slowly they come, have
then scathed yon. There is the com-
ing of age on your brow, and the
will IS relaxed in the cells uf the
brain. Still that will, though en-
feebled, exceeds all that man knew
before you, through the will you live
on, gnawed with famine : And nature
no longer obeys you in that death-
spreading region ; — the sky is a sky
of iron, and the air has iron damps,
and the ice-rocks wedge in l3ie
ship. Hark how it cracks and groans.
Ice will imbed it as amber im-
beds a straw. And a man has gone
forth, living yet, from the ship and
its dead; and he has clambered up
the spikes of an iceberg, and the two
moons gaze down on his form. That
man is yourself; and terror is on you —
terror; and terror has swallowed your
will. And I see swarming up the
steep ice-rock, grey griesly things.
The bears of the north have scented
their quarry — ^they come near you
and Dearer, shambling and rolling
their bulk. And in that day every
moment shall seem to yon longer
than tiie centuries through which you
have passed. And heed this — after
life, moments continued make the
bliss or the hell of etemitv.''
"Hush," said the whisper; "but
the day, you assure me, is far off-
very far 1 I go back to the almond
and rose of Damascus 1— sleep! "
The room swam before ray eyes.
I became insensible. When I re-
covered, I found G holding my
hand and smiling. He said, "Yoo
who have always declared yourself
proof against mesmerism, have suc-
cumbed at last to my friend Rich-
ards."
" Where is Mr. Richards ? "
"(Jone, when you passed into a
trance— saying quietly to me, ' Your
friend will not wake for an hour.' "
I asked, as collectedly as I oonld,
where Mr. Richards lodged.
"At the Trafialgar Hotel."
"Give me your arm," said I to
Q ^ " let us call on him ; I
have something to say."
When we airived at the hotel, we
were told that Mr. Richards bad re-
turned twenty minutes before^ paid
his bill, left directions with his ser-
vant (a Greek) to pack his effects, and
proceed to Malta by the steamer that
should leave Southampton the next
day; Mr. Richards had merely said of
his own movements, that he had visits
to pay in the neighbourhood of Lou-
don, and it was uncertain whether he
should be able to reach Southampton
1859.]
The Peaee^What is itr
246
in time for that Bteamer; if Dot, he
ahoald follow in the next one.
The waiter asked me mj name.
On ray informins him, he gave me a
note that Mr Richards had left for me,
in case I called.
The note was as follows: — "I
wished yon to ntter what was in yonr
mind. Yon obeyed. I have there-
fore established power over you. For
three months from this day yon can
commnDicate to no living man what
ha9 passed between ns — ^yon cannot
even show this note to the friend by
yonr side. Dnriog three months,
silence complete as to me and mine.
Do yon donbt my power to lay on
yon this command? — try to disobey
me. At the end of the third month,
the spell is raised. For the rest I
spare yon. I shall visit yonr grave
a year and a day after it has received
yon."
So ends this strange story, which
T ask no one to believe. I write it
down exactly three months after I
received the above note. I oonld not
write it before, nor oonld I show to
G^^ , in spite of his urgent request,
the note which I read under the gas-
lamp by his side.
THK PBA.OB — ^WHAT IS IT?
The war is over, — peace has return-
ed. But before we throw up our caps
and huzza, let us see how matters
stand. Is Europe as it was ? — or what
are the changes which this war has
wrought in the equilibrium of States,
and in our prospects for the future?
"I confess to you," said Lord Derby
at the recent Conservative banquet
in London, '' that, from the informa-
tion we are at present in possession
of^ I look to the state of affairs aris-
ing ont of this peace as more critical
and dangerous than before." In these
words the noble Earl had, apparently,
primarily in view the general dis-
satisfaction which the broken pledges
of the French Emperor have pro-
dnoed in Italy: but his voice of
warning had a wider significance.
Ee closed his review of foreign affairs
by declaring that " the keeping of our
fleet in a state of complete prepara-
tion is essential to the very existence
of this country. I say we desire to
remain at peace ; but the position of
France at this moment, with a
powerful array, with a large and in-
creasing navy, and the military spirit
and excitement awakened in the
people, may involve us in a war
which raust be injurious to the hap-
piness and interests of this country,^'
Is this inference from the present
condition of affairs a correct one?
We entertain no doubt that it is.
Tlie noble Earl — but yesterday Pre-
mier, and who may soon be Premier
again — could not openly, and as it
were officially, discuss the future of
the Napoleonic policy. But it is
most needful that this be done, if
we would not have this country be
taken at disadvantage, and humbled
in the toils of the subtlest and most
far-seeing of calculators that ever sat
on a throne, and who now wields
with consummate skill the entire
forces of the most military nation in
Europe. Let us see, then, what is
the state of affairs now that this new
Napoleon has ended his second war.
Peace has come, but how ? And the
Peace itself, what is it? Is it peace :
or but the halt which the flood of
military ambition makes ere it burst
into a new channel ?
The Emperor of the French has
achieved this peace in the manner
contemplated by him from the first.
The war with Austria, which he
planned and induced in his Cabinet,
he has carried out successfttlly in the
field. It was his grand aim to local-
ise the war, and to make it a short
one ; and in these and other objects
he has been entirely successful. Eu-
rope stood by, while he played his
game in Italy: now the game is
played out, and few yet know what
it was. To us it seems that the im-
perial meeting at Yillafranca will
prove hardly less memorable than
its counterpart fifty- two vears ago
at Tilsit. Napoleon III. has made
a brilliant campaign, — winning for
S46
The Feaee^What U itf
[Aag.
himself the renown of a Yictorions
General, and for his troops a prestige
rivaUing that of the Grand Anny in
the palmiest days of the First Em-
pire. And now, continuing his policy
of suhtle and far-reaching calculation,
he doses the war hy propitiating his
foe, and secaring a groundwork for
fresh military and political combina-
tions, of which he himself will be the
mainspring. Under the garb of gener-
osity and moderation, he has driven
the wedge into Europe, and is now in
a position to split up its States as he
desires. He has done nmch to alien-
ate Austria from Glermany, and both
of these Powers from England. Thus
the great bulwark against the revival
of Kapoleonism is undermined. The
only Powers who had an interest and
the power to withstand the ambitious
projects of France and Russia are not
only alienated from one another, but
one of them probably stands ready to
join the game on the other side. Be-
reft of Lombardy, Austria already
looks to compensate herself by joining
with Kussia and France in the coming
dismemberment of Turkey, — ^leaving
Prussia to keep the Hbenish pro-
vinces from France, if she can, and
England the difficult task of guard-
ing ber world-wide interests without
an ally. Such, it appears to us, will
prove to be the results of this war, —
a war which was so warmly ap-
plauded by the greater part of the
Liberals in this country, — which
Lord John Russell commended for
its disinterested generositv on the
fart of France, and to which Lord
'alraerston publicly wished success I
The Radicals — whose chie&, as they
do not accept the responsibilities of
office, can afford to change their opi-
nions— ^have already become consi-
derably disenchanted with the war,
and begin to see that the imperial
despot of France was merely plaving
with and trading on their sympathies.
But Lords Palmerston and Russell —
now become Premier and Foreign
Secretary — have committed them-
selves too far in support of the
French Emperor to admit of any re-
calcitration on their part. We shall
doubtless hear them eulogising the
generosity and moderation of their
good friend and faithful ally the Em-
peror Napoleon, — ^proclaiming how
entirely the issue o( the war has
disproved the charges of ambition
brought against him, — and congratu-
lating Parliament on the gain which
has accrued to Europe from this war
by consolidating peace !
If words are to be accepted inste«d
of acts, Napoleon IIL will give every
support to his dupes in ^e British
Cabinet Of diplomatic professions
of friendship and ^^ reassuring ^' notes
in the Moniteur we doubt not there
will be plenty. It is true that the
rapid increase of the French navy is
being continued, — ^that the greatest
activity prevails in fortifying the
French coasts, especially the coasts
of the Channel, — and also, it is
affirmed that a large Channel fleet
is being formed at Brest and Cher-
bourg, with gunboats, and means for
embarking and disembarking troops.
All this is very threatening in a
Power like France, which (unlike
England) hardly needs a fleet save
for the purposes of an offensive war.
Nevertheless the time is not yet
It is the interest of the Frendi
Emperor, for the present, to disarm
the suspicions of the British public
by professions of friendship towards
ourselves, and by a wise moderation
as regards the affairs of Italy. Al-
though Austria is, we believe, now
very much detached from Prussia and
from England, Napoleon remembers
that Germany is still growling, and
he has no desire to fight England when
there is still the probability of his
having at the same time to encounter
a German army on the Rhine, He
has little or nothing of his Uncle s love
of war. He can fight, and fight well
— none better, apparently: but he
will never appeal to arms until he
has beforehand secured the victory
b^ the profound combinations of his
diplomacy. Whenever he attacks a
country, depend upon it he has pre-
viously estranged its allies, or nnder-
mined its defences. Austria might
have won a battle during this war;
but with France and Italy against
her, and with Russia keeping off
Germany, and sowing disaffection in
her eastern provinces, she never at
any moment had a chance of emerg-
ing victorious from the contest.
This is the art of war as practised
by Napoleon IIL He is a good sol-
1869.]
The Feaee-^What U itt
247
dier, but he has still more of the
statesman in his character. It was
said of Lord Clyde in the Indian war,
that " lie never sent a man where a
cannon ball woald do as well ;" and
at Lacknow he never let loose oar
troops against the defences until the
artillery had done half the work.
Just so is it with Napoleon III. : he
will never attack another State until
his diplomacy has prepared masked
batteries sufficient to render the ene<
my 's jxwition untenable. We are weak
enough at present. With our army in
India, with our fleet ju-jt about equal
to Xhat of France, and with all the
£Ekcilities for invasion which steam has
introduced, there is nothing in our
position to deter France (especially
as she is countenanced by Russia)
from attacking us. The First N'apo-
leon would not have hesitated a mo-
ment. But his nephew is a man of
another stamp. He will never enter
willingly on a long or doubtful war.
He has great schemes to accomplish,
but he is resolved to accomplish them
piecemeal In playing his profound
game for the aggrandisement of
France, he carefully hides his hand,
and shows only the single card that
suits his play for the moment. He
will not set all Europe in a blaze, by
publishing his whole projects at once.
While humbling Austria and extend-
ing French influence over Italy, it
would have been madness for him to
announce that he is resolved upon
extending France to the Rhine at the
expense of Germany, and of curtail-
ing the maritime ascendency of Eng-
land, by wresting from her Gibraltar
and the Ionian Islands. All that
will come in due course, if Napoleon
lives to play out his game. But for
the present it will best suit him to
lull Europe into security again by a
short peace, and by a show of great
moderation as regards his conquests
in Italy. Hence, we repeat, we may
look for "re-assuring" notes in the
Moniteur^ and for diplomatic assur-
ances of his Imperial Mtgesty's de-
sire to remain on good terms with
England. And, be it observed, he
can make such assurances, without
violating in any way the code of di-
plomatic truth. He does desire peace
with England for the present. And
moreover, when a Government, or
even an individual says, "I desire
to be on good terms with you," Ruch
words certainly by no means pledge
the speaker to be your friend when
your interests and his come to clash.
Napoleon III. does nothing by acci-
dent or impulse. His uniform pro-
fessions of a desire to maintain friend-
ship with this country, not only help
to maintain that friendship so long
as he desires it, but, when the rup-
ture comes, they will greatly help to
throw the blame oflf bim upon us.
When that time comes, we doubt not
he will turn round upon us with
most imperial coolness, and say,
"You are an ungrateful nation — ^all
along 'have I sought to propitiate
your friendship, but now I can bear
with you no longer." And in an im-
perial pamphlet he will appeal to
Europe whether he has not behaved
to us most loyally, and whether such
falseness and arrogance as ours c^n
be tolerated by the commonwealth of
nations! He will then take credit
for having stood by us and saved us
during the war with Russia. — ^for
having remained friendly to us
throughout the great crisis of the
Indian revolt, — ^and, even when our
press preached regicide, and sympa-
thised with Orsini, for having re-
strained his infuriated army that
longed to invade the "asylum of
assassins," at a time when our army
was in India, and our fleet (thanks to
Lord Palmerston) was inferior to
that of France.' He will pretend that
his conduct on these occasions was
so many friendly sacrifices on his
part (whereas they were necessary
links in his far-seeing policy), for
which England has requited him with
nothing but ingratitude. Such is the
man with whom we have to do. He
fights from a vantage-ground. He is
not only by far the ablest head in
Europe, but be can work towards his
ends with a steadiness and secresy
which are impossible to the Govern-
ment of this country. In a free coun-
try the Government cannot take a
step without the support of the na-
tion. The nation cannot be expected
to support a policy which it does not
understand ; and in order that it may
understand, it nmst be supplied with
all the information which the Geo-
vemment possesses, and an explana-
248
2%e F&aee^What it UP
[Aug.
tion of the policy upon which the
Government ib acting. Bat as long
as war is not aota^ly imminent, a
Government cannot well proclaim
its suspicions or convictions as to
the insincerity of other Powers : and
hence a great disadvantage to a popu-
lar Government like onrs. For while
a despotic monarch can maintain the
language and semblance of peace
until his forces are actually ready to
march, the language of war must re-
sound through this country for months
before Parliament will even vote
money wherewith a war-establish-
ment may be raised. This disad-.
vantage on our part is more espe-
cially to be remembered when we
have to deal with France under its
present ruler. In a long war, Great
Britain would easily prove more than
a match for any Power in the world ;
but, we repeat, it is short wars that
are the game of Napoleon III. ; and,
having humiliated us in the first rush
of the contest, it will be his policy to
make up matters again before the
war becomes one d Vtmtranee. And,
he knows well, there is a strong party
in this country who, for the sake of
their yarns and calicoes, will be quite
ready to make peace in such circum-
stances. We make no special com-
plaint against Napoleon III. Viewed
from the French point of view, his
policy is right enough. He is only do-
ing what any other ruler would do, if
possessed of the same genius. But
if the character of his policy be such
as we believe it to be, it concerns this
country to be on its guard. And at
the present moment, when public
attention gives itself readily to the
subject, it may be well to take this
Italian war as a text, and to direct
attention to the light which it throws
upon the Kapoteonio policy.
The first point which must strike
any one who has studied this war
from its origin is this — that Napoleon
ni. is quite willing and ready to
make a war whenever it suits him
to do so. The Italian war, as the
late Government did not hesitate
to proclaim, was " unnecessary." No
points were at issue which could not
have been settled by diplomatic ne-
gotiation. Austria had been doing
nothing to provoke or attack France.
Austria was sinoply what she bad
been ever since Louis Napoleon be-
came ruler of France. Indeed, if she
gave no ofifence during the past years
of Napoleon's rule, she was giving
infinitely less now. Never before had
Austria showed herself so willing to
make concessions in Italy; indeed
(as Lord Cowley's despatch of 9th
March* shows), all that the French
Emperor professed to our Grovem-
ment to require, the Austrian Govern-
ment was willing to concede. But
Napoleon was bent upon war. What
he wanted, was not administrative
reforms in Central Italy, but a war
in which he might play the part of
" liberator " of Italy, and encircle his
brows with some of his Uncle's lau-
rels. And so the war came. Second-
ly, as regards the war Itself, it is im-
possible not to note the lesson which
it gives us as to the extraordinary
development which the martial power
of France has undergone under the.
present Emperor. When Austria,
during the negotiations, proposed a
general disarmament, the French
Government replied that it could not
do so as '^ France had never armed."
This assertion, of course^ was very
far from being strictly true — it was a
diplomatic quibble bordering on a
lie. Nevertheless it is quite true
that France at that time had made
no extraordinary levies of men ; yet,
within a month afterwards, what did
we see? The instant war was de-
clared, the Emperor was able to for-
ward into Italy an army capable, in
conjunction with the Sardinians, of
overpowering in Lombardy th.- whole
available forces of the great military
empire of Austria, — while a poweriul
separate expedition of land and sea
forces entered the Adriatic, — and an
army of 160,000, with 400 cannon,
was ready under the Duke of Mala-
kofli not only to guard, but, if neces-
sary, to assume the offensive on the
frontier of the Bhine. And all these
armies were supplied d merveil as re-
gards commissariat and transport, —
were equipped with, and trained to the
use of the newest improvements in war-
* The principal portions of this important despatch are quoted in last month's
Magazine, p. 122. ^
1859.]
The Feae&^What i$ Uf
U9
iare^ snoh as rifled artillery, the sword-
bayonet, &c. — and moreover, by long
training in the Chalons and other
oamps at home, the soldiers were
able at the very oatset to deport them-
Belyes in the field and bivoaao as
Teterans. We commend these facts
to the consideration ojf that well-
intentioned bnt weak-minded party
amongst as who imagine that war is
incompatible with the enlightenment
of the present age, and that this
country has nothing to fear if we do
not seek a quarrel of ourselves. The
fact that the French Emperor has
shown himself quite ready to make
a war when it suits him, and can on
the iTutant engage in it with such
powerful forces, is, we trust, a lesson
of the late war which will not be
quickly forgotten.
Of the effects which this brilliant
and yictorious campaign must have
in exciting the military passion of
the French nation, we need not
speak. Erery one is aware of it,
and we need not waste time in estab-
lishing a point which nobody ques-
tions. Bnt the manner in which the
war has been closed suggests some
reflections which may escape the ordi-
nary observer. That the war was
terminated so abruptly, in no way
surprises us. It is idmply what we
expected and had foretold. Fke
monthi ago (writing ten weeks be-
fore the outburst of hostilities, and
when most people did not believe
there would be a war at all), we ex-
pressed our certain conviction that
Napoleon was bent upon war, — ^that
his aim would be to localise the con-
test in Italy, and that with the support
of Russia he would be able to do so ;
that he would make it a short war ;
and that he would not drive Austria
to extremities, but would snub Sar-
dinia and the Italians, and end by
Eropitiating Austria, as formerly he
ad propitiated Rassia.* That he
has snubbed Sardinia, the terms of
peace and the resignation of Oount
Gavour sufficiently testify. Austria
is not driven out of Italy ; Modena,
which the Sardinian Government
had publicly annexed, is handed
over to its former ruler ; Tuscany is
given back to its Austrian Grand-'
duke; and no stipulation whatever
has yet been made in regard to those
* See the March number of the Magazine, where (e. g.), at p. 890, the actual
course of the war was thus predicted to the letter :
'* Napoleon IIL will aim at making this war a short one ; and it will also be one
of the first requaites in his eyes that it be not allowed to overpass the limits of
Italy, and assume a European character, giving rise to unforseeable conjunctures.
He must wish it to be an Italian war confined to Italv ; and he will seek to insure
this by a previous understanding with Russia, the influence of which great Power,
exerted in unison with the objects of France, will wholly neutraliBe the influence
of Great Britain and Prussia on the other side. . . . The French Emperor,
oooUy assuring these Powers that he is flghting merely to * consolidate the peaoe of
Europe,' by removing one of the disturbing conditions, will prosecute his game to
its dose. . . And probably it is on the threat of a naval alliance between France
and Russia against us, if we venture to interfere, that he reckons most confidently
to secure our non-intervention. . . . This war with Austria he regards as a neat
little enterprise which can be carried on while the rest of Europe is at peace ; and
now is the time when it may be executed most successfully, tfow, when Russia is
willing to see Austria weakened, and when none of the other Powers can well
interfere, is the time for the French Emperor to win brilliant renown for himself
as the * Liberator of Italy,' and also to gain a powerful position in the Italian
peninsula, such as may be turned to good account in the farther and grander
strife that is likely to ensae when the Ottoman empire falls to pieces, and the
Powers of Christendom quarrel as to the distribution of the spoil. . . .
** Kapoleon III. will not seek to push Austria to extremities (his policy is never
to push any power to extremities) ; and Sardinia and the Italians may rely upon
it that he will stop short in the enterprise whenever it suits himself, and compel
them also to do the same. Just as he refused to go along with England and Turkey
in the war with Russia, after the Erenoh arms bad been * covert with glory ' by
the capture of Sebaatopol, so assuredly will the Italians find him resolved to stop
short m the ' liberation of Italy ' as soon as he thinks best for bimsell Triumphs
by short wars and diplomacy are the means upon which he relies to aggranoise
himself"
260
Th4 Peace^What is itf
[Aug.
reforms in the Papal States, a de-
mand for which Napoleon made the
pretext for his quarrel with Austria.
Lombardy has been annexed to Sar-
dinia ; but the very manner in which
this has been done shows how impe-
riously Napoleon HI. deals with that
"Italian liberty" of which it suited
him to assume the championship.
One might have thought that the
extremely sensitive regard for liberty
which brought Napoleon and his
army across the Alps, would have
shown itself by consulting the wishes
of tlie Lombards and others in re-
gard to their future government.
Nothing of the kind happened.
Lombardy was handed over by
Francis- Joseph to Napoleon IIL,
who in turn made a present of it to
the King of Sardinia. Moreover, in
what condition is this gift when thus
presented? It is a garden without
a wall, it is a territory without a
frontier. Or, to express the truth
still more exactly, it is a garden
bounded by a wall and gateways
'which belong to another and un-
friendly proprietor. Venetia still
belongs to Austria, and with it the
femous quadrilature of Austrian
fortresses which dominate Lom-
bardy from the east. Not only the
strongholds of Verona and Legnago,
but the fortresses of Mantua and
Peschiera, which stand actually in
the middle of the boundary-stream
of the Minoio, remain in the posses-
sion of the Austrians; while Lom-
bardy is throughout a level plain,
without a single fortress that can
stand a siege, or any natural barriers
that could obstruct the advance of
an army. Napoleon III. has too
perfect a conp-d'ceil, alike in military
and political matters, not to have
been perfectly aware of the diefence-
lessness of the gift which he thus
made to Sardinia. But in all respects
it best suited him to make the
aggrandisement of Sardinia subject
to this great drawback. Not only
was the retention of these fortresses
by Austria indispensable to that
early close of the war which Napo-
leon had in view from the first ; but
by handing over Lombardy to Sar-
dinia without any frontier-bulwarks,
he renders Sardinia even more de-
pendent upon France than before^
"The union of Lombardy to Pied-
mont," says the Emperor in his
address to his army, " creates for m
on this side of the Alps a powerful
ally, who inill owe to its his indeper^
dence.^^ This is the simple truth.
The new Lorabardo-Sardinian king-
dom is noticing more than an outpost
of France, dependent upon France
for its existence, and through which
French arms and influence may ad-
vance to other conquests, whether
military or diplomatic.
It has ever been the policy of the
new Napoleon to impress the world
with an idea of his great moderation.
The vivid recollection which Europe
has of his Uncle^s insatiable ambition
and career of conquest has hitherto
been the most formidable obstacle to
the Nephew^s success. Hence, since
ever he attained the supreme power
in France, it has been his grand aim
to obliterate those recollections, and
to disarm the suspicions of Europe.
Hence his ostentatious declarations
that "the Empire is peace," — that
"the age of conquests is past,"—
" woe to him who shall first interrupt
the peace of Europe 1" &c. &c. By
these and other means he succeeded
in impressing a considerable portion
of the European, and especially of
the British, public with the belief
that he was essentially a man of
peace, who was thankful to be able
to keep possession of his own throne
without disturbing the possessions of
his neighbours, — and that, to use his
own phrase, all his conquests were to
be at home, in improving the insti-
tutions and developing the resources
of France. Having consolidated his
power, however, he now finds himself
strong enough to emerge from his no-
viciate, and to begin to realise those
schemes of ambition which he has long
meditated in secret. Yet now more
than ever will he seek to surround him-
self with the prestige of moderation.
And it is not a mere hypocrisy, — ^it is
a policy. He knows that nowadays
it is impossible to make conquests in
the old st\le. To have openly an-
nexed an Italian province to France
would, to use Talleyrand^s phrase,
have been "worse than a crime — ^it
would have been a fault." At the
outset of his plans for remodelling
the map of Europe, it becomes him
1859.]
The Peac&^What U itf
251
to be especially carefol Id his proceed-
ings. After the new system is fairly
set agoing, by Russia and Austria
appropriating provinces of Turkey,
the rounding of France by the an-
nexing of Savoy and the Rhenish
provinces will appear a small matter.
Bat moderate as Napoleon III. pro-
fesses to be, and makes a show of
being, at present as regards this
Italian war, Europe will be far wrong
if it believes his version of matters.
France has given Lombardy to Sar-
dinia, and Sardinia will have to
pay to France the expenses of the
war. And for these expenses Napo-
leon III. will have taken a bond
over Savoy, or perhaps over the
island of Sardinia, — the latter an
acquisition which Italy woald not
grudge, and which, standing along-
side of Corsica, wonld greatly aug-
ment the power of France in the
Mediterranean. Of all this Europe
will at present hear nothing. The
bond will only transpire when a con-
venient season has come for acting
upon it. Meanwhile Napoleon III.
will continne to proclaim to Europe
bis extreme moderation, and his de-
sire to be on good terms with every
one — knowing this to be the best
means for gradually working his way
to the goal of his ambition.
And meanwhile that ambition
works. At Yillafranca it entered
upon a Dew phase. The first stage
of overt Napoleanism began with the
fall of Sebastopol, when the French
Emperor sacceded in gaining Russia
as a confidential ally and abettor of
his ulterior plans, ill similar fashion
now, we believe, he ends the Italian
war by gaining over Austria to his side.
When the future historian descants
npon the matchless skill of the Na-
poleonic policy, he will dwell long
upon the imperial meeting at Villa-
franca, and upon the secret negotia-
tions which attended the close of the
Crimean war. There is a striking
similarity in the policy of Napoleon
III. on these two occasions. In the
Crimean war he had in England an
ally as powerful as himself, and whose
wishes he could not openly disre-
gard : therefore he resolved to carry
his point by secret negotiations. On
the fall of Sebastopol, it was often
asked why the great army of the
Allies did not follow up its success,
when another victory must have in-
sured the destruction of the Russian
army. That was precisely the reason
why it was 7iot allowed to follow up
its success. Immediately on the fall
of Sebastopol, and when Pelissier
and the Allies were already extend-
ing their right wing to turn the Rus-
sian position on the heights of Trak-
tir, we believe there is no doubt that
secret orders from Paris caused the
movement to be recalled, and en-
joined the French Marshall to main-
tain the 8tatiu quo. In truth the
Emperor had already begun those
Erivate conferences with Baron See-
ach, which reanlted in the mission
of that diplomatist to St. Petersburg
with those secret overtures and pro-
mises from Napoleon which led the
Czar to assent to negotiations for
peace. The work thus begun was
continued at Paris during the Confer-
ences, and was completed by the spe-
cial mission of Count de Morny to the
Court of St. Petersburg. The result
we now see in the part which Russia
has taken in supporting and covering
France in her present intervention
in Italy. This Italian war has been
closed in the same manner as the
Russian one. As soon as success had
crowned the arms of France, and the
contest had reached the point where
a further prosecution of it would
have converted it into a war a Vou-
trance^ Napoleon III. stopped short,
and was the first to make advances
for peace. Just as England^ then at
length in good fighting order, and
clamorous for another campaign,
found herself circumvented into
peace by her ally after the fall of
Sebastopol, so has Sardinia, though
in style more imperious, been forced
to pause in mid career now. Eng-
land had been preparing for a grand
attack on the arsenals of Russia in
the Baltic, and for wise reasons
longed for the destruction of the
Russian fleet ; Sardinia longs for the
formation of a United Italy, and the
total expulsion of Austria from the
peninsula. But Napoleon III. de-
aired neither of these objects, and in
both cases thwarted them. He de-
sired to make an ally of Russia, and
saw that the preservation of her
feet was necessary to his future
252
The Peaee^What U itf
[Aug.
plans, fts a checkmate upon that of
Ergtknd : in like manner now, he de-
sires to make an ally of Austria also
in his ulterior projects, and sees that
her maintenance in the Venetian ter-
ritory will comport well with his
plan for extending her at the ex-
pense of Turkey along the eastern
side of the Adriatic. This is the
bribe by which he has reconciled the
proud young Kaisar to the loss of
Lombardy. He has in confidence
opened to him the second (and yet
unpubliiihed) chapter of the Napo-
leonic policy, — in which is shown
how Austria may more than repair
her losses in Italy by gains in north-
western Turkey — how the feud be-
tween Austria and her terrible neigh-
bour Russia may at once be closed —
and how these Powers in alliance
with France may henoefortli Securely
make such revision of the European
Treaties as will benefit each of them,
and comport with the interests of
them all. In that room at Villa-
franca, Napoleon with dignified
courtesy would point out to his
brother Emperor how little he asked
in order that the war might be
closed,-^how that, after gaining two
great victories, he was willing to ao-
oept the terms which, when proposed
bv Austria herself in 184^, Lard
PalmenUm refmed to listen to — and
that when his Lordship, now Pre-
mier of England, was openly declar-
ing his wish to see Austria entirely
expelled from Italy, he (Napoleon),
after all his successes, was content
that Austria should retain the whole
territory of Venice, with Its impreg-
nable bulwark of fortresses on the Min-
cio and Adige. Indignant at his deser-
tion by Prussia, and at the avowed hos-
tility of the British Grovemment,Fran-
ois- Joseph would need little argument
to prove that henceforth it would be
best for him to leave these Powers to
look after themselves, and to seek
new provinces for himself by Joining
with Russia and France in tearing
up the treaties of 1815. Such we
believe will prove to be the under-
standing upon which peace has been
made between the French and Aus-
trian emperors at Villafranca. A
memorable interview, which, though
the projects discussed at it may not
have been of so sweeping a kind as
those of Tilsit, vet may take as en-
during a^place m history, owing to
the greater probability of these pro-
jects being successfolly accomplished.
One most important change in the
course of the Napoleonic policy ma-
nifested in this Italian war is thiB,^
that be now assumes to himself the
championship of national liberty in
Europe. This will prove, especially
as r^rds the position of our own
country, a fact of great consequence
in affecting the future of European
politics. It is not a change (in the
ordinary sense of the word) in the
Napoleonic policy, — ^it is simply a de-
velopment of it. It is a farther step
in that far-seeing course which the
reviver of Imperialism in France has
marked out for himself. Nor ought
it to have come upon Europe entirely
unexpectedlv. A watchftil observer
of the conduct of Louis Napoleon
may mark this, — that before he ever
makes any of these sudden strokes
or developments of his policy which
so surprise the general public of
Etirope, he has previously let fall (as
it were) sayings or declarations of
principle to which he can refer back
m explanation and justification of
his new course. These sayings are
dropped, as if by the bye, in the
course of private oonversations with
public men, or in pubUo speeches, or
in those manifestoes of policy by
which he so assiduously propitiates
the public opinion of Europe. They
are not meant to attract notice at the
time, and when they occur in public
manifestoes, they seem mere obiter
dicta or rhetorical flotirishes. Bat
Louis Napoleon never utters an un-
premeditated word, nor one which he
does not design to be of use to him
either at the moment or with an eye
to the future. Thus, in regard to de
present point, it is several years
since, in one of his manifestoes dar-
ing the Russian war, he introduced
the words. " The eyes of all who suffer
turn to France.'* And at the Oon-
ferencee at Paris three years ago, his «
representative introduced the ^SSum
of Italy, without any view to imme-
diate action in the matter, but with
a view to appropriate to himself the
ground, in case circumstances should
permit of his turning the Italian ques-
tion to account. We oould point
1859.]
Ths Feac&—What it itf
258
out other instances of the manner
in whioh Napoleon paves the way
for plans which, at the time of his
speaking, have no ostensible exist-
ence, and live only in the veiled re-
cesses of his own mind. But what
is more important at present is to
point oat the manner in which this
new phase of Napoleonism will af-
fect the position and inflnence of
England. England, as a militaiy
Power, can play but a small part in
the ofiairs of Europe. Bot hitherto
her* moral power has been very great.
Her rivals on the Continent are
despotic governments, all of them
more or less in dread of revolution-
ary movements in ^eir own or ad-
joining countries. England held the
match which could explode some of
those revolutionary volcanoes; and
once one of them is fairly in action,
there must ever be a great likelihood of
the others blazing up too. This was
the sword of Damocles with which
Canning once threatened the Conti-
nental Powers when they inclined
to carry matters against us with a
high hand ; and unquestionably,
however loth to lose it, it has always
been a weapon in our armoury which,
if pushed to extremities, we could
use' with terrific force. Xow the
case is somewhat changed. Napo-
leon, who knows the power of this
weapon better than any one, has
been working sucoessfally to get it
out of our hands. He cannot make
much use of it himself, but he de-
sires to get it out of the hands of
England. However much he is our
frieud and ally at present, he knows
fall well that his policy and ours
must clash in due time ; and he
justly dreads to have such a weapon
turned against himself. A despot at
home, he seeks to reach his ends piece-
meal by short wars, and by flattering
both imperialism and democracy with-
out breaking with either. And he
dreads exceedingly a general war,
which might become a war of opinions,
exciting the democracy of France and
imperilling his position, by compel-
ling him to become the open foe either
of liberty or despotism. .
This new phase of the Napoleonic
policy is amply expressed by the
altered tone of the imperial manifes-
toes. For a long time the burden of
these manifestoes was, ^^ ihe Empire
is peace,'^ — *' the age of conqudSts is
past," — "woe to him who first disturbs
the peace of Europe!" Now it is
quite different. Napoleon III., in
his speech to the Chambers on Feb.
T, proclaimed that it is not only Jus-
tifiable but befitting on his part to go
to war, " for the defence of great na-
tion^ interests" (which, in another
document, are announced as compris-
ing " religion, philosophy, and civili-
sation"); and that "the interest of
France is everywhere where there is
a just cause, and where civilisation
ought to be mctde to prevail." And
in a Ministerial circular issued a few
days afterwards, the prefects were
instructed to apprise the journals
that the policy of his imperial Ma-
jesty of France " is ready to mani-
fest itself wherever the cause of jus-
tice and civilisation is to be assisted."
This is just the propagandisin of the
Republic of 1792, accommodated to
the ear of the present age. The
championship of "justice and civili-
sation, religion and philosophy (I)," is
certainly as vague a progamme of
policy as ever was submitted to the
world. The words may mean no-
thing or everything. They may be a
mere rhetorical flourish, or a prospec-
tive declaration of war against every
Government in Europe— or anywhere
else. Europe will find that they do
not mean nothing, — and that the
vagueness is quite intentional on the
part of his subtle Majesty of France.
.There is not anything in the actual
words which cannot be diplomatically
explained into nothingness; and yet
they contain, and are meant to con-
tain, the germ of as many aggressions
npon other States as Napoleon may
find himself in a position to carry
out. Will not the championship of
"civilisation" justify Napoleon in
supporting Bussia and Austria in
aggrandising themselves at the ex-
pense of Turkey ? Perhaps, also, of
incorporating Portugal, the ally of
England, with Spain, the friend of
France? Will not the plea of "jus-
tice" entitle him to attack Germany
in order to win for France the fron-
tier of the Bhine, and to aim a blow
at the maritime ascendancy of Eng-
land, by demanding the cession of
Gibraltar to Spain, and of tiie Ionian
264
The Peaee^What U itt
[Aug.
Islands to the possessor pf the ad-
joinmg coast? Will not the defence
of "national rights" justify him in
siding with the Viceroy of Egypt
against the Saltan, and, in this way,
secure the predominance of French
influence on the Isthmns of Suez?
And as for " religion," will it not be
a plea for him seeking to excite re-
volt in Ireland, whenever it may suit
him to apply a hostile pressure to
Great Britain ? Not that he cares a
straw for the Catholics of Ireland ;
but he would make a tool of them
for the moment in order to concuss
the British Government more expe-
ditiously into his terms. Just so did
he act in this late war, with respect
to Kossuth and the Hungarians. We
never thought that a man of Kos-
sutb^s calibre could have so befooled
himself. He has been thoroughly
duped by the French Emperor, and
has shown himself but a child when
face to face with this new Napoleon,
— who used him for three brief
months, then tossed him aside like
an old glove. Nor can we any longer
give to Kossuth even the tribute of
our pity. He was not only duped
himself, but he made himself an ac-
complice with Louis Napoleon in
duping this country. When the war
in Italy seemed approaching, Kos-
suth opened communications with
the French Emperor (a man whom
he had always hated and publicly
reviled) ; and as the first mode of
turning him to account. Napoleon
got him to travel up and down Eng-
land, employing his eloquence in dis-
arming the suspicions of the English
public, and in playing upon their
sympathies with liberty, with the
view of persuading us to look quietly
on while the Emperor commenced his
game of tearing up the Treaties of 181 5,
and driving in the wedge by which
he hopes to split up Europe to his
liking. We repeat it, Kossuth, while
befooling himself, has entirely for-
feited the sympathy of Englishmen.
His own private letters to friends in
this country (recently published in
the newspapers) show that be had
great misgivings as to the intentions
of the French Emperor. But in
spite of this, he did not hesitate, at
the bidding of the latter, to make
himself a tool of the French policy,
by delivering a series of lectures aod
addresses in England in favour of
the Italian ivar. When one foreigner
at the bidding of another foreigner—
when a Hungarian exile to please
Napoleon III., sets himself to inter-
fere with our private concerns^ and
avails himself of the sympatlij we
have so freely granted him as a
means of secretly playing into the
hands of a foreign potentate, we
have done with him. As for his
treatment by the Emperor Napoleon,
what else could he expect ? He had
persistently reviled the Emperor as
a puppet and a villain ; and when
he went to take service under him,
he could only have done so with the
intention of making him a tool
Instead of that, it was himself who
was made the victim. The result
showed that Kossuth, with all his
ability and eloquence, was but as
an infant in the hands of the extra-
ordinary man who rules France, and
who now holds in his powei; the
fortunes of Europe. Even from this
little fact we can aflTord to learn a
lesson : for never until the old popu-
lar ideas of Louis Napoleon are dis-
placed, and until the British public
recognises in him one of the most
powerful and subtle intellects that
the world has ever seen — a man
gifted with the power of calculatioa
that amounts to prescience, joined
to a hand that never flinches and a
tongue that never reveals, — never,
we say, until the British public so
learns to appreciate this new Napo-
leon, will it be possible for our Gov-
ernment to cope with his policy,
and make head against those new
combinations which will date their
birth from the momentous inter-
view at Villafranca.
^c&otaL^^W
KIN&'S £V
-T^r •-,'s-T-
AYER'S CATHARTIC PILLS,
AVER
r^-i^. r^fvltf* tiitii.
MPpRY PFCTORAL,
iir<iti« tiicii, ifirlf
I €! Pntteul
riiiiiUlil^
:ei£1. ct9 cjOm^
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. DJCXYII. SEPTEMBER, 1859. Vol. LXXX^^I
CONTENTS.
ITorse-Dealino in Stria, 1854, 255
Felictta. — Conclusion, • ^ '. , 273
Voluntary and Involuntary Actions, , , - , . , . 295
The Luck of Ladysmede.— Part VII., . . . ^ . . * 307
Fleet.? and Navies — ^England. — Part II., 324
Journal of a Cruise on the. Tanganyika -Xake, Central Africa, . 339
A Dream of the Dead, . • • • * . , . . 358
The Election Petitions.— Wno Does the Bribery? . , . 3G3
Jersey to the Queen, ,'^74
Foreign Affairs.— The Disarmament, . ^ . ^ . .- . 375
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. DXXVIL
SBPTEMBER 1869.
Vol. LXXXVL
R0R8X-DXAUNO IK STRIA, 1854,
A itmwi \Am mm with flmall le8)H
%ng wares ; a dnHidtoaB sky ; and imall
rugged istandfl rising all around^ Bome
fitiGWhig against t£e bine sky mere
wHkauettmoSpmij gmy ; some faister
0€ill ; SDiao nesren oatehing tbe smi-
«l»itie on tMr Jattiag points, and
4ispla]ring a nuiss of barrsn rocks
oovered, as if by iandslipa, witb frag-
ments of br^en stone and rnbbiah;
no terdnie, no enlttvation ; and^ ez-
oept onoe whet^ a stnnge dead-look*
ing vhtts town, more rffsembting >a
. oc^4otion of white fin^^ents of rook
•iban aa abode of smd, was seen
perobed' on the top <tf a high bill,
BO signs of flf& 60 showed the
^^lates of Greece," as we iooked on
ibem from thedeok ctf the ^ Emperor"
of Hnl), on the afUmeon of the 0th
May 1^64
itself and my companion, the
l&tter tiie prtooipal and myself the
aaaifltant in a hcvse-parchasing ex-
pedition sent into Sjriia by the Brit-
11^ aothotities prenons to the inva-
oion of the OriaoMa, had embarked
^ Oonstantinople two days before.
After being deUyed by tlie oomnds-
tforiat, who were required to, attd of
■cowBO Ind not, oome down with a
. certain amoont of cash by an a|i-
pomted time, we had got on board
by balf*iioit 9 iml on tiie 7th; had
vou Lxzxn.
readied the DardaflMles the next
night at an hour at which, according
to. all rale and rsgniation, we onght
to have been fired into if we at-
tempted to pass ; had nm tiie gaunt-
let, Justly confident in the prupeosity
of TorkiBh batteries to fire at nothing
that they ooght to fire at; and, at
the moment* indicated in the begin-
ning of this chapter, found oorselres
steaming pleasantly dawn the Archi-
pelago.*
To a man fresh firom dirty Con-
stantinople and filthy Widdtn, the
change was a pleaaant one. The
^Emperor," built and tong need as a
pasaenger ship of high oTass, had a
goffgeons papier-mAch^ saloon; sleep-
ing-cabins with marble wash-hand
-basins gashing water mysterionely
at the tonchtn^ of a spring; clean
sheets; port»wine that made one
think one's-sdf in an Engii^ mess-
room; a remavki^ie assortment of
ToriLsUre hams; a captain fkom
BridHngkm; a steward fh>m Hull;
*^HnU" painted on ereryboat; and
broad Ycnkshire talked all over the
shin. Thongh only tempcffiarily at-
taooed to her Majesty V serriesL she
carried oat riooronsly that maxim of
inlemati(»al law whiah sayn that a
ship of war is an extendon of the
terntoiy to which she bdongs. She
17
S5d
JSors0-DeaHnff in Syria^ 1854.
[Sept.
was an extension of the East Riding
of Yorkshire ; nnspeakably refreshing
after a winter's residence amongst
those hogs of Tnrlra !
With a profoand respect for the
many good qtuUitaes which one can-
not bat acknowledflB in the Tories, I
always find myself instiAc^vely, and
before mr first impnlse is tempered
by reflection, qualifying tbem by some
SQoh pleasant epithet as that
Next tnorning when I came on
deck I foand thait we weM Anchoring
in the gulf of Iskenderoon, a deep
bay of little beaaty, except such as
it derived from its calm bine and
purple water. Of the town of Isken-
deroon or Alexandretta — a congrega-
tion of bam-like houses with red-
tiled roofs, occupying a little, nasty,
green, swampy-looking bottom delv-
ing into the range of high, lupoken,
barren bills that skirt the sea — ^the
most remarkable ciromn8taxH)e that
I am able to relate is the fact that a
Christian man of sound mind could
be gos for any sum of money to live
in it. There wm one there— the
British OoBsul — and we went to .see
him.
A concourse of a score or so of
Mussulmans and a few dirty Franks
awaited our approach. As we scram-
bled out of our boat we fonnd onr-
selves instantly opposed by two of
the former, one of whom was armed
with a pair of tongs and the other
with a stick, with which they strove
in the first instance to ^^fend off'*
ourselves, and failing in that, to fend
off from us the by-standers, upon
whom they bestcwed progs and digs
and tops on the back in a snnmiarv
manner. The reason, it appeared,
was this: Alexandretta is fhgfatftilly
unhealthy — so deadly, in fiact, that
navigation books warn ^^ mariners*'
that if they stop there to refit they
m^ reckon upon losing one-third of
their crew. Under these droun-
stances the people of Alexandretta,
thinking (or their governors thinking
for them) that it would be too bad
to have foreign maladies added to
those ah^eady indigenoofl^ have es-
tablished a strict quarantine, in obe-
dience to the laws of which ^^bej
were thus poking one another away
from OS as thoof^ onr oontaot woold
have brought on a eriais of that
Jungle fever from which I believe
tliey suffer. As for us, we mardied
on resolutely, forming as we moved
the nucleus of a sharp skinmih be-
tween the quaMHitine men and the
by-standera, ^e latter olofling round
us to stare, and the former rushing
in an directions administering cor-
rection with the tongs and sdck.
At last the guardians of the poblic
health succumbed, and left na to
carry contagion wherever we pleased
To the best of my belief, however,
the people of Alexandretta oaught
nothing from us. I have never heard
that tbey have been found taUdng
Yorkdiire, using dean - dieefcs, er
washing themselves, any more thsn
they did before we went there.
There is one noteworthy tiling st
Iskenderoon. On the &r nde of tbe
bay, just visible from the windows
of tbe consul's house, might be seee
what looked to me like the dilspi-
datbd brick or stone gato-poato «f t
ruined Irish gateway, with a knr
^ stone gap "* between tbem, rifling,
at no great distance from the vatei^
edge, frvrn the stony shingly base of
the mountains that skirt tbe sea.
This, it appears, maries the predse
spot where Jonah was oast up by tbe
whale. _^
Far away out to sea, a heaiffiand
shows tow and dimMn the distance.
Rising gradnidly as it iq[»proaohfls,
with the ribs and angles of its bhdk
rodcy summits peeping through tbe
snow, it bean straight on till the sea
ceases to wash its base, and then,
away inland, gradualiv sinks from
sight. At an angle with this a low
ridge, green as from a mass of trees
or shrubs, and scarped at base into a
line of low oUffb, juts o(st to sea. A
scattering, gradually thickSBing to' a
cluster, of white and yellow faousBB,
hot and flaring under toe Idaaittg sky,
breaks the green line (tf the leeeer
ridge, and finds passage tbnoogh a dip
in tbe cliff down to tbe edge of the
blue water. This is Beyront
Beyront possesses two rraned teto,
memorials, tbey say, of an fioglish
bomiiardment ; a stone quay of small
* A leose stone wall stopping what, but for ft, would be a gapi
186».]
Am^ZMfltti^ mJ^firm^ 18(4
867
dimeaBioQ^ suited to tiie eomm^roe
of bQm-boats; sad dirtv littk bAr>
iftan, and Tarka, and Fraoks^ and
flttiiikii and ooffae-tKynses, and every*
thing elee befitting an Oriental town.
It eSefiy pleased me beoaaae it dis«
played ful Iheae pioperties in a some*
what .mitigatetl form. I think that
it to perhape the leaat Oriental, and
tberef<i>re t^ leaat intoleiahle town
that I know in the Tnrkiah domui'!*
On the DQorning of the 14th Ifay,
mjmid^ my oompanioa^ an Italian
hono4ea»r whoixi ve had picked
up m interpreleK, atnd-groom, and
gweral aaaietanti and his servant^
moonted on horses that we bad
bon^t in Beyront, were tdling along
high np on the steep path that picks
its way np the mggad face of the
oveiiianging range of Lebanon. I
mast try to give an idea of the view
that breaka npon yon here at every
torn. Knlbarry groves rise afi
waud, springing from terraces
workad for their reeef>ti(Hi over the
monntain's laee ; and from ont their
BiuHiheokered shade, the eye, rangr
iog oot into a briiliant atmoaphe^
fint rests on a mountain village — its
flat4(q)ped honses looking in £e dia-
tanoe mere onbes of yeUow stone^
perched on a rounded point that
peepa above the sorronnding foUage (
then,gaziog yet beyond, camea grev
distant ridges of the Lebanon. This
is the world yon are «f»; but far
below lies another world. Wide
and yet wider as yon mount, the
deep purple^blue expanae of aea
rids out beneath you-*not the
strip you look on from a beach,
but a &r stretching sheet of deep
yet brilliant lustre, specked with a
white dot, the oaavaas of a far-off
ship ; with the horiacni-line so high,
so hasy, and so distant, that but for
itB deep tinge, aea mi(|ht hardly be
told from sky. How it gleams in,
through a break in the mulberries 1
It abnestmakes one think that here,
Qp in these mulbenry shades ci Leba^
iHtt, is the Happjr Lmd where, hop-
ing tt'tfihingi fesnng nothii^ strny-
gl^ for nothing, doing nothing, one
miff^ be contents gazing uppn that
seaand through tliii sky, to sit» an4
CBie, and xe«(t in peace for evert
The houses met with in these
monntaia villages are of very simple
construction. Across four plain
stone walls are laid some lacge rough
timbers; these, covered with a deep
Uyer of earth, form a flat terrace^
Uke roof, to which access is given by
a series of prqjecting stones planted
as steps in the outer face of one o{
the walls. One, which we entered to
get breakfast, . was veiy dean and
neat ; an^ all had an air of comfort
which contrasted strongly with the
appearance of the miserable and
filthy Wallachian and Bulgarian huts
that formed the last specimens Z had
met with of the rural alitodes of the
Turkish Empire. The inhabitants,
toOi were very different from any of
th^ Ohriatian subjects of Turkey
whom I had hitherto seen. The
Karonites — I offer the following in-
fonnation, in full confidence tl^^ an
enlightened public has no clearer
idea of them than that they are al-
ways quarrelling with the Druses —
are a large tribe occupying parts of
the Lebanon; Arab m language;
Boman Cathotio in religion ; not un-
warlike in character ; and posseeaed,
I believe, of an amoni^t of independ-
ence that entitles them to be called
a free people. In outward appear-
ance they are not to be distinguished
from the other tribes of the country,
but show a much greater dif^position
to be civil to Franks thim is evi-
denced by the Mussulmans, and sel-
dom pass one without saluting by
laying the hand first on the breast
and then on the forehead. They
have the reputation of being the
greatest rascals in Syria— a chimicter
which can scarcely have been fixed
on them by any one who had e]\{oyed
the advant^ of an acquaiutance
with the Bedouins; but no matteiw.
rogue or honest, they are freS) and
carry a different atmosphere with
them from that which surrounds the
well-kicked peasants of Turkey in
Europe.. One never knows what
freedom means till one has seen those
who are not free. Oh, the virtue
that there is in being fre^ if only to
go to the devil one's own way I A
nation can never sink itself so deep
into hi^ xeahns as a conqueror can
trample it.
As we iVMCnded yet higher the
258
Serm-IkaUng in Syria^ 1954.
(Sept.
mnlbeiTf plantations grew scarce,
tbongh they still, tosether with little
plots of corn, straggled* to hold their
gronnd whererer a vein of fertile
earth gave them the chance. Pfne
trees, usually small and stnnted,
began to appear, mingled with grey
crags; and then the cnltivatiofi dis-
appeared, and next the oine trees
vanished; and then we fonnd our-
selves fn a region of wild white grey
crags broken into fantastic forms,
and covering the gronnd far and
near with their cmmbled fragments.
Cliffs and towers of grey rock stood
ont against the sky; and a deep
gorge, with a torrent dashing down
it, presented a perpendicnhu* cleft
whose sides were lined with wild
forms of the same cold grey stone.
Large glacier-like patches, yet nn-
melted, of the snow which, Jnst above
ns, covered the very summits of the
Lebanon, stretched across oar path
and crunched under onr horses^
feet ; while little dashing streams of
snow-water were pouring down in
all directions. And here, amongst
these wild mountain-tops, at about
seven hours' march from Bey rout,
we took our last look at the Medi-
terranean, now Fcarctly distinguish-
able from the sky. so faint and hazy
in the distance liad it grown, so
streaked by clonds which, thrown
beneath its horizon-line by the eleva-
tion fh>m which we looked on them,
appeared to rest upon its surEace.
Then, turning the ridge, we com-
menced our descent.
All this time, no matter how this
glorious view might spread itself
before me, I was extremely cross.
Every now and then I pulled up my
horse on some commanding promi-
nence, and, while he took wind,
cooled myself down and waked to
the beauty that was around; and
then, as he renewed his toilsome
scramble up the steep path, relapsed
into heat and fume,— just as in the
wanderings of fever one struggles
up to a momentary consciousness
of where one is, and imperceptibly
dides back again into the same ill
dream. The straining, the fagging,
the stumbling of a Bred horse up
such a path as this, the clammy
sweat that makes him damp and
sdcky, and that in course of dme
works OB to yon afid Aftkes y«m
sticky too, commiinioate a 8jmp«*
thetic heat and weariness^ And as
the ascent grew yet steeper a new
tribolatlon assaiiled me, aad I got
crosser stiN. My beast was of the
tribe called ^berring'^^atted,*' and
no kind of girthing wmdd keep bis
saddle where it ought to be. Half
my time was spent in repladog it,
the other half in turning on to the
mane till the saddle^ gradually work-
ing its way back, oscillated on the
very point of the croup, and made
instant evacuation indispeosaUeu
All this time the horse-dealer's Ma-
ronite servant, a squalifng, soream*
ing, exclamatory kind of man, was
riding in my rear and addresetng to
me expostulations in Arabic and
Italian, none of which I nndentood
further than to know thai they con-
veyed those exhortations and re-
proofs which people are fond of ad-
dressing to one for something that
one can't help and woold be only
too glad to avoid if poasible; while
I, in the intervals of my strtigglea,
execrated the tiresome noodle off the
stem of my horse in a a^le which I
must hope conveyed to him some at
least of the sentiments that animated
me. This KtUe dispute waa finally
ended by my saddle giving a back-
ward slide which only just aHowed
me time to scramble ont of it bafbre
it went ikirly over the tail, fiappily
at this crieis I was inspired with a
bright idea. I gfrthed the saddle
by one girth and passed the other
round the horse's chest by way of
breast-band. This device produced
a bewailing squall from my friend
the Maronite, who was jaatly indig-
nant at seeing a girth applied as
neither he nor his lathers bad ever
seen a girth applied befiire; but .
nevertheless it kept me on my horse's
back, and brought me, hot, wrathful,
and highly desirous of kicking the
Maronite, to the summit of the
pa»».
Oar downward road was dioit
and easy. At no great distance
below, the plain of Baalbec, a buoad
valley, checkered with cnltivated
patches of bright green or l»own,
wound its way between the helghtB
we stood on and the barren aaew-
si»inkled ranges^ ^ tiie i^ti-Le-
im.}
Mme-I>eaUng in ayria, 1854.
259
banon. At the fbofe of the netrer
skipe, in a narrow ravine whioh
dinted the monntain-side and wound
down to the plain below, lay our
balting-plaoe, the Maronite villa^
or, as one might almost call it, town
of Zachleh, sorronnded by vineyards
of trailing vine- plants, and prettily
overhanging a amall river, which,
cool and grey in the shadow of a.
dense poplar grove, roshed and rip-'
pled over its shallows like an Eng-
lish tront-atream.
Close to Zachleh stands a great
obieot of Mossnlman veneration and
pilgriniage, — Noah^s tomb. A long
low ridge of mortar or stucco tra-
verses the whole length of the floor
of a long and very narrow apart-
ment in a poor-looking house. Noah
lies beneath. His precise height, as
we are told by the venerable Mns-
sulman that guards tlie tomb, was
40 ankdcn or ells. His figure (if
we mayaasume that his br^th as
well as length is indicated, by the
mound raised over him) was exactly
that of a gas*pipe.
If anything could, by force of con-
trast, make Damascus beautifal, it
would be tiie road that leads to it.
Early on the 10th May we left Zach-
leL Away, beyond the plain of Baal-
bee and the mountains that bound its
further side—neither plain nor moun-
tain beautiful — we wound, by a nar-
row track, through a grim pass
whose sides, cumbered with great
boalders and fragments of rook that
strewed even to the very oentre of
the defile, rose bteoply on each hand
to a crest iA great jagged blocks of
stniDge form, that fused in the centre
of tlM pass into huge grey olifflike
masses. Then we emerged into bar*
ren brush-wood tufted hills, inter-
spersed with small dried-up scrubby-
herbed plains, wild, but devoid of
beaoty. It was a dreary scene, and
a weary ride. The sky was clouded,
gloomy, and dasty. with black and
while vulturea sailing in it The
heat was great, and a high wind
blew, cooling nothing, bnt raising
clouds of dust Looking back from
any one of the eminences we were
alowly creeping over, we beheld a
dreary panorama of brown hill -tops,
ridge beyond ridge, their dull colour
varied only hy one chain of gritty
white. No sooner were we over one
dusty hill thafi we were on to another
dustier ; no, sooner quit of one desolate
plain than' into another, where we
jogged and jogged away without the
rearward hills appearing to recede
or the further to approach. Some-
times we passed slow-pacing droves
of laden camels, accompanied by
their little woolly camel-colts. Be-
yond these and tlie vultures, I re-
member no living things.
At last, looking between two brown
baked bill-topM, which, stretching
widely apart right and left, formed,
as it were, the portals to something
beyond, we perceived below us a wide
plain, bounded on the one side by
the heights on which we stood, on
the other by a chain of distant moun-
tains, slanting away to the left till
lost in the dull haze. Nearer, at the
base of the hills from which we gnzed,
lav a wide expan:^ of dark* green
foliage, whose richness was dimin-
ished by a grey cast given to it, as
we afterwards found, by the plentiful
admixture of a oertaln white-Ieav«d
tree. Winding through this wood, in
a direction parallel to the valley^s
course, appeared a streak of green
sward ; and in the centre of all rose
a distant mass of white buildings,
domes, and minarets — Damascus.
Pretty, but no more; to me, at
least, decidedly disappointing. Mo-
hammed looked on it and turned
aside, saying that one paradise was
all that could be allowed to man.
The last French writer of rodomon-
tades pronounces it something the
pluB fierique that the mind of
man can conceive. Public opinion,
intennediate between those two ex-
tremes, has given the same verdict.
I confess to a provoking faculty of
disappointment m everything tiiat I
have heard praised beforehand. I
may have been bilious when I saw it.
Kim Jnlirf — who knows?
Damascus was once famous for big-
otry and a ierooioos spirit of intoler-
ance. This spirit has left the human
inhabitants, or at least its manifesta-
tlonii have been checked by a grow-
ing dread of the European power, und
by the. influence of the European
consuls ; but it aurvivea in full foroe
260
ffan&'Deatinff in 8yrU^ 1864.
(Sept.
amongst the dogs. When we entered
the town we had a hlad|c Syrian grey-
hound with ns; and tRe appearance
of this nnfortanate animal was the
signal for a general rising of the whole
dog popnlation. Every street in Da-
mascus swarms with cnrs, and all
the cars in the street were on him at
once, with a tnmnlt of yelling and
barkinff that was really stnnning.
Their behaviour was curiously like
that of men mobbing somebody. Al-
though they were in force enough to
hare eaten him bodily, and 1^ no
trace behind, and' apparently all ani-
mated by the most rancorous feel-
ings, no one animal could make up
his mind regularly to *^go in^ at him:
but, hanging on his heels, they all
made savage rushes afid snaps which
Just fell short, and nerer that I saw
achieved anything more deadly than
getting hold of the long hair of his
fringed tail ; the victim all the time
trotting along with the most thorough-
ly demiss aspect, sometimes, in ex-
tremity, rescuing his tail by a snap
at the assailant. What his fate
might have been, if he had been alone,
I do not know; as it was, we were
engaged during the whole of our pro-
gress in bringing him off by riding
over his persecutors. It is not easy,
without having hoard it, to imagine
the infernal nature of the uproar.
Every dog in the street, with a sharp,
steady, unremitting bark. Joined in
producing a din that fairly rang
through one's head; and not only
was the tumult swelled by every cur
at hand, but we could hear it spread-
ing like wildfire into far streets,
where dogs, as yet unconscious of the
precise nature of the row, took up the
bark to show their watohfal readi-
ness for whatever might tarn up.
And so, clattering and slipping on
the narrow stones, wheebng round
for constant charges on the dogs, the
object of the clamour of the can-
ine, and the stares of all the human
population of Damascus, and the
centre of an absurd and vexatious
row that was really enough to drive
one crazy, we Josded through the
narrow bazaars, till in t^e ''Street
called Straight,*' called to this day
the Strada Diritta by the Franks, we
found peace and iced lemonade in the
'* Hdtel de Palmyre.''
Wheii a MussuTman town has once
been described, it is not very easy to
deftcribe another, except by repetitioii.
All the minute shades of difference;
tlie greater or less ptcturesqneness of
a bazaar ; the greater or less filth of
a street; the more or leas blank
strangeness of the mad walls whi(&
the houses present to the outer worid ;
all that so much gives or detrsets
from interest in reality, is not to be
conveyed by words. So I shall at-
tempt no description of Damasoos,
except of the shortest. Damaseas
is perhaps more picturesque, more
thoroughly Oriental, than other Eai^
era towns. I think, too, that perhaps
it stinks more. If it Is not prejudice
on my part (founded perhaps on the
proverb of their countrymen, wbfdi
says that ever^ Damascene is a sconn-
drel), such iiisolent-looking, surly-
looking, or rascally-looking Mnssol-
mans as the inhabitants — or siu^
Mussulmans combining aS three
looks — are rarely met with,
Damascus is not externally splen-
did, any more than any o&er Eastern
town of my acquaintance. Damascus
silks and Damascus blades do not
pervade the scene as they ooght As
for the blades, they scarcely enst
Any amount you like can be shown
you, with the traces of time on their
once gorgeous enamelled bilts-^he
whole concern. Including the traces
of time, made, I suspect. In Binning-
ham. But if you inquire spitefully
for the genuine article, yon will meet
it only in rare instances, and pre-
served as an antiqui ty . Woven fbbrics
there are, but not of a eatisdbctory
nature. A number were brought to
ns at our hotel, scarfe and what not,
the product of a manufactory belong-
ing to our landlord. They were
promising enough at first sight;
embroidered all over with Arabic
sentences which I imraedfatelv pro-
posed to mvself should mean Gioiy to
God and the Prophet I or some simi-
lar poesy of Arabian-KighMike cha-
racter, wWch the traveller on his
return from Moorish lands might
expound with applause and cr^t
But when investigated, the legend
simply proved to be '^Made by ^ro-
nimo" — by our peat, fiit, good tka-
tured, chuckle-headed Armenian
landlord,— <a man of powerful frame
bat timaroQB spirit, habited in a
im.]
ffm^-Jk^Omff ifir aifrUt. 1864.
Ml
nottiooat vA long wlilto «todkli^
like a great oookmald, and possdaaed
with a great dread of the awaggering
fire-eating Moaauloiana, who, he said,
drew sworda on him if he ao much aa
winked at them*
However, if I oonld take by the
floruffof the neck a friend thirsting
for EKStem romance, and, like the
Diable Boiteox, flv with him whither
I would, I think tLat perhapalwoald
land him in Daoiaacoa. He wonld
find, if DO wagnifioenoe, at least pic-
turesque bean^ in the lofty, com-
pletely-roofed aUreets, whose snaded,
chaiuber-like aspect giyea a strange
theatrical air to the horsemen that
slowly ride tbroogh the crowds be*
aeath ; and in the Interior of Damas-
CQs booses be woald aee one of the
yerr few things of the real £a8t of
to-day that recall the East of poetrv
—the East imagmed in the childish
days and dreams, when
"The tide of timefIow*d back with me,
The f<»rwArd-flowiDg tide of time ;
And many a sfaeeoy rammer mora,
Adown the Tigris I wsc borne,
^ Bagdat*s shrines of fretted gold,
ISyiifl
^gh-
wall'd gardens green and old ;
TnMTMussQlmao was I and sworn.
For \\ was in the coldeu prime
Of good Haroun iUrasohia."
Splash, splash, the never-ceasing
water flows into the stone basin in the
oentre of the marble floor. Bright
with belts of red, white, and bloe,
and piereed with windows tier above
tier, the lofty walls rise to a roof
loilliant in a mosiue of red, bine, and
gold. Without, a snnny stone-paved
oourt, with trees and tank, and water
jets splashing in the hot sunshine ;
within, cool shade and calm unbrokes
bat by the cold dropping of the water,
as it may have been in that enchanted
ball of Uie Alhambra before its fonn-
tain began to bubble ^d to shape ita
spray into the figure of the unfortu-
nate prinoesa Zorahayda.
Fleas did not exist in the golden
prime of Haronh Alraschid. That
jost Oalipb, it la believed, had decreed
a genersi cracking of them, and serve
them right too. But in these daya
of decay and weakness they have
neovered themselves, and even in-
vade the stately ehanibers I ha?e lust
been deaeribing. Night after n^t
I used to doat the sheets of my bed
with a Patant lofaiUUe ilea-dsstiQty
ing Powder, till I felt like a pulver-
ising fowl in^ full exhibition of its
'interesting instincts. The field in the
morning was found sprinkled with
the corpses of the slain ; but they died
not unavenged— confound them I
We were received with great ci-
vility by the Turkic andioritiea.
Even the old white-bearded Civil
Gk>vernor, said to be a dreadfhl old
fool and toado, put away hia folly
and fanaticism (if he ever possessed
them) for the occasion, and was per-
footly polite and reasonable. The
tot nse to wUoh we contrived to
torn their favourable disposition waa-
a somewhat unfortunate one. Think-
ing that it would be coovenient to
have a private place where we might
try snch horses as were brought to us,
we got permission from the authoritiea
to use one of their barrack-yards for
that purpose, and, next morning, when
several horses were brought to the
hotel door, told their masters to take
tJiem to the barracks and wait for ua.
The owners answered **very good,''
and 8tra^ghtway went— home, I sup-
pose. They certainly did not go to
the barracks, for when we arrived
there, neither horse nor man waa
visible.
We naturally inquired into the
reasons of this proceeding, and re-
ceived, in explanation, from a man
whose statement we could not donbt,
the following short exposition of the
system upon which the Turks rule
]>amasco8. When soldiera are want-
ed, said our informant, and lecroits
are scarce, a review la given. A
number of ingenious manoauvree are
executed by the troops, which result,
first, in the spectators finding them-
selves enclosed in a square, and next,
in the able-bodied ones being marched
off as conscripts to the Padisha'a
army. When this device sets stale^
another measore is adopted, not cal-
culated, one would think, to promote
the better observance of the Sabbath
in Damascus ; soldiers are sent to the'
doors of the mosques to catch all
who may be inside. When this in.
tnm begins to fail, and the Damas-
eenea will neither attend reviews,
non
back<
IVB WUt UVIMIVA WUV9WKM. «VTIVW*.
■ to to church, the authorities fall .
ik on a i^an of simple effioai^, anda
Ml
Hm^JMIkkg in S^ria, 1854.
P*^
mM foMi«VB to iddnap peoplein tbcSr
honsefl at night.
Baoh a jiatemal ^sten of govern- ,
ment neoessarily fbeters and braifs
forth, on the part of the goTemed,
an astate and pmdent Bpirit, to
whose floggeefekms (representing that
the proposed arrangement was a mere
trap for their horses) we now owed
the absenoe of oar horse-^tealers.
This misadventare made ns mor^
pmdent, and ever after we made a
pmotioe of ponodng at onee upon
snoh horses as were brought to os;-
ezamining and trying them in front
of the hotel door, and throwing the
whole street into an nproar. The
ordinary course of the transaction
was something Uke the following: —
A nnmher of horses are brought
to the hotel door and tethered by
their masters rifghX across the foot-
path. The obstrootiKA that rasnlts
is a matter of the smallest oonse-
qnenoe, for two reasons. In the first
place, to ofibr standing room for
every horse or donkey that anybody
may want to tie up, is one of the re-
cognised fonctions of the Damascus
foot way ; in the second, all possible
iBconvenienee from such a caoae is
merged in the general blockade of
the street that shortly follows.
Everybody in Damascus is lazy and
inquisitive, and all the idlers in the
quarter are densely crowding roond
our horses. Pushing, josthng, and
stretching their necks roond the
quadrupeds; pressing with the most
intense curiosity round ourselves;
following and hampering ev«ry move-
ment with the closest scrntiriy ; pok-
ing inquisitive noses between our*
selves and every object of ezainina*
tion,*-they constitute us and our pro*
poeed purchases the isolated centre
of attraction to distinct circles, and
eeem to see no reason why we should
ever be brought into oonuot. In
short, they make themselves a nni*
sauce which only one thing in the
wlK>]e world has the smallest influ-
ence in abating; and that is, for a
horseman to prepare to show the
paces of bis animal. Then, partly
to ei^oy this, the crowning spectacle,
and imrtly to escape being ridden
«ver, the mob presses itself back in
iwo dMise lines on the footpaths,
isaving clear tha oefitral hors^-way,
a road so narrow that it Ireqncnily
gives barely room for two honeroen
to ride abreast^ To appreciate Da-
masoos borsemans^p it is neoessary
to anderstand Damascua streets. Tiie
footpath, amongst its other curioua
offices, holds that of general slaughter-
house. All the mutton in Damascoa
is killed and skinned there, aad the
resnlting filth combiaes with various
other filths to grease the hirge smooth
sKghtly convex stones which pave
the street, and to render them sa
slippery and dangerous a course as I
have often ridden on. Reckless of
this, however, the rider, raising hia
right arm above his head with a
huf- absurd opera-dandng kind of
grace (a ceremony whose meaning I
do not nnderstaad, but which seema
to be quite essential to acts of horse-
manship in Damascus), atidu in the
corners of his shovel stirrups and
dashes off at a forioos kind of uutUt^
to the alarm of any respectable old
grey-bearded Turk who nay find
himself bestriding a bare>backed
donkey in the road; and then, pulling
his h<Mri« sharp on to his hannohes,
comes into his goal sliding and slip-
ping, with the horse almost down
on his hocks in the effort to stop
himself suddenly on the slippery
stones. I never saw an accident
happen — an illustration of the lengtiw
to which perfect pluck and rook-
lessness will carry a man sncoee»>
fully. ^^ Fools rush in where aagela
fear to tread, ^' and get through too,
while the oautioos aagel sits
pounded on the wrong side of tha
tence.
The action of the Oriental horse
which 1 have described by the word
iioutter is a corions one. It is tlie
result of an effort to oombine speed
with readiness to obey instantly the
oheck of the powerfol bit; and
resembles somewhat the spasmodio
scurry in which a oat dashes at
its prey.
Kaiesh Bey, a Turkish gentleman,
out of pure kindness, was moved to
assist us in procuring horaes, and,
as the first step in that direction,
ofiBered us some of hia own. He waa
a smooth-faoed man, with a long
hooked nose and a retreattag chia,
wearing the usual dresa of £a mo>
im.]
mrm JMflks^ifi£^rkk i664
Sk
dem TnrUth Bej^-a rtupaicliratljF
iiU<inade ooftt and tioaaerB, the latltr
prafeasedly of £iirof)6Mi tot^ bofe
itery loose and wonderfiilly shapeleta,
•ad rabeUing agaliiflt the stmpe
whioh endeavoDred to oonfipe them
under the booi^ by adeking oat over
the ibot in strange fcMa, rendndiog
one oi an iU-CMed sail. He was
never withont a rosaiT of beads in
his hands. Pmyeifol man I The
iBoiies in whioh he tried to swindle
OS were TarioaSb He did not soo*
oeed. I am proad to think that
sffiongrt hk sweet experiences was
not ToochaaM to him that of leg*
pug the infidel on this partienlar
oocasitm; bat he tried hard. Pro*
doeing a horse which, viewed with
rsfereooe to the number of legs it
had fit for work, might be called a
biped, he soaght to e(»yince as of
its soondness by as stout a bit of
l3nng as a considerable experience in
borBe>dealiDg has yet brought ander
my notiee. It is interesting to ob«
serve how in all parts ai the world
tbe trae gentleman is the same 1
The chief distinetion that I hare
been able to draw between the On*
ental and tbe Englishman in respe<^t
ci horse^dealing is that tbe former,
with the prcgodioe whioh leads all
nations to nndeerate foreign^t^
gaoges yoor folly and gnllibilily
eoarsely and olamnly, and so betrays
himself into absurdly transparent
Kigoeries, which yoor esteemed eoon*
tryman, with tlie high feeling which
distinguishse him, knows better than
to ** try on."
I had the honour of assisting at a
wedding hM in the house of a Jew
merohant of the middle chiaa I
made my appearance at the place of
entertainmeDt in great state, arrayed
ia a wedding garment the Ulce wbm*
of, I flatter myself^ is not comnumly
seen in those parts — the stable-jacket
of tbe — ^th Hasaars-Hind preoeded
by two of the consular cavaases, who
strutted before me with great rilver-
headed sticks The open court-yard
which, as i^ual with Damascus
hoQses, occupied tbe centre of the
building, was mnsical, as I entened,
with the yioleot dmmmings and
twiddlings of four native musicians
who sat perched on a raised, banoh
mider a ssoall tree, in a style whi<di
reminded me of a pictore I onoe used
to atndy of the Birds' Oraheetra fid*
diiag at tiie wedding of Oook Kobin
and Jenny Wr«i| and was filled with
guests and spectators, induding a
huge party of Turkiab women in &eir
ahrond-like white garments who,
eiosteriBg together at the lar side of
the tank and mingliqg with nooe of
the others, looked on apart Pas^
ing through this throng, I entered
the reception-coem. It was a modut
rate^aized apartment oi Damascus
tehion, with the floor of the inner
half raised above the level of the
entrance so as to form a kind of
sanctum, around the throe ttdes of
which ran a low divan. Seated on a
ohdr placed on this divan, and
appui^S against the centre of the
back wall of the room just opposite
to the entrance, was what appeared
to be a stiff painted ship^s figure*
head, towering above everything else
tike an idol on an altar. Around
but lower down, occupying the diva%
squatted a party of Mayday chimney*
sweeps, figged out in all their finery^
That^ at least, was the first impres*
sion produced; the real fact was
that the figure-head was the bride»
and the chimney-sweeps her lady
friends-Hill the beauty and fashion,
in fact, of the Jewish portion of
Damascus. This, however, did not
dawn ou my weak mind for some
time, lor I was so perplexed by the
astonishing nature of the vision ; so
additionally confused by being in*
stantly presented to all the big-wigs
of the establishment^ to whom I
bowed right and left, in a state of
obtuscatioB which left me for the
moment no clear discrimination be*
tween sixteen years in paint and
petticoats and snuffy sixty in a beard
and turban, that I did not at first
feel myself capable of any investiga*
tion into the phenomenon, bnt turned
all that remained of my faculties to
lowering myself gingeriy on to the
low divan. This was not earn
Enghsh trousers at the best are lU
adapted to the performance. Mine^
unhappily, were midnly tight, and ia
the struggle I carried away a buttooi
fixrtanately concealed in part by n^
waisteoat. Even when fairly down
IraadebadweatiierofiW Thedivaa
Mi
M$m B$Mng U^ «flkirl^*M54
Pipt*
Is broiid- and very low. TIm uHves,
mate and female, sit perched wpfm it
witb their legs ooiled under them:
ti)e Englbhinaii, wkoee legs and
tronseri aUke oppoee themB^ves to
aooh a prooeeding, may sit on the
edge till he breaks hia back for want
*of something to lean against, or may
push himself bask for the aopport ii
the waU, and tiien finds his nnbend-
able legs abeardly iM<esented straight
to tiie front like two pieoea of artil-*
lery, — in whioh last position I was
waited upon, aooordiag to Jewish
•tiqnette, l^ the ladles of the house-
hold, and reoeiTed a long pipe, and
lemonade, and candied sweetmeats
perplexing to handle, and a email
^ go" of a pale pink liqnenr which I
mnst 81^ was nasty, at the hands of
damsels each one more extraordinary
than the other.
There is a great deal that is graoe-
fhl in the dress of the Jewish women.
A silk or satin jaeket, open in front,
diows a qnantity of fine koe or
mnsUn oorering the breast; tiie
sleeves, moderately tight, are cnt
open at the wrist and hang loose,
together with a flood of laoe repre-
senting, I suppose, an interior sleeve.
A long straight petticoat (perha^
there exists a slit np its front which
might, in the eye of the soientifiG coo-
logist, i«nk it in an aberrant gronp
of the great family of coat-tails), of
▼ery rich materiM», white and gold,
bkie and gold, and the 4ike, wi^ont
gather and withoat a trace of orioo*
Une, flows straight down to the
ground, nnbroken by flonnce or other
ornament. Round the waist, so low-
hung as just to cotdi on the hips,
a large rich sash is twisted in one
heavy fold; and beneath all, when
ttie petticoat happens to rise, peep
out voluminous musKn trousers and
faraedHip yellow slippers. So &r
nothing oonld be better ; but here all
beauty ends. The lady's face is
simply frightful. The eyebrows are
•lean eradicated, and in their place,
but taking a course whioh no real
eyebrow could have followed, a thick
hard line of. the deadest black paint
ia drawn in a tremendous luvh, be-
ginning in tiie little pit tiiat forms
the Jonetien of nose and forehead,
end ending heaven knows whM« be-
yond' the opposite ^oosner of the eye.
hialde «nd ontalde^ 4he edges of Oie
eyelids are Maekened^ so as to form a
deep snmdged border all raund ; and
fiNxn the outer comer of the eye the
paint is carried out in a t^iok llne^
mtended, no doubt, to increase the
apparent length of the opening. The
headt^ress is worthy of the head. lea
groundwork is something resem-
bling a large foa witb an exoesMvely
long tassel Bound this is foMed a
handkerchief or scarf, much after the
fashion of French tambourine-women ;
and over thia again, wherever there
ia room to stiiA: them, flowers, dia^
raonda, sprigs of peari, and incon-
gruous decorations of eveiy kind, ara
dotted higgledy-piggledy, in a etyle
which reminds one of an entomuo^
gist's sheet of cork with butterflies
pinned on it. Little pkntfr of hair,
looped np in divers directions, flow
from beneath ; and a regular cataract
of tails, each equal in magnitude to
that of a cow, comes down behind, —
all, I was told, of fiilse hair, in the
case at least of the married women.
Jewish proprieties in Damascos for-
bid a married woman to show a
particle of her own hair, so she
shows somebody eWs.
But the spectacle of speotades was
the bride. Her dresa, in general
atyle much what I have described,
was of eoune aa splendid as her
firiends could make it. She waa
covered with a long and per^otlv
trans|»arent veil. Bound her neck
and descending into her lap was a
aeries of gold chains, some of them
with gold coins attacbed^so numer-
ous as to form something like a
breastplate of chain armour. Her
hands were completely covered with
a black pattern produced by oaosUo.
the back being stamped with a small
figure such as might be printed on
calico, and the fingers ringed with the
same cokHiring till they looked like
nasty snakes. She sat perfectly
motionless, slightly leaning back in
her ohatr, her eyes closed and her
bands in her lap. This deportment, I
was tdd, was syml>olical of modesty.
The effect, aa I said-before, was that
of a ship'M flgure^liead. If the. Mary-
Ann of Noith Shields- were to in*
du%e in a mpresantation of herself
In a state of virgin bashfulness, exe-
cuted by the ship's caspe&ter with an
mt.]
Mfm-3mMnfin Sf^fk^ HH.
MS
iiliHm!t0d ftNuwMioe df paloi muA
gHdlng, the resnh woiM be not vn-
Bke this Jewish bride.
After a eonei^oMble pause, ooeii*
pled fn the reeep^on of fresh goests,
and broken by the solemn entranoe
Of the bridegroom's mother at the
head <if a oolnmn of ladies ntter-
ing shrill cries not nnlike Tlew-bolh»
*— we were manphalled into a great
open alcove adjoining the conn. The
bridegroom was now brooght on
the soene. He was an rnidertired'^
looking yoang man with a fez,
a downy trace of a mnstaehe, and
a long pnrple-croonB-eolonred gown,
and looked the biggeet Ibol I erer
saw in my Ufa. Along witii him ap-
peared the officiating Rabbis, three
or ftmr in nnmber, fat clerical per-
sons in tarbans and dark gowns,
who, taking their stand In the centre
Of tiie floor, commenced the serrioe.
I fbrget the exaot order of the cere-
monies. There was a good deal of
tiianting in a sing-song tune; then
the ohief Rabbi read the marriage
eontmot in a species of rapid jab-
ber that was evidently not meant
or wanted to be anderstood, and next,
taking a glass of wine in bis hand-—
the glass was a thin ill-made tnmbler,
and the wine of a pale soar-looking
i«d, more enggesllTe^ of stomach-
fldies than of the generons plenty
and fertility of which I was told
it was emblematical--^he chanted
again, and finished by taking a sip
himself and giving one to eaeh of the
happy eoaple. The latter, dnring all
this chanting, bad been staiMJtng
face to face, partly concealed by a
sheet held over their heads by the
ladies of the hoase. * In spite of this
covering I had a pretty cood view of
them. The bride wlt£ her eyes still
shnt — ^I never saw her open them
from first to last- resembled a ship%
figare-head as mnoh as ever; tiie
bridegroom, happv man, looked as
roooh embarrassed as his stnpidity
would allow him, and kept miakfng
little (iitile digs with his hfidds at
his breeches pockets. These he al-
ways fiuled to hit; but stilly nnder
thd inflnence of inamki9$ honte and
the spelKbonnd ioabtlity to move
which it creates, wonld feign to have
Ibumd them, and at some trouble
to himaelf woaM keep his hands
in the mitabkfpeeltkm as' tiboo^
he vras InxnriatlBg in the desiivd
depths. I mnst warn the reader tiiat
'^breeches pockets" is a figure of
speech. In strict troth, the apertofres
so anxiously sought were in the or»-
CQS*coloured g«ywa; bat they ocon*
pled so ezaedy the position of
breeches poekets-^-not only locally,
but apiritualfy, as a refoge and a sol-
ace— that I was unwilling to spoil
the beautiftil picture I was drawing
by stopping at that moment to defloe
them othenrise.
The oerenocy ended with that sip
of wine. The spell that held him
was brcAen, and the bridegroom,
turning Us back on bride and com-
pany, went straight to earth. Whe-
ther, when they next wanted him,
they emoked him out, or dog him
out, or bolted him with a Rabbi, I
am sorry that I cannot state.
Before we to^ our departure, some
of the ladies of the household showed
us a Jewish dance. It was a pa» m^
beginning with a slow notion, which,
as you wanted to be complimentary
or the reverse, you might call gliding
or shuffling, accompanied by aweeps,
a little too stiff and angular to be
graoefnl, of eaeh arm alteraateiy.
Occasionally, raising her hands clasped
together in predseiy the po«iticn
adopted by cbHdren when they make
*< rabbits " on the wall, the performer,
drawing one finger over another with
a peculiar art, produced a sound not
nnlike thai of castanetB; and tiien,
wanning upon her work, she further
embeilisbed her stops with a kind of
rapid wriggling, as though she wanted
to create a frielion between herself
and her dress.
On the 21st May we left Damas-
cus. Our immediaite destination was
a camp of ^^ sedentary Arabs*' lying
south of that town, on the very bor-
ders of the Desert, and in the vioin*
ity of the tracts which were known
to be at that period occupied by
those Bedouhi tribes, with whom to
put ourselves into comoMmieatioa
was iAm uktmate'olifeot of our expe-
dition«
We started in gtand cavalcade*
Two itregolar horsemen, fbrnisbed
by the Turicish Goverament^ led the
ura^; 0Qrailves-^-4h«t k^ the two
JBkm-JOmMnif •/» 9$ri&, a«M*
\M^
(fri^iial'«inifl«ld«i amd a 9»nt]«i&Mi
aUaohed to the eo&salate-t-^foUuwed,
imme<lialely preoeded by one of (he
Gonsurs oavaiises in solemn pomp
with a hcH9e silver-mounted stick, and
allende<l by my friend^ or enemy, of
the Lebanon, the horse-dealer's Ma*
Tonite, riding a viotons black which
apiUed him before he waa well oat
of the town. Seven or eight more
horsemen brought up the rear. Oa
the outskirts of Dainasous we drop-
ped the cavaaa and the silver stick,
and wended our way tbroogh tree-
studded fields of Inxoriant corn,
pretty in spite of the high and ngiy
mud walla that fenced ^m ; down
a broad flat corn-bearing valley^
bounded h^ low mountains oddly
orampled by the twisting ravines that
broke their surfaee ; tb^ again over
a wide, flat, and most Indian looking
f>]ain, bearing at first green vetch-
ike crops through which we could
perceive a burnt, cracked soil, but
finally meiging ioto mere stone-
aprinkled barreunesa. We had be-
gun our Journey later in the day than
we ought. The result was that mght
found us still on the road,-^a road
that wound over dusters of stones
and declivities, and was ill travelling
by dark. About 8 p.m. light showed
ahead, proceeding from our tents,
pitched, as we found when the next
mining's light dawned, by a small
fortified village.
This vilUge waa not the first of
its kind that we had met with. Dnr*
mg the preceding erening^s march
we had pasaed a striking spedmen.
At a spot where the monotony of the
wide and barren plain I have men-
tioned was broken by a small rush*
ing stream with a few cultivated
fidida by its banlcs, stood a amal]
aqaara fort with one low door and
loop-holes in the* walla. This, it ap-
peared, was the tiUag€. A cluster
of villagers surrouiided the do<»^
way, and two w three squatted on
the top of the wall as if taking the
air. A pleasant life they must lead
where such villagca are in fashion {
l^ezt' mmmiog we reaamed our
march across a pleasant cultivated
K' 'n, bounded by mountaina shew-
in spite of tbe S^aa sua, loag
atieaka of snow bearing downwarda
ftwn their aanunits. Onreaaort,fr9eh
feom thenlgiit^B reat^ brake, out inta
a aenea of touroaments. A horaemaa
rushed out at a gallop, bnsadishioff
his spear, a gigantic beam tapped
with an eoormous blade that looked
as if meant for a abavel ; another, ao*
cepting his dialleoge, dashed out to
meet him. The two antagonists, not
couching their lancea after the man-
ner of £uropeau honemen, but carry-
ing each his weapon graaped javelin-
fashion, and raised above the head at
the stretch of the arm, charged, shak*
ing their spears till the long ahafti
quivered and bent like reeda — a ma-
noauvre intended, doubtless, to peiv
plex the enemy aa to the real pcNat
aimed at; and then, avoiding c(^
sion by a sudden turn, exchanged
sham Ihmsts. One after another the
horeemeu joined in the fi*ay, till, with
the long houfling-tasBels and ftingea
streaming behind their galloping
horses, and the curtain-like fall of the
riders* bright red-and>yeiiow head*
coverings floating in the wind, one
whole escort was flying over the
phiin, firing shots and exchanging
thrusts.
I think the head-draaa I have juat
referred to is the most beautiful I
have ever seen worn by man. It
coa3i8ts of a silk handkerchief o€
broad red-and-yellow stripe, throwB
over the head ao aa to fall loosely oa
the shoulders, and bound HMUid the
temples by a small turban. Thai
habited, mounted on an Arab-like
horae, that he wheels and circles wdl
on the haunches, and carryiag a long
lance with a ruff of Uaok Fhort
ostrich feathers round the shaft be-
neath the blade, a Syrian horseman
is as warlike and picturesque a figure
as I have ever met with.
We had a long hot ride that day.
Our track led us among the outlying
spurs of a mountain ridge, coverad
with dumps of what appeared to be
dwarf oak and wild holly, together
with white hawthorn aa aweet-smell-
ing as if growing- in an Sngliah lane,
and raising ideas oddly at variance
with that hot Syrian hill-aide. Then
q«utting these nnduktiona, hut stitt
skirting their haae, we traversed level
atondeas grasfl^y plains, where distant
flocks and herds, gnmpa of half<«-
doeen marea and foals in littla
awupnpy pbahy n9oka in the hiU-
laMw]
Om-^eMifin JS^ria, IML
m
ride, imd odomiAml elfwten of long
low blAok tents, two or three to-
gether, showed 08 that we were in
tile land of the pastoml or sedentary
Ambe, Presently a score or so of
tents in the distance were |)oteted
out to OS as oar Jonraey^s end. As
w« approached them a most melan-
eholy and never-ceasing piping was
heard. Wee-weedio-wee,w6e-weedlo-
wee, — ^indMa^ons and wHbont the
smaileet intermission was the sad
strain. Loolcing in the direction of
the sound, we saw halfa-dozen dingy
Arabs mareMngin sdemn procession,
with a fifo at their head and a ban-
ner flying, apparently oomposed of a
dirty sheet tied to a pole. This, as
one of onr esocn-t informed ns, was a
** fantasia" (this word is in common
nse amongst the Syrians and Tarics)
given in hononr of a marriage then
is prooesB of celebration.
A mors sedate or sober fantasy I
never yet beheld. On onr approach,
however, it sumewhat brightened.
The mn^o changed to a measure a
shade (only a eSiight shade) livelier,
and the peHbrmers, ranging them-
selves in a row, with the exception
of one man who stood feeing them
with a sword in his hand, raised a
granting channt of *^Hah, hah, bah,*'
dapping their hands at each grant
The swordsman, brandishing his wea*
pon in time to the ttiasio, ezecnted
with an air of solemn swagger a
series of slow prancing movements,
in which he never quitted the gronnd
he first took np. Pastoral Arabs cele-
brating the naptials of a comrade
with dance and song! Pretty dears t
They came roond for bakhahiih when
tiiey had done. Most Arab senti-
mentalities end in that.
The gronnd on which we now
fbnnd onrselves camped ojcnpied the
intermediate space between the cul-
tivated and (as things go in Syria)
civilised tracts, and the territory of
the real Arabs Cff the Desert^the
Anaseb, whom Burckhardt describes
as *'the only true Bedouin nation of
Syria," and "one of the most oon-
sideraUe bodies of Bedouins in the
Arabian destftts;" In front of nii, < r
eastward, within half-ffli-hour'to ride,
lay the Anaseh tents ; in the rear Uiy
the maw-stfeaked moaneains tiiat
mark (he coontry of the Drases. Of
f he Sedentary Arabs themselves theie
is no need to say moch. They are
bet 'a poor and corrupted sort d
Bedouin, and are held by the wilder
and mot9 wandering tribes of the
desert, to be the jNebeians of the
race. Unlike their kinsmen, they
never penetrate into the depths of
the wilderness, but limit their migra*
tions to the pastnrss bordering the
confines of the cnltlvated groande;
camping in tents, and shifting their
quarters in confoimky with the re*
quirements of their herds of cattle,
sheen, and camds. In person they
are, I think, bigger and coarser than
the men of the purer races, and are
without the wild savage 9u% gsMrii
look which many of the kitter pos-
sess. There is something thoroogh-
bred in the air of the real Bedouin;
he seems to be tiie type or perfection
of a raee-^and a predous race of
scoundrels it is; while the Sedentary
Arab, both in dress and person, ^ves
the impression that he; has been
crossed with the ordinary people el
Syria.
The tribe with whom we had taken
up onr abode had little that was note-
worthy about them. Their Emir
(for he did not, like the chiefs of the
desert tribes, assume the title of
*'Shelkh*') was an ngly, thinubearded,
stupid-looking young Arab, with a
sausage nose, and, in common witii
bis snfcrjeets, was as rapaolons and
extortionate as Arabs usually are.
Their tents may be wort^ describing,
as they are mnob the same as those
of the true Bedouins. The ground
plan is a rery long rectangle. The
walls, perhaps ibur feet Mgh, ai^
striped longitudinally with two or
three broad stripes of alternate black
and white, enclose only three sidea-^
the loBg back and the two short
sides; the front being left perfbotiy
open. The sloping roof; of the same
materia], bat entirely black, is stretdi-
ed over a longitodinal rope supported
by four or five low upright notes, and
consequently rises into peiu» where
it rests on the poles, and droops in
hollows between them, prownting an
appearance i&e that of a serrated hlK-
range, and is lUpporM by ener-
mously long tent-ropes. Thewomm^
apartment la nsnalqr partltleiiad off;
ses
Mom-JDeMng in. S^Htk, lUA.
Pept
and tlie wbole e^ttflee TMiei in iIm
fiNMn peiiii]w thirty paces by six or
Beven, when it MoiigB to a claef,
down to a very small kind of ksnael^
when- it belong to a poor man* I
remember being ammwd oDoe at see-^
ing the ohildran of a abeikfa of the
Anazeh taJdng a ride on tbe ridge of
their father's teat They bad climbed
Qp^ three or ibnr of them, aod there^
loiming ail of a row across the rope
wfaioh.ooniieoted the summits of tiie
tent^poles, with their feet oa the
slope of the roof^ and with oouDteD*
aooes ezpresrivB of the ^-eatest satis*
ftotioiif were danoing most fariouslT
op and down with th» spring wbioh
the tsnt>poK«?, bending to their
weight, oemmfuiieated'to the rope.
The proapeot of having boose and
iiome and a oloster of children brought
flat on his head in a panodce^ appa*
reAtiy had no terron ibr the sen of
Ishmaai that sat beneuUi. I shonld
lilce to see some dvilised papas of my
aoqnaintaaas in ths same situation.
iieij Kptrani, the site of onr pre*
sent abode* was dose to the campings
groand of the Wolad-Ali, a tribe oi
the great Anaseh nUtion. As the
news of onr arrival and object spread,
their men came into our camp u
gndnally increasing numbers; and
before long we had obtained a very
Mt opportanity of jodgiag of at least
the outward appearance of the desert
Arab and his liorse.
Most people, I think, picture to
tiiemselvee the former as not perht^)e
hearing in his aspect the traces of
high dviUiation, but. as at all events
something far removed from the
savage. This is a mistake. A more
peifeot savage in appearance, a more
thoionghly dir^ wud man, it would
be diffiooft to find. As the Anaeeh
stands before yon, you see a little
Hottentot-like figure of a dirty brown
all ovefi A dirty clout, foiling loose
on his shoulders, is fastened round
his head by a buid of cancel's hair
orelse by a bit of common rope; a
loose garment, apparently of sack-
doth^ leaohes to below the knee, and
is covered agsin by a coarse cloak.
Beneath appear brown naked shanks
withoat eitiier trooasra or shoes, with
one spoff, oonsisting of a
single spike, or ebe ef a thing like a
with iiro. Bsrssted
ridges, stnppsd on the bsva heeL
Possibly the artides of dressy if yos
inspect them with a microscopic ey%
may be detected to have oooe po^
sessed colour ; the handkerchief m^
have had the red and yellow strips
so common amongst the Synans, sod
the doak will once have eadiibilsd
stripes of brown and white ; but all
have been toned down to one onifonn
dbt colour, and the former ezisteiics
of brighter tints is merely a foot re>
warding the investigations of the phi-
losopher, and not in the least afibot^
ing the present appearance of the
wearer.
When, nenetratiog beneath the
dirty savagery that overlays his as*
pect, yon look dosdy at the f eatnres
of the Anaaeh, yon often find them
good; not always, for they frer
qaently verge upon the coarse eensaal
savage face, with projecting omng^
ootang-like lips and great ragged
fangs of teeth. Bit, on the other hand,
they are sometimes remarkably fine
and delicate. The odour is a deep
brown ; the eyes dark bead, witb a
tinge of brown in the whitoa; the
nose aquiline, with the nostrils slep*
log much upwards, leaving it sharp
at the point, and then curling and
expanding near the foee. The teeth
are oitm small and beantifolh white
and regular; thehair dead bUi^, some-
times growing in little short corkscrew
curls, sometimes plaited on each side
of the foce into a long band and
tucked away under the handkerchief.
The horses are small, not ridng in
general above fourteen bands one inch ;
but they are fine, and have great power
end skee for thdr hdght. X do not
suppose that thev would be mach ad^
mired by a purely £oglish horseman;
in foot, we see every day that Arabs
brought into England dotk^tfainfcr'
ttms, and experience teaches one that
the £nglish and the Arab hotse look
each absurd by turns, as the eye has
grown accustomed to the othmr. But
to my eye^ used for some time to rest
on nothing but the £astem horss,
they seemed to exceed ail that I had
yet seen in point of bcon^. Stal*
liaos need to be led into our campv
looking like horses in a pietnre; Hie
limbs fl^t^ broad, and poweifiil, desp
bdow the knee^ small and fine aboot
1868^
Mtne-JImUing tti %r^ 1691
SM
<tf oolllBe «iioiigli> dbuft to ataM
i2«0i on tMr poflMamr ; the neok
M^t, bnt yet arched; the flankfl
ckseiy ribbed up; the. tail oarried
eat wkb a sweep like the cnrre of a
palm bmndh; and the small head
tenninatiog in large no6triU alwajrs
snorting and netting. It was a
beaotifnl aight ta lee one <tf them
when he got wind <^ another stallion,
^w himself no witii his iieok arched,
hifl ears pointeo^ and his eyes almost
starting oot of his head ; his almost
rigid stiUnsBs for the instant eon-
trastiog earionsly with his erideat
nedinees to break ont. into forions
action. Watching aaoh a horse at
soeh a moment one feels the trath
of the igare of speech by which the
horse is ealled nAk. Koble, knight-
ly, hermiO, he seems leas a bmte than
an inoomation of high blood and Aery
eoeigy; a steed that Saladin might
have mimnted, and that wonld weU
have matdied his master.
Grey of Tarioas shades, bay, chest-
nat, and brown, are the ondinary,
and it may almost be said the only,
oolonrs of the Arab horse. The oom^
iBonest of all eolonrs is one which I
reooUect as being very frequent
amongst the Arabs met with in In-
dia, a dark, nnifonn, nntmeg grey,
light gvey verging upon white, is
neither rare nor peculiar to old
horses. Next to grey in freqoency
oome bay and ofaesinot) both fine and
rich in qnality, and the latter so
prised above all other eolonrs by the
Arabs that they have a saying that
if yoQ evw hear of a horse perform-
ing any ranarkable feat^ yon will be
sore to find, on inqniry, that he is a
ebestant. Browns are not nnireqnent;
and in my register of horses bonght
from the An^ieh, I find one black.
Bot so rare is that coloar, that, if I
bad merely trusted to my reoollection,
I should have said that I never saw
a blade horse in the deaert Of
other colours I saw none, except in
the solitary instance of a skew bald ;
and I cannot at this moment under-
take to say whether he was an Ana-
leh or belonged to some of the tribes
where the parity of the breed can
leas be depended on.
Sometimes the Anazeh, especially
the ohteft or men of wealOi, ride
with TorkUh saddles and bits. But,
with pdorsr meo, the horse amtet^
menta are mach on a level wiui the
dress of the rider. A coarse pad of
ragged dirty cloth or bad thin lea^
ther, slightly stnfiB»d to form & sort
of pommel and cantle, girthed with a
bit of ooarse web and sometimes
with another bi4 of the same pass*'
ing round the horsed ohest to form a
breast-baad, and withmit any kind
of stirrups, forms the sad<Ue. The
bridle consists of a simple halter
with a nose-band of msty Iron links,
without bit, and, in £aef, without
means of action of any sort upon
the horse^s month. A single thong
or end of rope is attached to this,
and serves to tether the horse, or,
passing on one side of the horsev
neck and heki in the rider's haad,
acts as rein. A curious addition to
this was sometimes nsed, in the
shape of a piece of rope attached to
the headstall between the ears and
held by the rider. Theexpla&aticm of
this appendage which soggested it-
self to me at th^ time, was, that it
was intended to steady the horse-
man's seat: whether this was the
fact or not I have no naeans of say>
ing positively. These accoutrements
were often perfectly bare of all ornar
ment, but^ on the other hand, wero
sometimes decorated with long black-
and-white tassels of the stae of those
of an old-fashioned bell-pull, sus-
pended from the saddle hj ropes
which allowed them almost to sweep
the ground $ with red doth and tufts
of ostrich feathers studs all over the
headstall; and, most frequently of
all, with a little short fritxy blaek
plume set up between the ears.
When armed for war the h^se-
man carries a light lance of twelve
feet or more hi length, witii a long
tapering four*dded spike much like
a great nail with each of its foor
edges bulging out at the base into
a flat lob^ through which is passed
an iron ring supporting a litne flat
tinkling bit of metal, intended, I
suppose, to give ornament and muaio
simnltaneooaiv. This is the great
and universal weapon, and I sup-
pose that the Ananeh does not eidst
who does not possess one. Swords
and pistols are seen in the posses-
sion of individuala; and aknost
every maa^ whcB wafldng about his
sre
Mtnt-Jimitnf m Sgria, 1864.
iSept.
Krate lAfafi, omte a vllok out, ' I
cy, out cf a root, and mneh re-
aembting a sfaillelagfa, except that It
k further fortlied by a tremendotiB
knob at die end as l:4g as one's
fist.
When riding unanned, the Anaxeh
always carries a small short stiek
with a orook at the end like a walk-
ing cane^ with wtiioh he appears to
gnide the horse. His horwmanship^
when he chooses to display it, is rerr
striking and enrloas. He pats his
faorfie to the gallop; leaning rerv
moch forward, and clinging with
kis naked legs and heels roand the
flanks, he comes past yon at speed,
his hiown sbai^ bare op to the
thigh, his stick brandished in his
hand, and his ragged robes flying
behind ; then, checking the pace, be
ttffns right and left at a cant«r, polls
up, increases or diminishes his speed,
and with his bitless halter exhibits,
if not the power of dinging his hofse
dead upon his hannches possessed
by the Tarks and other bit-nsing
Orientals, at aU erents tnnch more
control over the animal than an Eng-
lish dragoon attains to with his heavy
bit On these occasions it appeared
to me that the baiter served to cheek
and the stick to gnide: bnt I have
seen the some feats pern>rme<l when
the horBcman was carrying the lance,
and eonseqnently was withoat his
stidc. When I say that onr purchases
in the desert amounted to one hundred
horses, it may be supposed that the
number of horses I saw tried and
ridden was oonsideittble ; amongst
the whole, I never saw one attempt
to pull or show tiie least want of
docility.
I think that most horsemen will
admit that this is an extraordinary
performance, and that none will
aiidw it more readily than those who
are acquainted with the Arab horse
as be appears in our hflnd» in India,
where--t«> fiir as I may trust my own
experience— be is hot and inclined to
pfUl. Why shoald he display this
Mltng witJk ns, and not with his
original mastersf My own impres-
sion is that the se($ret lies in the
diffiirent temper of the English and
the Bedonin horseman. The Bedouin
(and every other race of Orientals
that 1 am acquainted with seems to
postess sooMfwInit of Hia saflBa qoalitir)
exhibits a patience towards his hone
as remarkable as the impatience and
Youghness of the Englisbnian. I am
not inclined to put it to his credit in
a moral point of view ; I do not be-
lieve that it results from lActioii
for the animal, or from self-restraiBt;
he is simply without the feeling of
irritability which prompts the Eng-
iish horseman to acts of bmtali^.
In his mental organisation some
screw is tight which in the English
mind is loose ; he is sane on a point
where the Englishman is slightiy
cracked, and he lides on serene and
contented where the latter wonld go
into a paroxysm of swearing and
spurring. I have seen an Arab
stallion, broken loose at a motnoit
when oor camp was thronged with
horses brought for saioi tmrn the
whole concern topsy-turvy and re-
duce it to one tumult of pawine and
snorting and belligerent screeeuing;
and I never yet saw the captor, when
he Anally got hold of the halter,
show the least trace of anger, or do
otherwise than lead the animal back
to his pickets with perfect calmaesi.
Contrast this with the '^job^* ia the
mouth, and the kick In the ribs, and
the curse that the English groom
wonld bestow under nmilar circum-
stances^ and you have in a great
measure the secret of the eood temper
of the Arab horse in Anm hands.
But' at the same time, giving every
weight to the reason which I ham
just assigned, the &ct of the Bedouios
making a practice of riding snch
horses in such a &shion is surprising
to me. Doubtless the nature of the
country assists them. There are no
carts to run ' against, no gate-poata to
smash a horseman^s knee-pan, no
plate-glass windows to bolt through ;
if a horse did decline to stop^ I sap-
pose the rider would have a fair diaooe
of letting him go till he was tiredt
without damage to either patty, Bnt
how it is that that most untmstaUe
animal the horse does not find some
opportunity for nuschief-^ow it is
that he does not sometimes rush into
battle with a hostile stidlion, bearing
his rider nolen§ wUm into the fragr
-*4iow it is that he never seises a
diance of bolting over the tent-ropes
of a camp, picking out tha shcdkh's
■1
Jhrsi'Dtaling in Sj^rto, 1854
sn
by preferenee— I do not pretend to
UDderBtand. Perhaps he does all
these things occasionally, and the
Arab mind is resigned thereto : all I
know 18, that I never saw him.
Oar manege riders have a great
idea of the direct mechanical power
which they have over the horee, as
opposed to the indirect power op-
taioed by actiof]^ upon his will
throogh the mediam of his intelli-
genca They *' aid," they " sapport,"
they *' balance/' they *' collect" him ;
by the action of bit and leg they
iodace a carriage which confers npon
him an agility which he would never
have possessed withoat ; in short, they
render the animal so much assistance
that it becomes donbtfal whether Ool-
onei Greenwood was not mistaken
when he laid it down as an axiom,
" that the horse carries the rider, and
not the rider the horse.'*
The Anaseh, bltless, and almost
reinless, destitnte of the very main-
spring of all his mechanism, with
hia horse as nncontrolled in his car-
riage as a wild animal— beats them.
Now, if their system is really as
efficient as they believe it — if they
really have these powers in their
hands, and are yet beaten by a man
destitute of them, or at the best poe-
sessing them imperrectly — it is clear
that they must labour under some
counterbalancing inferiority some-
where. Where does this inferiority
lie? Not, certainly, in }he power of
inflicting pain, for the Englishman
rides with gigantic curbs, and the
Anazeh with an inefficient halter.
Does it lie in the moral ascendancy
of the rider over the horse ? If so, our
manege riders must stand low in that
great quality of a horseman, when
compared with the Arab.
To a certain extent I believe this
to be the case. As I have said before,
I believe the Englishman to be infe-
rior to the Oriental in point of
temper. But it may be doubted
whether his natural inferiority is so
great as fully to explain why, pos-
sessing so powerful a system, he yet
rises no higher in the scale of horse-
manship. And precisely as you choose
to raise your esti^iate of his natural
capacity, must you lower your esti-
mate of his systeiD ; until, finally, if
you shall determine to raise the Eng-
YOU LXZXVL
lish capacity as equal to that of the
Anazeh, you must lower the English
system of '* aiding*' the horse by
mechanical power to something less
than the similar powers of *'aid"
possessed 'by the Anaaeh — which,
considering that the lattei^ has not a
bridle, cannot be great
I think myself that a oomparison
between our manege riders and the
Arab does not assign to the former a
position BO perfectly triumphant and
satisfactory but that they might ven-
ture on an experiment or two to see
if they could not mend it. And the
channel into which I should be in-
clined to turn experiment would be
this : To ascertain whether the direct
power of the rider over the horse has
not been much overrated, and whether
an exaggerated belief in it has not led
our riders to waste their efforts on the
body of the horse, when they ought
to have been dvecting them upon the
mind.
As I do not wish to give exagger-
ated ideas of the powers of the Be-
douin horseman, I will state more
clearly in what I consider his superior-
ity over our manage rider to consist
Put the hitter inside the four walls of
a school, or even in an " open man^e*
where the horse has been schooled till
the very aspect of the ground has
become associated in his mind with
" right turn" ^and •* left turn ;" in
fact, put him in a place where
the influence of habit and the ab-
sence of extraneous excitement com-
bine to dispose the horse's mind to
obedience ; and he will ride with a
precision and dexterity which the
Anazeh may or may not be able to
equal. I never saw him exhibit un-
der circumstances in any degree simi-
lar, and therefore cannot speak to this
point But get the same rider into
the open country ; make him put up
his horse's temper by a sharp gallop
on the turf ; then tell him to repeat
his riding-school feats, and watch the
result See how frequently the scene
becomes one of plunging and fighting
against the bit on the part of the
horse, and of pulling and hauling on
that of the rider : obaerve the unwill-
ing and imperfect obedience rendered
to such a horseman, and then com-
pare him with the Anazeh, wheeling
and sweeping like a swallow on the
m
Bormlkdfing in Syria, 1=54.
ISept
wing, as if man and beast were ia^ log for the aatiafkoUoii of an iotend-
gpired by oae will. Then it is that fng porohaser, is sometimedBtreDgth-
you see that the Arab is a real rider, ened by other feelings than those of
and the other a school rider in the mere dislike to exacting nnnecessaiy
fullest acceptation of the term— good exertion from his horse. One motire
in the school^ and good for nothing oat that I believe to be pretty strong^with
•^ i^ him is, simply a sulky obstinacr and
If I speak disrespectfully of English
horsemanship^ I must be understood
to refer only to that particular style
which our manege riders attempt
The Englishman . seems unable to
command that instantaneous and will«
ing obedience which tell in single
eombat, and which make the horse to
the rider as the boxer's 1^ are
to the boxer^ . But if it is a ques-
tion of going straight ahead, of taking
a horse headlong over every obstacle
with a skill mingled with
nscklessness of * both the 'rider's
neck and the horse's, I never saw
the nation-r-Parthians, or Medes, or
Blamites, or the d^ellers^ inMesopotor
mia— that was able to " hold a candlata
him."
The horses brought to us, hand*
some as they were, showed an amount
disinclination to do anything he . is
asked ; but I have known him object
npon religious grounds. A very fine
horse was one day brought to us. I
had some idea of buying him for mp
self, and told the tiitt to let me see
bis pacea He declined, on the ground
than the Franks never, when they
admired anything, took the precau*
tion of averting from it the conse-
^ quent dangers (that of the curse of
obstacle the Evil Eye) by the use of the word
perfect ^ Mashallah !*'— an iotroduction of the
name of God which is supposed to
break tie evil spell ; and that be
could not venture to expose his IrorBe
to the unsanctioned admiration which
his paces could not fail to call forth.
I am iqclined, at this present speakiog,
to wander why I did not immediately
volunteer to chant ** Maahallah"
throughout the whole of the pe^
of blemish-Hshiefly consisting of curbs formaoce^ I did no< do so, but
and enlargements of the knee and fet-
lock, and not perhaps, in the majority-
of instances, amounting to unsound-
ness of a disabling nature — which
surprised me. The only cause I can
suggest fbr this is the nniversfeil prac-
tice of riding horses at a very early
age ; for the style Of horsemanship to
which they are subjected is, as far as
my observation goed, by no means
oalculated to product uosoundDess.-
If you meet a Bedouin travelling, he
is never at any other pace than a se-
date walk ; he never piaffes^, never ex-
cites his horse to uooeoessary action ,*
the sharp straining halts upon the
haunches, practised by other Orientals,
are rendered impossible to him by
the absence of bit ; and so generally
averse is he to ^ knocking bis horse
about" that, even for the purposes
of sale, it is often difficult to get him
into a gallop, and, where the ground
is bad, impossible. Of course, in
making these statements, I refer only
to wbit I saw. Arab horseman-
Aip may, at other seasons and un«
der other circumstances, be very dif-
l^ent
Theaverdon of the Arab to gallop-
walked straight o£^ rather pleased
to Jet the pious Mussulman know
thal{ he had spoiled the sale of his
horse. • • .
Most persons have read stories of
the astonishing endurance of the
Arab horse in his native deserts. I
do not undertake to contradict these
statements, as my acquaintance with
the animal was not sufficiently pro-
longed to allow me to speak to bis
powers under circumstances other
than those in which I saw him, and
as, above all, my acquaintance with
the mares was but small. But I saw
nothing to confirm them. All the
horses that I saw during my stay in
the desert (a period Oommencing with
the 22d May and ending the 16th
June), w^re plainly incapable of any
great exertion, from an over-ffttness
produced by the grass-feeding which
they got at that time of tm year,
combined with the practice of never
putting them out of a walk. In the
winter, we are told, they are fed on
barley and camels' milk. Perhaps a
change of treatment may accompany
this change of food, and the Arab
horse may, for anything I know,
1859.]
FeUmkL-^C^dunon, .
273
be in bard eondition tbet). He cer-
tainly was not when I saw him.
The Bedouins fortanatel^r gave
Tvy litUe eWdeooe ot skill in con-
cealing blemishes.' The deception
most commonly attempted upon ns
lay in disgnisinff a rejected animal in
the bbpe that he m^ht be taken on
fresh inspection. Ahorse makes his
appearance in the morning in a plain
halter and Bedouin saddle. If be is
not accepted, towards evening be ap-
pears in the character of a fresh ar-
riral, with long heavy tassels bnng
all over the saddle, and with a breast-
band whose fringe covers all the fore-
arm. If this again' fails, next morn-
ing he is brought in a gorgeous red
braided saddle with a padded sad-
dle-cloth that conceals nearly all bat
the head and ta^. I recollect only
one instance in which another mode
of deception had been adopted. A
horse was bron^bt to ns with bis legs
all plastered with mnd as if he had
passed through a quagmire up to his
belly. The owner was, of eoorse, re-
quiM^i as a preliminary to business,
to Wash his horse's legs ; and when,
finding that otherwise there was no
hope of sale, he complied, there ap*
peared a beautifully fired fetlock,
seamed all over in a manner which
indicated some severe disease.
{To be continued.)
rKLICrPA.— CONCLUSION.
CHAPTEB rv.
Ik the next morning's cheerful
daylight Felicia smiled at herself
over her night's troubla Sffie was not
called upon, surely, to arrange or to
prevent her cousin's marriage. There
was no need for her arbitration one
way or other; how foolish she had
been I But perhaps the smile had a
little bitterness in it; and it is cer-
tain Felicia felt very lonely (more
lonely than she bad felt since her
first arrival) as she glanced out at
the window — and it was astonishing
how often that impulse moVed her
—at the opposite house.
As for Aogelo, he continued to be
rather triumphant and in high spirits,
pleased with the thoughts of becoming
suddenly a rich man, and also, with
extraordinary inconsistency, not per-
ceiving bow one thing contradicted
the other, pleased with the idea of
having made Felicia a little jealous,
and piqued her into betraying some-
thing of ber own feelings. Perhaps
this was the real occasion of his glee ;
but the sight of her cousin's satisfac-
tion made Felicia withdraw more
and more into herself: his kindness
affronted and offended her ; his levity
struck 'her with sharp pain and Im-
patience ; she took refuge in her own
room, and shut her door, and betook
herself to soiae homely matters of
dressmaking. Felicia had to be very
economical with her little income.
It was not in her nature to retain
anything in her own hands which
any one beside her seemed to want
She had already silently expended
her own little funds to increase, as
much as such a trifie could, the com-
forts of the household, and of her
poor old aunt. She would gladly
have worked, if she could, for the
same purpose, with the best heart
and intention in the world, but not
without some idea of shaming An-'
gelo into the way he should go.
However, Felicia did not find even
in dressmaking sufficient attraction
to counterbalance her excitement of
thought She had by no means
completed the proper round of sight-
seeing which ought to be accom-
plished by a stranger in Florence ;
and after wandering about the house
restlessly for some time, interfering
with the orders for dinner, intruding
into Madame Peruzzi's room, carry-
ing off the greater proportion of the
work there to relieve the old lady's
eyes and fingers, and generally ex-
pressing her restless and dissatisfied
condition by all the means in her
power, Felicia at length prevailed
upon her aunt to condact her to the
Pitti Palace, and leave her there to
374
jWioto.— OnuIiMMn.
[Sept
wander amoDg the piotnres at ber
leiflore. TbiB grand iDdalgence was
one which Madame Peruzzi was very
doabtfol aboat She greatly feared
that it was not qaite proper; bat
with a wilfal Eoglish girl, who feels
quite competent in broad daylight
and a public place to protect herself,
what can a tremalons old lady do ?
Felicia accordingly strayed aboat
at her own sweet will among the
pictares, finding them very generally
unsatisfactory, and in a perverse
mood forsook the realities for the
shadows, and lingered behind the
copiers who had possession of the
finest pictures in the room, wondering
over that branch of industry. If
Angelo, for instance, worked at that,
would his critical cousin be Satisfied ?
She answered herself, No, no! her
heart making indignant thumps by
way of echo against ber breast ; and
so indignantly vowing to let Aogelo
alone — surely she could find some-
thing better to do than a constant
speculation about Angelo ? — went
lingering round the room making
nnamiable criticisms in her discon-
tented mind. She was standing op-
posite that pale Judith — pale with
passion and exhaustion, and yet bear-
ing a hectic touch of shame, abusing it
to herself, when t>omeUnng happened
to Felicia. Here eyes were by no
means fixed upon the picture, but
had sidelong glimpses of passing
figures round her. Thus she saw
Bumethiog dart from behind the great
overshadowing easel of an industrious
artist — something which moved in a
flutter and a bound, noiseless foot
and clouds of noiseless muslin. This
something fell^upon her suddenly, and
grasped both^her hands. Agitated,
but not alarmed, knowing instinc-
tively who it was, jet instinctively
assuming a look of surprise and
ignorance, Felicia (who, herself, was
not very tall) looked down upon a
pretty little wilful face, half child
half woman, radiant with smiles, and
eager to speak. Following this
figure was an old French maid look-
ing kind and curious, who investi-
gated Felicia's face and dress with a
most attentive inspection, and drew
as close to her mistress as decorum
would allow. The little girl held
Fehcia's hands clasped in herSi and
looked very much as if she meant to
kiss her. '* Ob, you are Felicita !*' she
cried, out of breath— **Angelo*s FeH«
dta I I know you are ; do not deny
me. I am 80 very glad to see
you hera"
*' And you Y^ said Felicia, looking
down upon her, perhaps without the
cordiality which such a bright little
creature was accustomed to meet,
and permitting without retoming
the pressure of her hands.
"Has he not told you of me?*'
said the stranger, with a momentary
look of disappointment.
^ My cousin Angelo has told me of
." Felicia was about to say
something rather cruel. She checked
herself suddenly, perceiving the atro-
city of her impulse ; she was going
to say " of an heiress," and paused to
think of another word.
''Of somebodvr* said the little
stranger ; ^' and I am somebody. Yea,
look at me 1 he has told me of you,
and I love you already, Felicita. I
think of you quite as his sister. We
shall be such friends. Gome, An-
nette speaks only French; she will
not understand a word we say ; and
I have a hundred things to tell yon
—come."
Somewhat amazed and taken by
surprise, Felicia, who had only her
own vague reluctance to oppose to this
imperious friendship, was hurried on
ere she knew what she was doing ;
and, bewildered by the flood of words
which immediately overpowered her,
as her new acquaintance clung to
her arm, and, keeping half a step be-
fore her, looked up into her face,
was for the moment entirely subju-
gated and taken captive. The two
strayed along the grand galleries of
the Pitti, no longer lookmg at the
pictures, making a stray dash at one
here and there, moat frequently a
worthless little miniature — if any-
thing is worthless in that collection
—which the little butterfly could not
see perfectly without rushing to it,
and exclaiming, '* Oh, look — do you
know what this is ?"— isn't it pretty V*
while she palled Felicia briskly along
with her by the arm. To all these girl-
ish vagaries Felicia quietly submitted,
feeling, after a while, in her elder wo-
manly gravity, a touch of that charm
of remembrance which makes one
1859.]
Ftlieita, — Conclusitm,
275
girl last out of ber cbildfaood tndalgent
to the freaks of another who is still
ia that rejoicing time. This girl was
BO much gaTer, finer, more self-con-
fident than Felicia had ever been ;
80 mach of the conscioas power of
wealth, and the freedom of one to
whom nothing she wished for had
ever been denied was in her air,
and nianner, that the sight of her
waa a kind of apotheosis of girlhood
and its privileges to Felicia. She, a
woman nearly twenty, tried by the
early calamities of a life which had
been hard npon her, conld no k)Dger
ventnre to walk with that free step,
to talk with that nnrestrained yoice,
to say, <* What does it matter if the
people look at ns?— let them lookT'
as defiant sixteen did, who was
afraid of nobody. Felicia was even
iby of being visible to passing eyes
in that close UU d iStc of confidential
frieodRhip. She smiled at herself
and blashed and dropped her veil,
and hurried her companion past the
little groups of pictare*gazere. All
this the lively bloe eyes perceived
and understood, and made their own
interpretation of.
** What are you afraid of ?— people
looking at us?" said tbeyoong lady.
''Never mind the people, Feiicita;
I want to tell you something. Call
me Alice, will yon, please ? I am bo
disappointed and mortified and dis-
gusted that you did not know my
name. To think that Angelo should
have told me so Qiach about you,
and never mentioned my name! I
shall scold him so to-night. But do
call me Alice, please ; and then I
wiH tell yon my darling little
scheme."
**I mast call you Miss Olayton.
You and I are not equals,** said Feli-
cia gravely ; *' you are younger than
I am, and I ought not to yield to
yoa what I know is wrong. I scarcely
see how we can be friends, so differ-
ent ia your place and mine ; but at
least we are not, and never can be,
equalp, so I must not call you by
yonr Christian name."
The little girl looked up with her
face overcast and wondering. ^Bat
— but you are as good as I am,^' she
said, presiding Felicia's arm.
** Perhaps," said Felicia smilinff;
^ I did not speak about being as good ;
it would be sad work if the highest
were to be the best as well : but we
are not eqvali ; you understand
what that means?"
" Yes— but you are — what the ser-
vants call gentlefolks," cried Alice.
" Angelo told me he was poor ; I
know that very well ; but I know
that people of good family despise
those who are only rich. Is that
what you mean?-— do you mean be-
cause my father was only a moneyed
man that I am not good enough for
you?— or what do you mean? — for
I know very well that Angelo is a
gentleman, and you are his cousin ;
and unless you have taken a dislike
to me, or don't think me good enough
for him, I don't know what you wish
me to understand, Feiicita T'
" I am not speaking of Angelo. I
believe he is of good family by his
father's side ; but I am not a Peruz-
zt,*' said Felicia. ** If I were at home
in England, I could not by any chance
associate with such as you. I will
not deceive any one here. I am not
your equal. I cannot be comfortable
to meet you and call you Alice, and
bear you talk of all your friendis and
your cousins, so very, very difi^erent
from mine. Do you know," said
Felicia, raising her head with quite
an unusual efiiision of pride, *' I am
much more on a level with your maid
than with you?"
"Nonsense; I don't believe it!"
cried Alice energetically; then the
little girl made .a pause, and changed
her tone, evidently following out
this new question in her own mind,,
and arranging it to suit her other
ideas in respect to Angelo's family.
**I suppose your father was the
naughty son, was he? and ran away
and married somebody he fell in love
with— oh, no ; I mean your mamma ,
Feiicita, Ob, I do co love these
stories; and they have sent for you
here to take care of you, and make
you like their own child ? Now tell
me ; I want to know one thing ; is
she a very sweet person, Angelo's
mother?" ^ ^
A very sweet person! Felicia's
lip trembled with almost irrepress-
ible laughter. Little Alice thought
it was restrained feeling ; she fancied
that the poor niece's gratitude and
ftdmiration were too much for speech,
276
FjUkUtu-^aneiuiwa,
[Sept
and ran oo in her own conyenient
rattle, withoat leaying her new ac-
qoaiDtanoe time to answer.
" She does not care for society now
-HBhe never goes oat anywhere, the
dear old lady 1'' said Alice ; '' and I sup-
pose it is b^canse you are not qoite
60 nol^le as they are that I nave
never met you in society. Angelo
says you are so good and so attentive
to his mother, Felicita. Oh! don't
you think you could smuggle me in
sometimes, and let me help to amuse
her?"
** I don't think it is possible," said
Felicia laconically.
'^How dreadfully English you are
—how uncivil 1 You are not a bit
like an Italian. You never say a
word more than you can help, and
iook as if yon meant it all. I really
do think I shall begin not to like
you," cried Alice ; ^ but I do like voo,
mind/' she added, once more preanng
Felicia's arm ; " and I never will be
content till vou love me — do you
hear?" — and there was a renewed
pressure of the arm she held — \* be-
cause if it oomes true, and — and
happens, you know — we shall be
quite near relations, Felicita; and I
never had a sister in my life."
Unconsciously to herself, Fdida
shrank a little at once from the idea
and from her companion. ** Don't you
like to think of it?" cried the quick
little girl instantly. ^ Felicita, would
you rather that Angelo did not tove
me?"
'* I have nothing to do with it^"
said Felicis, trembling a littla *' An^^
gelo is almost a stranger to me, though
he is my cousin. Do DOt ask me,
pray. I shall be glad to see him
nappy, and you also ; but now you
must let me go. Bome one will come
for me present^ to take me homOi"
'* Oh 1 but I want to speak to yon
first," said Alice, clinging only the
more closely to her companfen's arm.
*'W111 you be quite sure not to be
ofiTended ? Will you forgive me if I
am going to say something wrong ?
Oh, Felicita 1 I want to know yon,
and see yon often. And yon tell me
you are poor. Will you be my paHa-
trice, dear? Now it is out, and I
have said it : will yon, Felicita? I
shall love you like my own sister,
and we can have sack delightful long
talks, and Fll get on lo qoksk witli
my Italian. Dear Felicita, will yon T
It would make me so happy."
With this briffht little mature
standing before per, pleading with
her bine Saxon eyee^ her rosebod
face, her affectionate words, looks,
and sn^iles and syllables, each more
winning than the other — the first
person who had spoken to her in her
own language since she came to
Florence — FfUcia found resistance
very difficult. The little girl was
clothed in that .irresistible oonfidenoe
of being unrefusable which so seldom
lasts beyond childhood, and was so
radiant in her ignorance of disap-
pointment that it was far. harder to
say nay to her than it would have
been to deny a boon really needful
to a careworn suppliant. Little
Alice was not presumptuous either
in the strength of her inezperienoa
She did not believe she could be
denied, but asked with her whole
heart notwithstanding, and with the
most sincere importunity. Felicda
could not look at her unmoved;
somehow the little face, in its bright
ignorance, touched her n^ore than a
sad one oouM have done- She said
something, she scarcely knew what,
about being quite unprepared for
such a proposal, and thinking it over
when she got home, and added onoe
more that she must gp, as somebodv
waited for her. Already she fidft
consoious of a momentary doplieitT.
Why did she not say, "My aunt is
coming for me," as under any other
oircumstances she would have done?
Poor Felicia 1 who had so little heart
or inclination to further this deiu-
sioo. Yet she watched with instino-
tive terror lest Madame Peru2Ei*k
gaunt shadow should appear at one of
Uie doors.
** And we can have such deh'ghtfni
talks— all about Angelo," said Alioe,
with a laugh and a blush— -** only
don't tell him. I would never let
him know we mentioned his name.
Oh, look, Felicita I is that dreadful
old woman * beckoning to you 7 — ^is
that Madame Perosi's maid f Never
mind her. Annette will go^ and teU
her you are oomini^ Annette— Oh,
Felicita! what is wrong ?"
And Alioe stood amaaed and in
dismay as her new friend bunt froni
ia59.i
FMdkL-^Chidtilhoi^. '
27r
her abraptly, vA mdeiH the haM
wwBibla ecroee th^ room to where
MadanML Penizzi stood by the door»
lookiiM|i for her niece. The light
erne roll from a side-wiodow upon
that/ tall booy old figure, and upon*
the: f$ee grey with age and seamed
with deep wrloklei^ where' the dost
of time lay heavy.' Madame Peroszi
wore a bomiet of yery fashionable
Bhapei- though dingy material, and
IhmI [some artificial flowers encircling
that oval of grey hair and leathern
cheek. Old age was not lovely -tn*
Asgdo's mother. She had no com**
plexion, and rather too much feature
even in her yoatb, and the featnrev
■ow, bore too great a re^mblanoe to
the eagle phtsiornomy to be at all
fiur to behold. She wore her osnal
thrifty hoosehold drees of black, with/
however, a coarse gay-coloored sbawl ;
and even a spectator ^ more** observant-
and of calmer 'jnclgm^nt than Alice*
Clayton votild haVe found it hard to
diseiwer mnytbing like gentility in the
eldf woman's figure. She carried a
Kllle travellmg - bag in her hand— -a
Sof Felicia's to which her aanti
taken a lancy-4-wkicb waff Bthiefl'
with homely pursbaaes, and, con^
tnciing her gnrey. eyel>rows over her
eyes, stood waiting for her niece, and>
ooDtempiatiDg Alice with -'coriotfty
scarcely less keen than her own. Alice
Olaytoa made a very difibreot vision
totiieeyeae£')iadaiDePerQzsii. fiier
pretty tee; which war ch'aratteristiO'
of little 'b^nd English good health
and good temper, and the bloom and
beauty of extreme youth, the old
lady bestowed hot little attention
upon; hot the pretty perfection of
her morning dress, the many*floonoed
muslin, gay and light, the delicate,
ftdls of embroidery^ ahonl her neck
and wrists,' the dainty hat, were not*
lost npon MAdame Peranri.' She*
saw a Bight not uafdndliar to Floren-
tine eyes— the English girl perfectly
aqotpped in everything appropriate'
to h«r youth and eondition* wbose
8|»pearanoe testifled/ beyond a ^donbt,
to the wealth and luxury 'of her
ftunily^ There she btood, with her
Freooh. maid dose behind her^gazin^
with ail her eyes at Madame remszi,
foil of tmriosity, murmaring to her-
self, ''What an.oM witdil" resolute
to ask AngeJe iih» that ailiaordiM
nary figure belonged to, and if it
was * his • mover's faithful hundred-
year-old tn^itionarr matd. *'If she
were not such a hideous old creature,
what fun it wOuld be to have her
tell us stories 1" said the ubconscious
Alice to herMlf, as she gaied at her
lover's mother, and at Felicia in her
bla6k' dress hastening to' join her ; -
while • Madaitie Perozsi m return,
gased at Alice,' S{)ecalatiog on who
^ was, and whether Felicia's ac-
quaintance with her might be an
opening into '^ society" for her niece,
and' an enlargement of coonedtioa'
for her son. Between the two, Feli-
cia," with a 'flutter and pang, ran
aicross the 4)4cious room, and caught
at her aunt's arm, and drew her hast*'
ily away. She felt so hurried and
anxious to escape* that' -she could <
scarcely hear> or understand the ques-
tions with which Madame Peruzzl
ortailed hcr,*'and certainly had neither'
breath nor inclination to answer
them. She hUrrfed the ^Id lady
down the stairs at a hiost unusual
pace, ahd' oould not help looking
back again and again to see if they
were followed or observed, and yet'
she oould not have' expkuled to any'
one why sb^ did 1t< Oerttf oly it was'
olbtikfng to her, and it is quite doubt-
fel whether Angelo, under the same^
circumstances, would have taken any
pains to conpeal his mother. But
.Belida'ODeid nottesist'ber'impulseL' She*
otily fi^lt safe at last la the Via Ghfg^
nio, within the shady portraits of their
own lofty house.' ' - '
Then Madame Perazzi was much
dissatisfied with the very brief reply
which our niece gave » to her qaeft*
ttons — ^'a young Englishwoman,'
whom she knew.^ Th^ M ladvhad
ocular demonstration that her -niece
knew the Httle stranger, and that she
was English ; but who was she 7 — ^and
how hflwtl Felicia become acquainted
with her t — and how 4onff had she
been in Florence T-^and- of what de-
gree were her friends?— and whe^
did sbe livel^-'-'^Ltad' altogether > who
was she? The result was so much
the less satisihctory, that Felicia
dbuld not hate answered if* she would,
and would not if she could. On the
contrary, she restrained henelf care*'
fully, and did not even confess that
ska did inM' know. Angelo himself
278
Fdicita^-^ Cbndmdon.
[Sept
she said to beraelf, somewhat bitterly,
must tell his mothcar. She had beea
sofficientiy yezed already without
that. The cooeeqaeoce was that the
day passed somewhat nncomfortably
in Via Giagolo, where Madame
PernzzPs cariosity lasted long, and
was mixed with some jealousy and
annoyance in the thongbt that her
English niece meant to keep this
fine acqnaintance to herself, and was
not disposed to share with Angelo
the farther advantages it might
bring. The old lady laid ap inner
mind every particnlar of wnat she
had seen, to tell her son. Perhaps he
ooold sacoeed better with Felicia than
she had done, and at least it was right
that he shonld know.
While Felicia, for her part, a little
sulky and solitary, in her own room,
pondered the interview, and watched
at her window behind the curtains,
to see Alice in nndisgnised solicitade
watching for her from the opposite
house. Amidst all the disagreeable
feelings which this little girl had
excited in her mind, she still felt a
certain indescribable melting towards
the sweet English face and English
tongue, of the confidential and frank
accost of the stranger. She was so
young, after all— only sixteen— that
Felicia^s womanly dissatisfaction at
her anconcealed liking for Angelo
woald have very speedily given way,
had Angelo been nothing more than
a mere relative to Felicia. As it
was, her conscience and her imagina-
tion tormented her the whole day
long. What was Angdo to her —
why should she object to anybody
preferring him, or saying so 7 Why
should not the wealthy orphan bestow
her fortune on Angelo if she pleased ?
Then Felicia's mocking fancy taunted
her with believing Alice her rivai;
and with a stinging blush and bitter
humiliation, she flew from her window.
Her rival! All Felicia's work, and
all the haste she made about it, and
all her other resoorces of thought
and speech, could not drive that
hamiliatiog suggestion out of her
head. Her blush and her discom-
fort lasted the whole day. She had
not a word to say, nor a look to
bestow on Angelo, though she forced
herself to sit rigidly opposite to him
while his mother recounted every
detail of the appearanoe of AKce, and
complained that Felicia would not
tell her who the stranger was. An-
gelo had no sudi delicacy. He dis-
closed all that he knew with the
frankest equanimity. She was very
rich, the little Englishwoman, siid
pretty, yes— and was extremely gra-
cious to himsel(^ he added with a
laagh and look which sent Madame
Pernzzi's ambitious hopes bouodiog
upwards. This oocumd in tin
afternoon, when it was stili daylight,
the yoang man having appeared this
day much earlier than his wont He
stood at the vrindow as he spoin,
with something of the pleased hesi-
tation and fun of a young girl de-
scribing a conquest, looking down
upon the windows where Alice ax-
tainly was not visible, though Felids
suspected otherwise. Madame Pe-
rozzi sat on the sofa, asking qoestiou
and admiring him, as, indeed, wts
not wonderfal, for he looked all the
handsomer for looking pleased, while
Felicia sat by looking on with the
most intolerable impatience in her
mind. She could not bear to see
him smiling with that womaniah
complacency. She was too much
interested for ;his credit to tolerate
it The look disturbed her beyond
measure in her imperative yonthfol
thoughts. She was ashamed for him
— he who was happily and totally an-
conscioos in his own person of hav-
ing anything to be ashamed of, sod
at last joined in the oonversstioD
when too much provoked to bear aoy
longer her spectator position.
" Miss Clayton wishes me to be her
parlatrice,*^ said Felicia. **I woold
not decide, aunt, before consolting yoo.
Should you object V*
She glanced at Angelo as she
spoke, and saw that he started
slightly, but not that he was disoom-
posed or mortified at the thought of
his little hidy-love knowing a rela-
tion of his to be in circumstaooeB
which oould justify such an offer.
Angelo was not a schemer^be was
content to marry the heiress as a
very proper and legitimate means of
promoting his own interest, bat sot
to deceive her into a marriage with
him. Felicia, in the ignorance of her
insular notions, having done bio
more than justice at one time^ *oA
18S9.]
Fdiciia.'^ConduMiot^
279
given *hiai credit for exftited seoti*
ments impossible to the atmosphere
ID which DO lived, did him leas than
jostioe DOW. He would have bronght
in the astoDiBhed Alice into this veir
iola if he could have done it with
propriety, as smiling and good-
hoffionred as now.
" My soul,*' said Madame Perazzt,
&]teriog a little— for she conid not
forget that, antil teo minates before,
her hopes had been fixed on Felicita
as her son's wife, and the prodent
old lady still remembered that a bird
in the hand was more satisfactory
tiian a doaeen in the bash—*' My soul,
you have no need to give jooreelf
trouble. You have enough, Felicia
mia— and— it might harm our An-
gelo, thou perceivest, my life T*
*^ Nay ; bat Felicita has no friends
— this signorioa longs to know her,
and loves her already," said Aogelo :
** be not hindered, my cousin, by any
thought of me."
*' You do not know the £ogli8b,'l
said Felicia, turning to him quickly
with a significance of meaning which
Angelo could not even guess at
" Should I have presented Miss Clay-
ton to your mother, Angelo ?"
"Aud why not?" said Angelo,
turning his eyes from Felicia to his
nother— then, perhaps, he coloured,
slightly. ''They saw each other,*'
he said ; " I will tell Mees Aleece who
it was."
"Nay, my son," said Madame
Peruzzi, "they are proud, these
English, as Felicita says. I had but
my household dress, and was not
like thy mother. Bay it was thy old
Duree, or thy mother's maid. Thy
rich heiress shall never scorn thee, my
life, for thy mother's sake."
Angelo crossed over quickly to her
sofa, and kissed Madame Pemzsi's
hollow grey unlovely cheek. " Who
scorns my mother scorns me," he said,
with a glance towards his cousin, who
looked on with amazed and uncompre-
hending eyes.
Felicia was totally discomfitted»
She " gave it up" in complete bewil*
derment; she could no more ande^
stand how fortune-hunting was a
perfectly honourable and laudable
occupation, and conId be pursued
honestly without guile or conceal-
ment, than Angelo could understand
the self delusions of Alice concerning
himself, nor how utterly dismayed
that young lady would be could she
see the reality of his domestic ar-
rangements, and know his mother as
she was.
CHAPTER V.
But when Angelo next encount-
ered Alice Clayton, and was accosted
by her with eager questions about
his cousin, and inquiries concerning
the " frightful old witch" who hurried
Felicia away, the young man began
to understand what his cousin meant
when she said he did not understand
the Eoglish ; and the blue eyes fixed
upon him took away his oonrage.
He did not answer boldly that it
was his mother, as he meant to do,
but faltered, and found himself assent-
ing at last when Alice suggested his
mother's maid. When he had done
tlus a great revolution of feeling be-
fell Angelo, He was half disgusted,
half stimulated by the deception. It
was no longer a jesting matter to
him. Now, in mere vindication of
himself to himsdf, it became neces-
sary to press his suit and become
serious in it ; while the more be did
so, the less he liked his little heiress ;
and a certain sense of guiU in his
conscience, and the dishonour of de-
nying bis mother, gave a bitterness
to every thought of her, which by no
means promoted his happiness as a
lover. Meanwhile Felicia, who dis-
approved of him and watched him,
and seemed to perceive by intuition
his sentiments and his actions alike,
became more and more interesting to
Angelo. He was flattered by that
constant noiseless watchful regard
which he knew she bestowed upon
him. He felt that she found him out,
and saw the change in his mind ; and
feeling, for the first time in his life,
pain and dissatisfaction with himself
Angelo, instead of being offended by
her unexpressed perceptions, felt a
relief in gnimblifig vaguely to her
280
jKWwi^;-^(7(m0kifum7
|8*U
OTer all tUoas fsgne mueries upon
which • vonihfal people reveo^ the
Tdttthfal pADgs of their owh begiooiDg
life.
•While Chiogs were in this coodi-
tion, Alice Clayton lest no opporta*
Dity to improve Her aoqaaiotance
with Felicia. She watched froita the
Windows wban efae went ont; and
followed her; she eontinned to em
eonnter her in all sorts of unlikely
places; she took thatgirhBh Ttolent
fanoy- for tl|e elde^ -yoang womani
which 18 generalfy every girl's first
love; — indeed, bat for the greater
force and eKcitement of what Alice
eoppoefed to be real love— the love
which wonld bbssom into bridal
cake and orange blosfloms -r^ It * «ft
^tremely donbtfiil whether the little
girl like! Angelo better than his
ooasin; and at last, by persistence
and entreaties, she gained her end.
Fdioia, tormented by constant peti-
tions, and fall of an indescribable fCari"
osity aboat the progress of afifitirs be<>
tween Aagelo and the little stranger,
consented at length to become her
parlcUriee, This pecaliar office was
one excellently well adapted for
making ^ her • acquainted with every-
thing whfich pa»Kd ia cfr flasJ^Bd
through the volatile and girlish mind
of Alice. A parlatrke is a talking
teacher — a shoot from the great
governess tree — from whom no ac-
complishment is required, but a good
accent aod tolerable command of her
o#n laagaage, aa'd wbo£ie ^dal^ is
simply to talk with tb^ xindividaal
under, iostriictionk An tesy task ta
all appearance, bat not so easy aa
it seems when it is the pupil who
ifl bent upon talking, and whose
thongbts flood into abundant rivehi
of Eoglish instead of strait stream^
of Italian. It was mow winter, and
winter is ndt much ^oite j^racioua in
Florence than in'Bngland'; bat wfaild
the weather grew cdder and ^eolder,
Madame Perazsi*s stony rooms re*
mained innocent of fire, and perhaps
Felicia found aft additional induce-
ment in the wann eomfbrt< of thd
oarpetted apartment which .#a8 Alice's
dressinff-rdom, and where she could
warm her shilly Eoglish fingers at
the sparkling wood-fire and recall
insular comforts < without rebukeb
Hare she heard all about iU M/^'
dedent^ prospecCb, aAd^ Umitalions
of her young oompanion*8 life: Aliee
Clayton was the only child of a rich
man, who had left hei nottiinfr much
to boast of is the way of family con-
nections on his side, and no rcAative
on her mother's save a^ proud aunt,
who could scarcely forgive her rater's
low marriage, and yet was not indis-
posed to accept the guardianship tof
a young lady with ^' bundred tfacHH
sand pounds. This, itowevet, Mr.
Clayton had strictly guarded against
The guardian of Alice was a London
solicitor — an excellent man, who
lived in Bedford Row, and waa the
most innocent and inexperienced of
old bachelors. MKElMnibe, ttftaily
ignorant what to do' with her, had
confided her her to the care of his sis-
ter-in-law, a semi'fashionable widow of
these regions, aod under the maternai
care of Mrs. George Elcombe the
young heirees had come to Italy, and
at sixteen (had made ber appearance
in the sbciel^ of Flbrenea "' With
ner* fortonfe,'^ her ft<*commodatin^
chaperon saw no advantage in re-
taming Miss Clayton in girlish bond-
age. It did not matter to her how
early she came oat Here, accord-
ingly, the child well »pteased had
C6Me iiio aA the-'^vil^es wf the
woman, ^ad met Angdo PeruzEi, and
pleased with his good looks, and
flattered with the novelty and frolic
of the whole matter, had fallen in
love, according to her own showing,
at first si^ht.' Falling ill lovS had
no sentimental influence upon Alkse.
She thought it the best fun possible,
and enjoyed, above all her other plea-
sure, that delightful secret which
she cbold only discnss with Felida,
and which, "for all the world," must
never be mentioned to anybody elsa
Oiie drawback, however, remained to
her happiness. Till she was twestjr-
one she was under her guardians
authority. She could neither marry
nor do anything else of importance
without his consent
"Bat about Angelo?" cried Feli-
cia one day,- astoiiaded to hear of
this hindranoe-^^^does he expect to
satisfy your guardian? or what is to
be doner
"That is just what he asked 'me
the other day," said the ^ai^g'
Alice ; " and I told him, M be' sit^
be mmt-wAitL Ofa, I mo. not- in • th0 dpmeaUa ftccideat wlitoji had
horryjit^aU, I aflsnre.yoa— / caa hapmoed, Felicia did not turn her
wait yery well till I come, of age^? • heaq^ but watched the coni^se of
** Bat if jon wait .jtiU yon cooio of events in her companion's face. . SJiie
age," said FeUci^ qoicklyi '^ you. wUl knew, by the look of Alioe, that
not marry A^geIQ.!^ . som^. one was approaching; and >
^'FelicitaT' cried her little, com* though she h<^rd no footstep, wa^
panioQ. indignai^tly. '*Do you mean scarcely siirpirised by Mr& Elcombe's
to suppose that I will, ^ inoon^ distinct slow yoice close at her ear,
stant? or do you th^nlf he will for- "Who was iti MissOli^ton, may. {
get me ?" ask, whom you oonld not speak of to
''I do not know," said Felicia— Maria?"
*' perhaps one, >perhaps the other; . Alice was greatly discomfited, and
but you cannot expect Angelo. to first of all she was angry» as was
wait for foq|}— five. years." natural to a spoiled child. **. I am
'* The knights long ago used to not obliged to spc!ak to Maria of
wait for. scores of years," said Alice, everybody I know," she said, with a
iDdigDaqtlyl . pout and. a frown. .Mrs. Eloombe
'* I ^ope thev were very happy at was still invisible to Fcjicia,, wl)o .sat
the ^Dd," said her grave senior, with motionless, sonk in a low easy-cbajir,
a smile; ** but.. there, are no such with the colour fluctuating rather
Imights nowadays. And Angelo is uneasily on her own cheek, and her
very dififereot, and you are so young : eyes fixed upon the blushing, pont-
you two will never wait for each }ng,j, di8comp98ed , fi^ce before her.
other through five long veara." . . , flSm ^Q ;anMipr}tai«v^gra9Jti^; of silk
**We will, though rf (Br|ed , AJice. made itself heard in* the ap^i^taneuft^
"Felieitsy Ido belie^VjS,:yoi^4on't like and Mrs. Eloombe, gliding round
08 to be food of each other. I al* behind Felicia*s chair, sei^ her-
ways thought so from the first Somc^ self beside Alice, and took the af-
thing is wrong: either you don't ap- fronted little girl's, hand %fftH?tionate-
prove of it, or you don't like if^ ]y iutb.h^pwn.., r
or Bomething. You are always Eogp ** By no i^eaos* my dear child 1
lish and downright on otlier 'thiogs> Speak to Maria of. whom you please,"
bat you are a regular Jtsiian here — said this sensible woman, remember-
you never say right out what you ing that young ladies of Alice Clay-
mean." ...*.^ . ton's endowments d^and, other
*'I am sorry you think so," said tr^tpient from ordinary girls ofsix-
Fdipia with a sudden painful blush te^n. ," You know how glad I al-
and paleness immediatelv ji|CQeiedJng w#ys.am wheq you make »ttce friends
each other, which would , have . be- -r^frieni^ whom I can approve of;"
trayed.her to ^ more skilled obseryef aqd here the slightest side-glance in
of humai) emotions ; " but I have the. world made a parenthesis of Fe*
nothing to do with it, and, no Dight lioia, and excepted her; . <' but .you
dther to approve or di^approv^. 9e- are my little ward at priesent, my
ttdee, we are speaking £;agl|di)i" ,she lovoi I am responsible to my bro-
sdded immediately in Italiai, '^and tk|er for so preoious a charge, and
that is quite contrary io our purpose, yon must forgive me for inquiringt
If ypu are going to speak English, my sweet Alice. I heard what
MlaB Blcombe will be a better parla^ s^med to me a gentleman's name-*
tfice than me.". a gentleman's Chrittian name* Most |
^Ob, nsTer mind the parlaifiee. probably I koow him also, and think
Imsgine m9 spring. to Maria Elr him charming; but, my love, you
oombe of Angelo Tolled Alice,- with a can surely speak of him to m#,"
little burst of laughter. Felieia, who This appeal threw AUcp into the
lat with her back to the door, Qould greatest eonfosioa and dismay, and
not understand how it was that the had a still more painful effect upon |
little girPs cheeks suddenly flushed Felieia, whose presence Mr& Eieombe i
crimson, and an injured sullen look studiously ignored after that M9 \
of angisr came npon he? iM. ^ Half glanoe, but for whom it was. much !
»fnid to look rounds ^nd guessiog less easy to sappoif Imnolf »' pi«oe |
t82
Fdieita, — Cmuhman.
[Sept
Of faroitore than it wfts for thitt
respectable woman of the world to
ooDclade her to be. Felicia waa all
the more hamiliated and abashed
that she felt herself to have no real
standiDg-groiiDd here. She was no
parlatrie§^ though she filled that
office. She had no claim whatever
to consider herself an eqnal or com-
panion — not even the imaginary
claim of nobility; the few drops of
long-descended blood which made
Angelo a Perozzi. Felicia's blood
was of a very mediocre Italian qna-
lity, dilated by intensely common-
{>lace English. Any one with a pre-
odiced eye» like Mrs. Eloombei find-
ing her here so familiarly installed,
and investigating her claim?, mast
infallibly condade her an accomplice
of her coasin's, the agent of a clan-
destine correspondence; and Felicia,
who bad so little sympathy with this
correspondence, felt her breast swell
and her cheek barn, while smooth
Mrs. Elcombe, the pleasantest of ma-
ternal women, went on, wooing the
confidence of her heiress with every
appearance of believing herself to be
alone with Alice, and having lost
sight entirely of the presence of a
third person in the room.
In the mean time Alice, faltering
and ashamed, half disposed to cry,
and half to be angry, did not know
what to answer. Sbe was not crafty
or wise by any means, thoasrh she
was an heiress, and the English
fashion of answering honestly a fair
qaestion was strong npon the little
girl. She coald not tell what to do ;
she looked at Felicia, btit it awed
even Alice for the moment to see
how her dignified ehaperone ignored
Feliciati presence. Then a little
indignation came ^ to her aid; she
began to plnck at the corners of her
handkerchief, and poat once more.
Then her answer came reluctantly,
being a sabterfoge. ^'I know no-
body, Mr& Eloombe, that yoa do not
know as well. I don't know any
gentleman in Florence^' (here the
breath and the voice quickened with
rising anger) " whom I have not seen
with yoa."
** Precisely, my love; I am quite
aware of that,*' said Mrs. Elcombe,
cheerfally; ** tiierefbre, Alice, I am
tore, when yea think of it, joa can
not have the slightest objection to
tell me whom you were spesking of.
I have the most perfect confidence in
yout my dear child ; yoa don't sap-
pose that I don't trua you; bat I
confess I am curions and interested
to know who it was."
Here followed another panse, then
Felicia rose. "Perhaps I may go
now," she said hurriedly. " Too
will not want we again this after-
noon, Miss Clayton ; and you can let
me know afterwards when I am to
come again.''
"Ob, by all means, my love, let
the young person go," said Mrs. El-
combe, looking up as if she had dis-
covered Felicia for the first time.
'*We are going oat to make some
calls presently. Surely, Mies Clay-
ton does not require you any longer
to-day; it is a pity to detain her,
wasting her time. I hope you have
a good many pupils. Good-day. I
never like to detain such people, my
dear, after I have done with them,"
said the excellent matron, in audible
consideration, "for their time, yoa
know, is their fortune."
" Bat, Felicita, Felicita, stop I Oh.
Mrs. Elcombe, yoa mistake — she has
no papilsl— she is qoite as good as
we are,'* cried Alice, rising in great
distress ; ^ she only comes becaose it
is a favour to me. Felicita, stay ! I
cannot let you leave me so."
" I beg the young lady's pardon,"
said Mrs. Elcombe; " but I think it
is always a pity to have things done
as a favour which you can pay money
for, and get the proper persons to do
— I don't mean anything in respeet
to the present instance, but as a
general rule, my dear Alice, I think
you will find it useful to remember
what I say. The yoang lady is
Mademoiselle Antini, I think; but,
perhaps, as we were beginning quite
a private conversation, my love, we
need not detain her now."
Alice ran to Felicia, put her arms
round' her, and kissed her eagerly.
" Don't be angry, please — I shall not
tell her anything— oh, Felicita, desr,
don't be vexed! — and promise yoa
will come again to-morrow!" cried
Alice, in a whisper, close to Felicia^
ear.
'<Tell Mrs. Elcombe anything yoa
please ; yon sarely oannot suppose I
1859.]
FdicUih'-Oimelitiwn,
283
want an^tbifig coBoealed from her/'
said Felicia, qaietlj; ^I sfaoald not
have come to all, bar, as I sappoeed,
with her perfect ooncarrence; and
I will ask to see her if I come to-
morrow."
So saying, despite the frightened
aod deprecating look with which
Alice replied, and the gesture she
made to detain her, Felicia went
away — her heart beating quicker,
and her pride, such as it was, sore
and injured. After all, everything
Mrs. El combe had said was qaite
true : she was in an undeniably false
position — her coosin's agent I and
the conversation that might ensae
toDchiog Angelo was sare to bear
frait of one kind or other. She went
away, accordingly, with some oom<
motion in her heart.
Angelo lingered at home that even-
ing. Angelo himflelf was dissatisfied
and oat of sorta The saacy oom-
posare with which his little heiress
had announced to him that she was
Dot at all in haste, and that he most
wait five years, confoonded the young
man. Hopes of sadden wealth are
not good for any one; and Angelo
felt a certain share of the gambler's
feverisfaness and contempt for ordin-
ary means and revenues. There are
oircnmstanoes under which the pretty
saaciness and assurance of pretty
little girls like Alice Clayton are
exceed iogly captivating and delight-
fal ; but there are other circumstances
which gi?e quite a different aspect
to such coquettish girlish imperti-
nences. Angelo had never made very
desperate love to the little English-
woman— she did not require it. Fan
and good-humoar, and a general in-
clination to abet all her frolics and
do what she wanted him, were quite
enough for the sixteen - year - old
beaaty. Bat to wait five years I
What would become of that yoath-
fal flirtation in five years? The
yoang Florentine was very sulky,
aafficiently inclined to talk over his
troubles, but ashamed to enter upon
the subject with Felicia, who alone
could understand him. The «a/a
that evening was less comfortable
than it bad used to be in summer.
January in Florence is January with-
out any equivoque; and though
Madaoie Peruzzi had a stove in
the room, she was an old4BshioDed
Italian, and was not in the least in-
clined to ose it, not to speak of the
high price of wood. The old lady,
accordingly, lets pleased than ever
to sit op through the long oold even-
lag, sat in her usual sofa corner,
wrapped op in a large ancient Med
shawl, beneath which she wore so
many old jackets and invisible com-
forters that her leanness was rounded
into very respectable proportions.
Close beside her, under her skirts,
only visible when she made some
movement, was a little round earthen-
ware jar with a handle, within which
a little heap of charcoal smouldered
in white ashes. Madame Peruzai
would have scorned the brightest
ooal-fire in all England, in compensa-
tion or exchange for that anwhole*
some little furnace under her skirts;
bat with all her shawls huddled
round aod her pan of charcoal, she did
not look quite an impersonation of
that sunny, glowing, fervid Ittily of
which we read in books. Everv thing
looked cold to-night — poor Felicia,
working at her iraedlework with blue
fingers, and b^inning to repent of
her stubborn English resistance to
the pen of charooal— Angelo leaning
his arms on the chilly marble table
with discontent and disappointment
on his faoe. Even Angelo felt the
cold pinch his feet upon those dis-
consolate tiles, which no carpet ever
had covered, and buttoned his great-
coat over his breast with a physical
sensation which seconded bis mental
discomforts and increased them.
Felicia wore the warmest winter
dress she had and a shawl, which
rather shocked her Eoglisb senti-
ments of home -propriety, bat was
quite indispensable. Thev were a
very dreary party und^r the two
bright steady lights of their tall lamp.
It was a kind of Italian interior un-
known to strangers, and novel in its
way.
** I wish," cried Angelo, at last, in
a sudden burst as if his thoughts
had been going on in this strain, and
only broke from him when he could
restrain himself no longer--'* I wish
that thb Firenze had never been * la
bella.* I wish we had no Dante, no
Giotti, no fame, Felicital The past
murders ua. Is there so mach power
384
FdieiUk-^Conciwion,
[Bept
ID A mass of stone and maMe, in a
lioe of pictores, that they should
tratni^le the li0B oot of generations of
men? I wish these strangers, these
traTellers, these! wandering English,
would find souse other place to visit
and admire ahd degrade. I wish they
woald hat leave ns <mt own ooantry,
to make the best of it' for ourselves.
They would degrade us all into XMwks,
and couriers, and hotel-keepers. It
i^ould not be— it is shame I'*
• ^'What have the English done,
that you should speak so?" cried
Felicia, somewhat itfdignantly; for
her national prejudices were very
easily roused, and this unexpect^
attack astounded her beyond mea-
sure.
•<'Donet— oh nothing very bad;
they have taken my mother's house,
floor after floor, and made up our
income,*' said Angelo, with an angry
laugh. "They have dbne nothing
wrong, my English cousin. Why
should they do every thing, I say?
Why are they doing a thousand
things everywhere, every one, all
ov^r the face of the earth, except
ItaJv ? Why must we never live out
df hearing of thoUe frogs who croak
to us of their present and our past?
Ah, shall we never ' hkve anything
but a past ! You stare at me, Felicita ; *
you think me mad, I who ani useless
and idle as you say, but I too am an
Italian. I think of my country as
well as another. I could be a revolu-
tionary, a politician as well as another ;
and if I say nothing, it is for my
mother's sake."
^ But your mother would not hin-
der you from making a revolution
in yourself, Angelo/' said Felicia,
philosophically, improving the oppor-
tunity.
Angelo laughed. <* Insatiable mor-
alist t " he said, shrugging his shoul-
ders, '^I have already had the hon-
our of telling you what are the
only things I could do, copying pic-
tures, carving alabaster, making por-
celain. Then there are the Govern-
ment bureaus, it is true ; but I have
no interest, Felicita mia ; what shall
Ido?'»
*' You onlymock me, Angelo,'' said
Felicia. "You never think seri-
ously, much less speak seriously.
You wont to be rich and have every-
thing that pleasef you, but you doii*t
want to work for it. A great maoy
people are like that— it is not singular
to you.*'
* Hsfr tone sfuog -her odisih deeply.
** And you — you despise me I" he
said. <* Because I care more for what
you think than for what all tiie
world thinks, therefore you seom
ma"
** Do not say so," said FeMoia quick-
ly ; " Alice GlaytonV opinion ought
to be, and is, a grekt deal more im-
portant to yoii than mina She thinks
you always right; I do not ; but that
is no fault of mine.''
<* Alice Clayton is a ehfld," said
Angelo ; ** her ophiion is what pleases
her for the moment How should she
jodge of a man? she knows less of mo
than Marietta does. I am a stranger
to her disposition, to her little experi-
ence, and to her heart"
«• Then why, for heaven's sake." said
Felicia, before she was aware of what
she said— then she paused : " I do not
understand what you mean.'*
'*But I understand it perfectly,''
said Angelo, with pique. *' Little
Mees Ale^oe can play with me, she sup-
poses, but she shall see otherwise.
If she had me in her power, this lit-
tle girl, it shall be but once and no
more."
•« Angelo." said Felicia, «I am not
a proper adviser on such a matter—
I am not a proper confidante. Pray
be so good as to say no more to me.
I can understand the other subject of
your complaints, but not this."
"Yet it is the same subject, Feli-
cita," cried the young man : '* can I,
who do nothing, and have no hope —
can I have a wife like your Eoglish-
man ? Can I ask any woman to live
as my mother lives— she who is old
and contented with her life, and an
Italian? What must I do? You tell
me work ; but unless I make me an
exile, there is nothing to work at;
and, my cousin, if I marry little Alice,
I will be good to her. I will not love
her, but she shall have nothing to
complain of ma Why should not I
marry her ?— but I will not wait five
years."
"06n9in Angelo," said Felicia,
rising abruptly from , the table, " I
wish you good-night; you oppress
me, and I will not bear it I have
1659.]
FdkUa.^ OomMiwiL
9B5
BOthiD^ to do witib yow UMinyioi^.ot
mr Idvtf. I.ftm. only a plain Eag*
lish girl, and I do not uodentaod
them-^I bid yon good-night.'*
And with a hurried step and yoice
that faltered slightly, she went away,
not in a yery comfortable ooadition of
nuod, poor girl; triod on both, sides
beyond, what was bearable, yot . al-
xoady blamiog .herself for her ebpK
Uiion ' of « impatience, and fancying
she had betrayed feelings which she
would have given the world to hide.
Tet, inconsistent as hwnaa .nature
IS, this sadden and angry departure
of his. cousin somehow cheered and
exhilarated Angela His dieek took
a warmer glow— he looked after hen
with a gleam in his eyes which had
not been there a moment beforcu He
was not affronted, but encouraged^
and mide Felicia^s, ez0uses> to his
mother, and sat by himself when the
old lady was gone, with lanoies which,
wanned his heart, hot in which no
though of Al^ce Clayton interposed.
He was oot.sofry nor concemed-r-he
took no new resolution on the mo-.
ment-^he considered nothing— r but
in the pleasure of the moment basked
like a child and took no further
tiboQght
While, as for Felicia, she laid down
her head upon her bed, till, even that
homely couch trembled with her re-
strained trouble./ She was humi-
liated, grieved, oppressed; between
these two her ludgment was per-,
petnally . shocked and her heart
wounded. 1['o > m<»row . even opened
to her a .new variety of trial To-.
moROw the chances were that ac-
onsatioos against her as a secret
agent of Angdo's courtship would
be brought with unanswecable logic;
and Alice, when they wero alone,
would once mors toss her little head
ia saucy triumph, and talk of leading
Angelo, like a second Jacob, a will-
ing wooer for five long years. Yet
while this had to be looked for, she
was the person whom Aogelo himself
ofibnded with looks and suggestiozis
of. love, and to whom he did not
scruple to confess his carelessness for
Alice. 6he scorned him, she despised
him, she turned with proud disgust
from his nnworthiness ; yet, poor
girl I leaned her head upon her bed,
devouring sobs whose bitterness lay
all in the fact that he was unworthy^
and defendiiw him against herself
with a breaking heart. It was not
Angelo, it was his education, his
race, the atmosphere which but-
ronnded him. The one sat smiling
andi dreaming in one room, pleasing '
himself in the moment, and taking
DO thought for the morrow; the*
other, on the other side of the wall,
kept her sobs in her heart, thinking
with terror of that inevitable to-mor-
row, and believing that she would be
oontent to give her own life, ere the
day. broke, only to wake the soul of
Angelo to better things, and open hi?
eyes to honour tmd truth. Poor Fe-
licia! and poor Aagek) 1— but it waff
very true i»r greater enlighten-
ment did not make her happier.
The young Florentine went smiling*
to hia rest, and slept the sleep of
vouth half an hour thereafter ; while
bis English cousin, chafing and griev-
ing heraelf with that meet intolerable
of troubles; the moral ebtnseness of
the person most dear *to her in the
world, wept through half the night
GHAPTEB VI.
Brightly this day of Felicia's trial
broke upon Florence --^bright with
all the dazasling sheen of winter— a
(Endless sky, an unshaded sun, every-
thing gay to look at, but the shrill
Trdmontana whistling from the hills,
and winter seated supreme in the stony
apartments of Italian poverty. In
this momiog's light Madame Peruzzi's.
shawled ^re, encumbered with aU
its wrappings, was even more re-
markabla than it had been at. night
A woollen knitted cap tied over her
earsr-a dark-brown dingy article, by
no means improving to her com-
Elexion — worsted mits on the lean
ends, in which, throughout the house,
wherever she went ia her morning
perambulations, the old lady carried
her little jar of charcoal, and her
shawl enveloping the entire remain-
der of her person, left much to the
imagination, but. did not stimulate
that £uolty . with very sweet engges-
286
Fdicita,-^C<mehi8ion*
[Sept
tioD9» While in the dae^ of the
SQDshine, everythiog in that bare
little sala shone so bitterly and re-
morseleesly cold, that it is not woo-
derfol if Felicia, who was only in her
first Italian winter, and not quite
inured to the domestic delights of
that season, felt ehilled to her hearU
Possibly this chill was no disadvan-
tage at that crisis, for the extreme
physical disoomfort she felt not only
blunted her feelings a little to future
mental suffering, but held up before
her, with an aspect of the most irre-
sistible temptation, the eosy fire and
warm interior of Alice Claytou's
room.
Thither accordingly, a little after
mid-day, Felicia betook herself, with
no small flutter in her heart She
did not enter as usual, and make her
way to the apartment of Alice. She
asked for Mrs. Elcombe, and was
ushered up with solemuity into the
• drawing-room, to have that audience.
Mrs. Eicombet though she was not a
great lady at home, could manage to
persooate one very tolerably at Flo-
rence ; and, to tell the truth, Felicia
had so little esperienoe of great ladies
that she had entire faith in the pre-
tensions of her little friend's guardian
and chaperon. With Mrs. Flcombe in
the drawiog-room was seated an elder-
ly gentleman, looking much fatigued,
heated, and flustered^ if such a femi-
nine adjective is applicable to elderly
gentlemen. He looked precisely as
if, vexed and worried out of his wits,
he bad escaped from some unsuccess-
ful conflict, and thrown himself, in
sheer exhaustion, into that chair.
Seeing him, as she began to speak,
Felicia hesitated, and made a pause.
Mrs. Elcombe hastened to explain —
** This is Mr. Elcombe, Miss Clayton's
guardian, my brother. He is newly
arrived, and naturally very anxious
about his previous young charge.
Pray tell me with confidence any-
thing you may have to say."
" 1 have nothing to say, except to
know whether — as I sapposed from
what you said yesterday — you have
any objection to my visits to Miss
Clayton,'' taid Felicia. *'I would
have given them up at once ; but —
indeed I have not many friends in
Florence, and it is a pleasure to see
her sometimes; besides, that she
wants me ; but I thought H right ia
the first place, before seeing her agam,
to see you.'*
^' I am much obliged — it is ver^
judicious'— pray be seated, madesioi-
selle," said Mrs. Elcombe. •< I am
puzeled, however, to know in what
capacity you visit my young ward.
I had supposed as her partatriee ? Sbe
engaged you, as I imagined — indeed,
I remember, finding you to be per-
fectly respectable so far as I could
ascertain, that I gave my eonseot to
make an arrangement ; but accord-
ing to what you say, f should sup-
pose your visits to l>e thoee of friend-
ship, which mades a difl^erenoe. May
I ask which is the case ?"
** Certainly I have come to speak
Italian with Miss Clayton/' said
Felicia, blushing painfully; *'but I
have not taken money from her, and
never meant to do so. I eaine be-
cause she entreated me.^'
^ And how did she know you, may
I ask V* continued the great lady, fix-
ing upon Felicia her cold and steady
eye?.
** I believe through my cou8^^
whom she has freqaently met,*' said
Felicia as steadily, thoagh her heart
beat loud, and the colour, in spite of
herself, fluctuated on her cheek.
** So I I believe we are coming to
the bottom of it now," cried Ut%,
Elcombe, turning to lier brother-in-
law with a look of triumph. " Yoor
cousin is Angelo Perum ; he knows
our poor child's fortune, and in case
his own suit should not prosper suf-
ficiently of itself, he has managed to
place yon about her person, to convey
bis messages and love-letters, and so
forth ; and to make her suppose a
beggarly Florentine idler to be a
youDg Italian nobleman 1 Oh, I see
the whole I Can you dare to look in
my face and deny what I say ?"
Felicia had become very pale ; the
was still ^tdmding, and grasped the
back of a^chair unconsciously as Mrs.
Elcombe spoke, half to support her-
self, half to express somehow by an
irrepressible gestore the indignation
that was in her. **I will deny no-
thing that is true,*' she said, cofo-
manding herself with nervous self-
control "Angelo Ferasi is my
cousin. Because he had spoken <x
me to her, Miss Clayton claimed my
im.]
FMkUi$ VenthuioHx
S87
Dtanoe om Bioniiig in the
yofthePakce. Thai Mall my
CDosiii has to do, 80 fiur as I am awan,
with oar aoqoaiDtaDce. If Angdo
ever wiote to her, I am ignorant of it.
I have never borne aoj mcaaage
whatever between them. I have no-
thing to do with what he wishei, or
what Bhe wishes. Thpy aie both able
to answer for themselves. Now wiU
70a be good enough to answer n^
qnestian — I have answered years.
Do yon object to myvidts to Miss
Clayton? May I b4 that yoQ wiU
tell me yes or no?"
Mrs. £lcombe stared at her ques-
tioner with speechless oonstemation.
She expected the presomptaoos
yoQiM^ woman to be totally con*
fooDded, and lol she was still aUe
toaaswer. '^I see yon will not lose
soythinff for want of oonfidenee,
mademdaeUe," die sud with a gasp.
'*To dare me to my .very facet Bo
yoq suppose I believe year fine storv ?
Kg I this poor child riiall not be
sacrificed to a foreign Ibrtane-hanter
if I can help it I prohibit yoor
visits to Miss Clayton— do yoa hear ?
I will give orders that yon are not to
be sdmitted agidn."
*^Stay a moment," said the dis-
tresaed elderly gentleman^ who all
this time had been recovering breath
and looking on. " The yonng woman
seems to me to have answered very
seosiblv and dearly — very difierent
from that little fary in Uie other room
—not to say that yoa have exposed
yoor case nnpardonably, sister, as in-
deed was to be expected. May I ask
bow it is that youi being an Italian,
speak English so weU ?"
"lam English," said Felicia; she
had no breiuh for more than these
three iaoonic words.
''Ah, indeed; and what service,
then, were yoa likely to be to Alice
Clayton, when yon went to her as her
psrla — parla — what-do-yon-call-it ?
ch, can yon answer me that?"
*' My lather was an Italian — the one
hmguage is to me as familiar as the
other/' said Fdicis, qaietly.
'^Hnm — ah. What do yoa know,
then, about this courtship business ?"
said the atiax^er. "Guls are al-
ways intrusted about sudi matters.
Tell OS in confidence, and be sure /
TOL.LXZXVX.
sbant blame yon. What hand have .
lotthadit? Eh?"
** None whatever," said Felicia.
*^ WeU, well; that is not precisely
what I mean. What do you know
about it? Thatwillsatisfvmel"
^ I know nothing at all about it,"
said Felieia with some obstinacy^
then she paused. *^I am Eoglish,
and I am not a waiting>woman. I
neither will nor can repeat to yon
all, that Alice Clayton--a little girl
of sixteen^*-may have said to me. I
am not aware of any duty whioh
conld make me do that; but so far
from wishing to belp on what you '
call a ooartohip between them, the
idea is ffrievous to me. I have eve^
reason in the world to oppose it," said
Felioia hurriedly, giving way, in spite
of herself to her natural feelings. ** My
cousin's honour— his whole life——
But it is useless to tell you what I
think on such a subject. May I see
Miss Clayton ? I have no farther con-.
cem with the matter."
'* Sister," said the lawyer, whose
rfaad been fixed on Felieia while
spoke, '* I see no reason to doubt
what this yoonff ladysi^ Let her
fo to Alice, and as often as she will.,
believe ehe speaks the truth."
*<As you Willi The unfortunate
child is your ward ; let her be sacri-
ficed," cried Mrs. Elcombe. Bat Fe-
licia did not wait to hear the end of
her oration ; she made a little curtsy
of gratitude to her defender, and hur-
ried away.
The half of it was over; now for
Alice, whose sau(^ girlish brag of the
impatience of her lover, and deter-
mination to make him wait, was
perhaps rather more aggravating
than even the doubts and interro-
gatories of her friends. But Alice
to-day was neither saoc^ nor tri-
umphant; she lay sunk m a great
chair with her hands over hw face»
sobbmg sofae.of petulant anger, shamCi
and vexaticm — a childish passion.
Felioia wa« entirely vanquished by
this straoge and unexpected trouble.
She dkl not believe the little ghrl
could have felt any thing so much,
nor did she understand what was the
occasion of her sudden griel 8(Mne-
thing in which Angek> on the one
side and her newly-arrived guardian
U
2§8
Fdkkti^eotuhuwk.
[Sept
on the otlwf/ bad to do^ wm evident ;
but all Felicia's peraonal indifpatioii
was quenched ■! once bj the sight of
her teaia. What had she to do weep*
tog) that bright little happj oreatttreT
There are ce^ti^ly some people in the
world who are not bom to weep, and
whose chance sniilsrings strike with a
sense of scmething intolerable the md-
dest speetators who see thesL Little
Alice Clayton, with her slzteen-year-
oldbeaaty, was one of tiiese.
"* What has happened? what is the
matter?" cried Felicia, sitting down
beside her, and drawing away the
little hands from herfh^ ''Let me
make yonr mind easy by telllog yon
that Mr. Eleombe himself has jost
given me permisrion to comCb I am
not here under disapproval. Toar
guardian has sent me ; and now tell
me what is wrong ?"
''Oh, Felioita," cried Alice sod-
denly, throwing herself npon Felioita's
sbonlder, **I will depend npon yon,
I will trust to you; though all the
world should dmtve me, I know you
wiU tell me the truth ; and if he really
loves me, Felidta, I will wait for him
ten, twenty— I do not mind if it was a
hundred years T*
Felicia involuntarily drew herself
away. *'A hundred years is a long
promi6e,"6be said, with a trembling
smil&
"But that is no answer/' cried
Alice, recovering her animation. " I
said I would dqwnd on you, and
believe whatever you said ; and I
will, Felidta 1 They tell me Angelo
wants my fortune, and does not care
for me. They try to make me believe
nobody eould love me at my age:
that is a falsehood, I know T' cried
Alice, with sparkling eyes, which
flashed through her tears: *'they
might as well say at oooe that no-
body could ever love a girl that had
a fortune, for that is what they
mean ; but never mind, Felicita! It
is of Angelo thev were speaking —
Angelo, your couslo, who is very fond
of you, and tells you what he thinks,
I know he does. If you will say you
are sure he loves me, Felioita, I will
wait for him, I tell you, a dosen
yearai"
Tbki^ serious appeal took FeHcIa by
surprise. She grew red and grew
pale and drew back as her young
oompaDion bent Ibrwwd, with a pang
which she could not ezprem» For
the inoment she ielt guilty and a
culprit, with the blue eyta of Alice
gasang so earaestly and umusm-
donsly in her face. How coald she
answer? — she who remembered, no
ftarther gone than last niffht, those
looks and words of Angelo'^ whidi
sent her thrilling with mortified
pride, yet tendeniess inextinguish-
able, to the solitude of her own
chamber. When that first natoral
shock was passed, and when she sup-
posed she could detect a sharper
and less earnest scrotmy in Alioe*s
eyes, the poor giri once mora grew
indignant. Bad enou^ that she
should be aceused m abetting a
wooing so little to her nund. Now
must she be called npon to answer
for him, and pledge her own sincerity
for his? If Felloia had been a youBg
lady in a novel, she would donbtless
have recognised in this the moment
for self-saerifice — the moment in
which to make a holocaust of her
own feelings, and transit, with the
insulting generosity of a modem
heroine, the heart which she knew to
be her own, to the other less fortu-
nate woman who onlv wished for it
But as she was only a plain girl,
accustomed to tell the troth, this
cKmaz of feminine Tirtne was not to
be expected from her. And happily
for herself she grew angry, resentful
of all the perplexities forced npon
her. She drew quite back from Iter
little friend, or little toimentor.
She rose up, and gathered her cloak
about her with haste and agitation.
She wonki go away— she was safe only
in flight
" It is not a question which can he
asked of me," she said, witk so much
more than her usual gravity that
Alice thought her stem, and grew
quiet unawares. "Only one perwu
can or ought to answer you. Tou
must not repeat to me such word^.
No, you do me wrong; it is cruel to
put sneh a question to me—"
''Why? yon ought to know best
Yon are not going awav, Felkdta?
Oh, don*t go away I oh, I do so want
you,*' cried Alice, rising and throwing?
bers^ upon her friend's aruL "I
have
wantt
I everything to tell you, and I
& to know what I should do, and
iflsr]
ANcte-^Dpfisiiiiion.
7m
I want to tsk ftbmit Aflg^» and I
want— oh, Feliclts, don't ytm care at
allabontme? Won't yod stay T
«*I oare a groat deal about toUi
but I will not atay;* said Felieia
firmly. "I oan neither adtiae yoa
what to do, nor tell yon about
Aogelo. AA Angelo himadf, he fa
the proper person to apeak to ; and
do what yoa think beat I will
come back when yoa pleaee; bat I
will not answer any qaeationa: and
now I cannot atay."
Saying which ahe led the little
girl back to her seat, and with a
swiftneea and ailentneaa which half-
frightened Alice, left the room and
the hooaeu The little beireaa aat
still in her chair, atartled into posi-
tive atilbeas. 8he coold not bear
Felicia's retreatbg footstep, bat kneir
she was gone ; and this new incident
lad new idea Mve a new torn to the
thoaghts of Aaice. Her tears dried
of themselves, and her pasdon sab-
sided. She no longer thooght of her
guardians, or MrflL JSIcombe, or even
of Angelo ; bat pozsled with all her
amazed bat shrewd little faoalties
over the new, abstrase, and mysteri-
ions qaestion, What coald FeKcia
mean?
While Felicia, sick at heart and
atterly discouraged, went away by
the quietest streets she coald find to
the other end of Florence. She had
nothing to do there, and ft would
have greatly showed her annt's
prejudices to see her alone so fttr
from their own house; bat Felicia's
secret vexations were too mach at
the moment for any consideration of
her aunt, or indeed fbr considerations
of anything. She was not thinking ;
her utmost mental effort was to re-
member, and sting herself over again
with those words and looks, ques-
tions and implications, fh>m which
she had already suffered so cruelly ;
and when, returning home, having
tired herself completely, she saw at
a little diatance, anaeen herself, the
laaghing careless fiace of Angelo
amidst a group of other such at
the cafi door, ner palienee entirdy
forsook the English giri What had
die done to have her quiet footsteps
so hopelessly entangled in a volatilB,
hopeiMB, hiconsequenL Italian life
likethisr
That nlffbt sheaod hopaofit spent
alone in their usoal fashion -- wkich
IS' to say that Madame Peraszi
wait to bed, and that Felicia, with
one IbebUi wfck of the lamp lighted,
bewildered herself with a book which
she had not salieient power of self-
possession to anderstans, and watched
ikom the window when llrs. Eloombe's
carriage drove vp to the door oppo-
site, to see Alice glide Into it with the
others in a mist of floating white.
That mominff*B passkm did not hinder
the little hdresa She was there as
usual, and doubtless quits as smiling
and bright as usual. Felicia said to
herself with a momentary bitterness
—<' But what was it all to her r She
went back to the tables and be-
wildered herself for the rest of the
evening with her book of Italian pro-
verbs, scarcely seeing what' ahe read,
and certainly not comprehending it
That was how «Ae spent the night
Next morning iWicfa rose with a
craving anxiety in her heart, dhnly
feeling that something most have
happened overnight, dlmW dreading
aomethioff which miffht happen to-
day. She felt little doubt that
Angelo had encountered Alice and
seen her guardian ; bot Angelo was
Ute, and did not make his appear^
anoe. It was with the greatest diffi-
culty that ahe could manage to pre-
aerve enoogh of her usual calmness
to save her ftom ttnbarnuBing in-
fuiries, and sitting by while Kadamo
'emzzi sipped her oof^ Feliefai was
too much occupied in keeping down
a convulsive shiver, half physioalt
half mental, combined of oold and
anxiety, to be able for anything
dse. When the ungenial meal was
over, and she had to occupy herself
with her usoal female work, the
mending and damlne of whidi ehe
had in&ted upon reuevlng her annt,
with the wh(de bright com hoars of
the day before her, and that thrill of
expectation in her whole mind and
frame, the strain upon her became
still harder. It was while she sat thus
vainly endeavoring to restrain her
thooghts, and asrarlog herself that,
however the matter ended, she had
nothing to do with it; and while
Madame FomiBi, in her great duiwl,
and with her pan of ebarooal under
her skirts, eat carsAdly sorveying
290
FdkUa^Chmdmidn*
[Sept
some very old nraclhwoni lineoy to
uoeitain where it was practicable to
apply a patch, that a sodden doIeq
at the door startled Felicia. Aogelo
was not yet up» and the house a mo*
ment before had been perfectly still.
Now Marietta's voice, m active dis*
cQfision with intmden^ made Itself
andible. Marietta was endeavooriog
to impress upon some obstinate
visitors, first, that the Signora did
not receive, and, second, that it was
quite inconvenient, and oat of the
question, to attempt to make good
their entrance at soch an hoar.
Madame Pernszi listened with tai
anxioas flatter, sweeping np in her
arms the heap of linen ; wnile Feli-
cia, perfectly still, heard the noise of
English voioesi and yet coold scarcely
hear them^ for the throbbio|f of her
breast Bbt then, an indispntable
reality, rang the girlish tones of Alice,
speaking to some one who answered
her in a voioe which conld belong
to nobody bat an elderly English-
man, donbtless Mr. Elcombe. An-
other cdloqav, and the two had
swept triomphantly in^ Alice drag-
ging after ner her relaotant and
troobled gnardian. Felicia started
to her feet as this astoonding vision
appeared at the door. Madame
Pernzzi, who had half risen, dropped
back into her chair, scattering the
linen at her feet in her nervoas be-
wilderment There stood the little
heiress in her flatter of pretty floonces,
not moslin this time, but more costly
siik ; and there sat at the hoosehold
toble "" the frightfal old witch,*' whom
she had ridiculed to Angetoi and who
could be no ether thao Angelo's
mother. Alice, who had come in
very briskly, and on first sight of
Feucia had been abont to rash into
her arms, diecked herself at this
sight She made a little frightened
cnrtqr, grew very red, and stood
gazing at Madame Peruazi as though
she had eyes for nothing else. The
old lady rose immediately, nnques-
UonabW a verv odd figpre, and *' re-
ceived*'^ her visitors with as much
equanimity as she conld muster, and
the utmost exuberance of Italian
politeness. But Alice's fright had
startled all hw Italian out of her
little girrs head, and Mr. Elcombe,
stombung forwairdf upset the char-
coal pan and its white ashes, oover-
ing himself with confusion, and add-
ing, if {possible, to the awkwardnees of
the scena Nobody spoke a word at
first but Madame Peruzzi, and only
Felicia nnderstood what Madame
Peruzzi said : but when Mr. Slcombe
b^gan to stammer and i4)ologizB in
Englidi, and in the utmost embar-
rsssment, the old lady, discovered
so terribly out of toilette^ and in em-
idoyment so commonplace, addressed
herself in incomprehensible explana-
tions to him. Bat that the younger
persons of the group were moved by
much more serious (belings, the com-
bination would have been simply
ludicrous ; but Alice, who had come
in with all the energy and earnest-
ness of a purpose, was so utterly con-
founded and dismayed by the sight
of Madame Pennzi, and Felicia was
so aoxions and so painfully excited,
that they added quite a tn^ical de>
ment to the other by-play, and pre-
sently swept its lighter current mto
the coarse of their own stronger
emotion. Singularly enough, the
first idea whidi struck Alice was
horror and disgust, not at the ap-
pearance of her lover's mother, bat
at her own unintentional levity and
cruelty in speaking of her to Aogelo ;
and all the youthful kindness to-
wards Angelo which she dignified
by the name of love, sprang op in
double force in the warm rebound of
her generous feelings. She had done
him wrong— she returned with vehe-
mence and earnestness to the idea
which had brought her here.
**FeliciU," she cried, •'beg Ma-
dame Peruzzi to forgire us for in-
truding on her. Tell her we speak
no Italian; do tell her, pravl I
can't think of the words, and there
is no time.-^Have yoa told hert—
does she understand voui Felicita?
Oh, thank youl If she only knew
how wicked and crueUI once wss
about her, she would hate me; but
how could I tell it was hia mother ?
She is not like |bim— not the least in
the world. Felicita, we watched at
the window and saw Angelo go out,
and then we came to you. fir. El-
combe says he will trust what yos
say; and so should I, if it were for
my life* Oh, Felicita, this time yoa
most answer me 1 Mr.^EIoombe says
1859.]
FaicUa^Condtuion,
291
it shall be M you saj. If ytm aay
Angelo loves me, be will give bu
conscDt ; if yoa say it, I will wait for
him, if it should be a dosen years T
Felicia attered a little cry of im-
patieDce and anger. ^ I said yester-
day this qnestion was not to be
asked of me. I said I conld not
answer it— I will not answer it I It
is cmel I Why do yon come again
tome?"
**FelioitaI have I any one else
whom I can ask ?'* cried Alice, tak-
ing her relactant hand and caressing
it, as she looked np with her girlish,
coaxing,^ entreating looks in Felicia's
face. ** Ton said yoa liked me— voa
said yon were fond of me ; and when
it may make me happy or unhappy
all my life, yoa will never have the
heart to refhse me now.'*
** There is bat one person who can
answer sach a qnestion ; let him
speak for himself. Can I tell what
is in Angelo's heart 7" said his con-
Bin with a kind of despair. . << I told
yoa so before; yoa mast ask him-
self, and not me. Am I a spy to
know what is in his heart 7"
''Bat I have asked Angelo, and I
cannot tell whether he is In jest or
earnest," said Alice, with a plaintive
mioffling of piqae and hamility.
*<Fdieita, Fdicita I I do not know
what to do, or what to trust to, if
yoa do not tell me ; and it is for all
my lifer
" For wXL yoar life I Toa are only
rixteen ; yoa do not know what life
is," cried Felicia.
''And that is all the more reason
^oa should tell me," said Alice, steal-
mg once more to her side. '*Ur.
Sicombe says I might pledge my
whole life, and then find out Fe-
lidta I I trust only in voa T'
** She says truly ; tne young man
of course must preserve his consist-
ency," said Mr. Mcombe. <* Speak to
her ; you are reasonable, ana know
—for his sake as well as hers. She
wOl be content with nothing else."
"FeUdUl tell me," »tod Alice,
cla<ipin^ her hands.
FeliciA bad risen up, and stood
drawing bade into the comer of the
room — ber fk^ burning, her eyes
glowing, an indignant dopair pos-
sessing ber. All this time Angelo's
mother liad beeu looking on amaaed
and uncomprehending ; even her
presence was some support to the
poor girl Now Madame Perazzl,
struck by a new idea, and stimulated
by the frequent sound of Angelo's
name, the only w(kd she understood,
left the room hurriedlv. Felicia
stood drawing back, holding up her
hands to defend herself from the ad-
vance of Alice, saviuff she conld not
tell what— eager disclaimers of being
reasonable and able to tell, indignant
appeals against being asked. Her
voice grew shrill in her troabfe.
What had she to do with it 7 She
had always said so ! — she had never
itood between them ! — why shoald
she answer now 7
" Because you are mv friend," cried
Alice, suddenly throwing herself into
Felicia's arms, breaking, down ber
defences, and dasping her appealing
hand^—" because I have no one to
trust but you — because I take you
for my sister. Felidta ! does Angelo
love me 7"
" No 1 Alice, go awav from me —
you will kill me. Ko I — he loves
me/** cried poor Fdida, with a sob
and cry. Then she sank down with-
out farther word or thought upon
the floor— her head throbbing, her
heart beating, insensible to every-
thing but that forced utterance,
which came with no triumph, but
with a pang indescribable from the
bottom of her heart She felt that
some one endeavoured to draw ber
clasped hands from her face, and
raise her from the ground ; but she
resisted, and kept there crouching
down into her comer, thrilling with
a passion of indignant shame, bitter-
neas, and undeserved suffering. MHiy
was this extorted, wrong from her?
— why was she driven to confess it,
as though she wm the culprit 7 She
desired no more to raiso her eyes to
the light ; she was sick of scrutiny,
sick of questions, oonsdous of no
wish but to disappear firom every-
body's sight, and hide herself where
ndther Alice nor Angdo should see
ber more. She bad said it, but she
had no pleasure in it She beard a
murmur of voices, without caring to
bear what wm said or who was
speaking. She bad no longer either
friend or cousin. Alice ami Angelo
were alike lost to ber now. Nothing
292
FdieUa^O^ttthum.
[Sept
in the world aeened to ranain vidble
to her through tboee eyes blind with
tears, aod covered with her hands,
save a flight somewhere into some
unknown solitary conntry, and no
comfort but the dreary eonseioosncn
of having separated herself from
everj^body she cared for, by that
bnrst of plain-speaking, the inevit-
able tmth.
CHATTKB TIL
five yean afterwards^ a little Eng-
lish village had brightened to a poS-
lio holiday. The place was a tiny
hamlet of some twenty cottages,
bearing conspicnons tokens of being
close to somebody's lodge-gates who
was pleased with pretty cottages, and
wealthy enough to encourage the cul-
ture of the same. It was as easy to
predicate, from the state of the gar-
dens^ that a flower-show and prizes
were somewhere in the neighbour-
hood, as to ccmdude that the holder
of the eura^ under whose care that
tinv Gk>thio chapel and schoolhouae
had sprung into existence, wore a
long priestly coat, and waistcoat
buttoned up to the cUn, and was
slightly "high.'* The littie village
street was gay with a triamphal arch
of boughs and flowers, for the five
years were slightly exceeded, and the
season was ICay. The sky was doubt-
ful, uncertain, sunny and showery —
an airy, breezy, variable English
morning, with no such steady glory
in its light as the skies of Italy ; and
anything more unlike the lofty houses
of the vio Giugnio than those low
rural cottages could not have been
supposed. Along the road, where the
sunshine and the shadows pursued
each other, a bright little procession
came irr^nlarly along, with the
flutter and variable movement which
beloQgs to a feminine march. It was
a christening party, headed bv an im-
portant group of womankind guard-
ing and encirclinc[ the one atom of
w^ humanity duguised in flowing
muslin skirts, who was the hero of
the day. Behind, at a little distance,
were the ladies and gentlemen, god-
fathers and ffodmotheiBy papa and
mama. The little mother m thanks-
giving robes of white, with delicate
roses on her soft chcSek, and sweet
lijghts of womanly triumph and gra-
titude in her eves, called herself still
Alice, but not Alice Olay ton» flAd had
blossomed out into a cordial and
sweet young womanhood, prettier in
her mother-pride than at saucy six-
teen, when all her life, as the child
supposed* hung upon the question,
whether Angdo Feruzzi loved her,
or sought only her fortune. Small
thought of Angelo Peruzd was in
that sunshiny existence now. Be-
hind Alice and her husband—yet not
behind ttom any wish of theirs, or
any distinction made by them — came
a young woman alone. More marked
in her characteristic Italian features
than she used to be, five years older—
perha^ if no longer moved by active
agitation, graver than formerly — it
wa9 still Felicia ; " a young person"
whom Alioe*s oountiy neighbouis
could not comprehend— who did not
choose to accept the entire equally
which her friend would fain have
forced upon her, and whose position in
the young and gay household whidi
called AHoe mistress was a grave,
doubtful, half - housekeeper portion,
in which «^ found no inconvenience^
and which suited Alice perfectly, but
did not satisfy the excellent neigh-
bours, who had difficulty in nu^£^
out whether or not Miss Antini was
''a person to know.** Felicia in
Holmaleigh was twice as Italian as
Felicia in Florence had been, aod
looked back straiu;ely enough to that
uncomfortable and af^tati^g period
of her existence with sighs and smiles,
and recollections which touched her
heart Madame Peruzzrs cold rooms
no longer chilled her, and she was no
longer repelled by that unlovely un-
homelike life of which memory pre-
served only the brighter parts. Yet
nearly five ^ears had passed since
Felicia had either heard or seen any-
thing of her Italian friends. The day
on which she had made that confes-
sion which Alice extorted from her—
a confession which she found afte^
wards, to her greatly incrttaed horror,
1859.]
Fdwia^OmtM^n.
3M
to have hmsk umdm in tbe Tery pm^
enoe of Aiig«lo^ mod Immediately
oonfinned by him-^hMl been Iwr laat
day in the Via Giognio. Alice, whe
bore her disappointmeni magnnni-
mottsly, if dla^yointment ift ira%
and who iUt greatly ahoeked at the
evident and extreme aofoing of
Felicia, had half entreated, half eom-
pelied, the poor girl to aooompany
her home. Felicia eonld aoaroely be
permaded to eee her eooan again ;
when riie consented at laat, bm too
had her eapriee. He whom Aliee
wodd no longer wait for, most either
reliDqoieh lUida too, or wmit the
fiiU five years for his hnmbier and
less wealthy love : perhaps other con-
ditions were added which neither of
them mentioned — bnt it waa thoa
the ooQsioa had parted, in the mean
time Madame Pernasi died, and
when Felicia mentioned Angelo at
all, she spoke of him as a relation
whom she shonU never see agafai.
Bet the Ato years were past, and
sometimes, nnawaree to herself, she
started at an vnnsnal soand in the
boose, and trembled and grew pale
at an unexpected arriTaL A possi-
bility, however stoutly one may deny
it, is still so powerful over that unruly
imagmation which is aided and abetted
by die heart.
Thus she went lingeruur along the
road, after Mra. Alice and her Band-
•ome haaband, to the heir of Holma*
leigh*s christening, thinking, she
would have said, of nothing in parti-
Gular — of the passage of time, and
the alow vet rapid progress of life—
woDderfblly grave and philosophic re-
flections, quite becomii^ to the inaa-
guration of the new generation, as any
one aware of them would have natu-
rally said. But when the christening
was over, and there was nothing but
Sidog in the house and park,
re all the villagers, and a little
crowd of other tenants, were feasted
outside, and the great people had a
grand dinner in the evening, Felicia
ooDtinued wistful and contemplative
sUU. The continual arrival of the
carriages startled her, and kept her
uneasy. She could not help a linger-
ing idea that some one or other of
them some dav — this evening or an-
other—might bring that stranger to
Hohnsleigh, whom she professed
never to 6zpeei There waa no reasoft
in the world to think of him to-night ;
but the noise and commotion and per«
petual arrivaU. startled her ; she was
uneaay and anxious, and oould not tell
how it waa.
At last tho^arrivals were over— the
dinner waa over. That moiMut of
repose, which the ladies mena alone
in the drawing-room — blissfol mo-
ment after the troubles of a grand
dinner — fell eahn and grateful upon
Felicia. 8he was past being snubbed
Ivy her friendls fine neighbours ; she
was quite sure of her position, if no*
body else was $ and people began to
know as much. She sat in her usual
quiet place, with her usual cheerful*
ness reeovered. Another arrival J
abe waa surprised and vexed to find
how the sounds of these wheels
ringing through the evening quiet
disturbed het composure again. Of
oonrse it was somebody invited for
the evening ; eould nobed v come or
go without a fever on her part?
She sat doubly still, and busied herself
ail the more with the prose of her next
neighbonr by way of self^punishmentt
and woqld not look up when the
door opened to see wIk> entered the
Would not look up for the first
moment,— then she did look up. The
person who entered was a gentleman
alone— a soldier— theoniy man in the
room, and he eertainly had not
been at dinner. Felida was much
too ignorant to know what his uni-
form was. It waa not an English
red coat ; but she caught at the dis-
tance the gleam of a medal, the fis-
■uliar Crimean medalt well enough
known to her, on his breast He had
not been announced, but had sent his
name to Alice, who was quite at the
other end of the room. It was a very
long apartment, stretching across the
ent&e side of the house ; the door
waa quite at one end, and Alice,
as it happened, quite at the other.
Felicia could not hear a word her
neighbour was saying to her, but she
could hear her own heart beat, and
she could hear the slightest stir of
motion the stranger made ; the
stranger, brown, horded, and medal-
led, whom certainly she had never
seen before, and did not know. Just
then a little cry of joy and amaae-
294
Fdidta-^OtmdudwiL
[Sept
ment from Alice etrack ber ear.
liOokiDff Dp, she saw the little mis-
trees of the house ranniDg peat her,
with her girlish carls dancing aboat
ber ears, m ber foot as light and nn^
restrained as thongh no responsibili-
ties of wifehood or metbernood lay
on hejn bright little bead. Alice's
face was flashed with sarprise and
pleosare, and ber eyes fixed npon the
stranger. Involnntarily, ana by an
impnlse sbe coald not restrain, Felicia
rose.' She did not know him I she
had never seen him before ; and yet»
when Alice ran to meet him, sbe could
not keep ber seat Alice ran with
both her hands held oat When she
met the stranger, Felicia bent forward
with a face like marble. *<Angelor
It was not Angelo ; and yet that was
hu name.
When Felicia came to herself she
was in another room, with only Alice
bending over her, and somebody be-
hind in the twilight, who was not die-
tingaishable save by some gleams of
reflection, especially one which shone
over Alice's bead stranffely like the
medal npon that soldier's breast
Felicia did not answer the tender
inquiries of her little friend ; she
turned towards this nndisoernible
figure and pointed almost imperiously
— «*Who is itr she cried, and
the foolish little kind creature by
her side kept hold of her hsnds, and
kissed her, and wisted a world of ca*
ressing words «' to break it to her."
** Who is it ?" oried Felicia : and then
the stranger took matten into his
own hands, — for to be sure it was
Angelo— Angelo himself five years
older, a Sardinian soldier, though a
Tuscan poor gentlemaB, with a beard
and a captain's eommission, and her
Britannic Majesty's X)rimean medal
upon his breast As the three stood
together in the twilight, or i^ least a
minute later, when only two stood to-
gether, and the little mistreas of .the
hoase had returned to her guests^ Fell*
cia was able to forgive Alice for her
anxiety not to startle her, and her care
in ^ breaking" the news.
But what bad be to do with anm,
that pacific Florentine ? and with ths
Sardinian uniform and foreign warst
^'Tou remember how I to&d yoa
there was nothing to do, Felicita,"
explained the returned soldier days
amr, when Alice and her hnsband
listened t4>o ; *^ but men who can do
nothing else can. fight^ — it is an
idler's natural prolesskin. Every
Italian like me has not an English
cousin ; but lime is doing your worl^,
Fdicita, and some time or other the
rulers in our country will learn at
bat to know that men who are good
for little else are very good for sol-
cUers ; and that people who may not
work wi// fight"
Plain politicB*-4iot hard to under-
stand ; and Felicia, perhaps, was len
hard to please than before, and foond
gi^t comfort in that Crimean medal
what natural consequences followed
this visit to England of Gaptain An-
gelo Peruzzi it may not be necessary
to particularise, nor where they went
to bve, nor what kind of tninage was
their Anglo*Italian one ; but it was
a belter ending to An^^*s innocent
fortunchnnting than if Alice bad
made him master of Holmsieigh, and
waited for him five years.
1859.]
Volttntaty and Involuntarf^ AeHom.
295
TOLUNTARY AUD INVOLUNTAEY ACTIONS.
It seems an easy thing to distin-
gnish a Tolantary from an involon-
tory action ; and yet this seemingly
easy thing sorely perplexes the can-
ning of pbiloeonby. It seems also an
easy thing to distingnish between an
animal and a plant; yet when we
come to seek for the one distinctive
characteristic which marks the ani-
nal natnre, and separates it decisively
from the vegetable world, we are
sorely pazzled. There is no difficnlty
in saying that a cow is an animal,
and a cabbage is a plant : bat when
we descend to the simpler forms of
animal life, we find them so nearly
allied to vegetables that oar classifi-
cation is troabled. Still greater is
oar perplexity when the simpler
actions are presented for analysis;
poative as we may be that some
actions have a volitional element, we
are at a loss to mark oat what that
element is.
If the reader wHl be a gentle and
a patient reader to the length of a
few pages^ we wiU endeavor to illa-
minate this dark subject; and in so
doing, introduce to his notice the
very able and suggestive treatise in
which Mr. Bain discusses it, and
other important topics. The volume
now before us is entitled "The Emo-
tions and the Will," and v^ith its pre-
decessor, •* The Senses and the Intel-
lect,^' it forms a body of psychological
doctrine, the fruit of long meditation,
aod well worthy the meditation of all
Btadents.
Mr. Bain does not attempt to de-
fine the Will, but to explain what is
the nature of a voluntary action, and
how it ^ws up from certain natural
germs in our constitution. He is
silent as to involuntarv actions ; but
we may assume that tney are impli-
citly explained in the explanation of
vohtions. While we believe that he
has thrown a steady light on the
physiological and psychological pro-
oesses involved, the light seems to us
occasionally to flicker; and therefore,
before expounding his views, we wUl
ask attention to a little preliminary
explanation.
In popular language, those actions
are call^ voluntary over which we
can exercise control, either in the
way of restraining or prompting
them. I can move my arm, or keep
it motionless, if I will to do sa Bat *
there are other actions which are be- *
yond control ; no effort of Will suf-
fices to prompt, or to restrain them.
The heart beats without my control.
The eyelid winks, the wounded mns-
cle quivers, the stomach digests,
involuntarily. I can control the
movement of my arm, unless a sharp
pain forces me to withdraw it, and
when I withdraw it under sudden
pain, the action is said to be involun-
tary.
This is a rough classification which
suffices for our daily needs. We want
a term to mark a certain group, and
the term voluntary satisfies that want.
But the severer exigencies of Science
are not satisfied so easily. A rigor-
ous examination shows that in most,
if not in all, the so-called involuntary^
actions (as we shall see presently) this
very volitional element of control
may find a place. Although breath-
ing is an involuntary act, it can be,
and often is, restr^iined or accelerat-
ed by the will; but the controlling
power soon comes to an end — we can-
not voluntarily suspend our breath-
ing for many seconds, the urgency of
the sensation at last bears down the
control. In like mannery we can par-
tially, but not wholly, restrain the
shrinking and trembling which ac-
company pain and terror. It has been
said that these partial influences of
control are due to the fact that the
apparatus involves some of the volun-
tary muscles, and these are, of course,
under the control of the will ; but
that inasmuch as the apparatus is
not wholly constituted by voluntaiy
muscles, it is not wholly under con.
trol. Yet this is only a re-statement
The Emoiions and ihe WUL By AuEX. Baik, A. M., Examiner in Logio and
Mona Philooophy in tiie London Univervty.
296
Voluntary and hivohMtaary Aetwni*
[8epL
I
of the feet in difiereot tenns. The
muscles are styled Tolontary. because
they are onder control Neverthe-
less, it is easy to prove that an appa-
ratos of porely yolontary muscles
will furnish an involuntary act — an
act quite beyond all influence of the
Will. The act of winking is an ex«
ample. It is performed by voluntary
muscles, and may be a purely volun-
tai^ act— as when we wish telegra-
phically to warn one of our hearers
that we are jesting. Yet this act,
which is as purely voluntary as any
we perform, is habitually an involun-
tary act; the contact of the air with
the eye causes a loss of temperature
by evi4>oration, and the sensation
caused by this dryness, urgently in-
sisting on being remedied, we wink.
Not only is winking one of the typi-
cal examples of involuntary action, but
we find that it occurs in spite of the
most obstinate effort to restain it : no
resolution on our part n<tf to wink, will
prevent our winking, after a certain
time, or if a hand be psned rapidly
before the eye.
This example shows that the par-
tial control which the will exerdses
over what are called involuntary acts,
does not d^nd on the nature of the
muscles involved. The same action
which is voluntary at one momenti
Will be involuntary at another, ac-
cording to the urgency, or intensity,
of the stimulus. We laugh because
we are tickled, or because some ludi-
crous image presents itself; both of
these are involuntary actions, al-
though both are capable, within cer-
tain limits, of control ; but we may
also laugh because we pretend to be
tickled at the great man^s joke —
secretly felt to be a very feeble effort
of humour. We cough because there
is a tickling in the throat; and we
also cough because we desure to drown
the too buoyant platitudes of a re-
morseless orator. We yawn because
we are weary, and we yawn because
we determine to set others yawning.
It seems clear, therefore, that the
volitional element we are in search
of, cannot lie in the act itself, but in
something which precedes or accom-
panies the act. According to the
popular opinion, an act is called vol- <
untary if the miAd has determined
it by a conscious conception of the
object to be attdned ; and if we were
to say that volition is an acUon
determined by a distinct idea, we
should express the current opinion
pretty accurately. Is that opinion
tenable ?
It is not tenable, because on the
one hand actions may be determined
by distinct ideas and yet be "in-
voluntary;" and becMse on the
other hand actions may be voluntary,
vet not determined by distinct ideas,
but determined simply by sensations.
Let a friend pass a finger rapidly be-
fore your eye, and although he has
solemnly assured you that he will
not touch you, and. you have pro-
found confidence in his word, yet no
effort of Will prevents your winking.
It is in vain you resolve to be firm—
the eyelid drops as the finger ap-
proaches. This winking is assuredly
an involuntary act, since it is per-
formed in spite of the will ; yet it is
an act determined by an idea, the
idea of danger; and the proof of
this is seen when yon approach a
finger to the eye of an animal, or ia-
&nt, in whom no such idea of danger
is excited : it does not wink. Nor do
you wink when you approach your
own finger to your ejre, because then
the idea of danger is absent. We
have here an action eminently con-
troUaUef and obviously determined
by an ideal aimulua, naving there-
fore the two cardinal characters of a
voluntary act, yet being unmistak-
ably involuntary. To reconcile such
a contradiction we must suppose that
the Will oscillated — one instant it
resolved that winking should not
take place, and the next instant re-
solved that it should. This explana-
tion would, however, force the admis-
sion that the act of winking was not
involuntary ; after which, it would be
puzzling to say what acts are invd-
untarv. If the will can thus oscillate,
and thus rescind its orders, why may
it not in all the assumed cases of in-
voluntary action be in a state of
oscillation ?
What is the process of control?
Every action is a response to a sensi-
tive stimulus. Muscles are moved
by motor-nerves which issue from
nerve-centres; these nerve-centres
are excited by imprenions carried
ther«; either \jy sensory nerves going
1869.]
VobtfUiry and Iwfokmtary AeiianB,
m
from a 8eouti?e mirftMe, or by imprah
U0D8 conunuDicated from tome other
ceDtre. A gtunalus applied to the
akin excites a sensationf vliich being
reflected on a moBcle excites a eon-
traction* This is the mocb-talked-6f
B^/Ux AaioTu In tiie opinion of the
present writer all nerve - actions
whatever are reflex: when a sensa-
tion plays upon a muscle, there
is reflex - action ; when a sensa-
tion is reflected on a nerve-centre,
iofltead of on a mnsde, there is refleX'
feeling. This secondary or reflex
sensation, may either ^y upon a
mnsde, or upon some other centre,
and this will excite an acUon. Thus
it is that tlie same external stimalos
may issae in very dlffierent actions.
We decapitate a frog, Mid half an
hour after priek or pindi its leg : the
frog hops, or suddenly draws up its
kg. We now prick, or pinch, an
nninjored frog, in the same way, and
we mostly (not always) observe that
its leg is motionless ; it does not bop
away, it only lowers its head, and
perhaps closes its eyes; a second
pinch makes it hop away. In the
oecapitated frog, the action was re-
flex; the stimuns transmitted from
the skin to the spinal chord was
directly answered hj a contraction of
the leg. In the nnicijared frog, the
stimalos was abo transmitted to the
spinal chord ; bat from thence it ran
upwards to the brain, exdting a ra-
flex - feeliitf of alarm ; bat thoogh
alarmed, ue animal was not forced
into any definite coarse of actk>n to
secure escape ; and whilst thos hesi-
tating, a second prick came, and the
orgency of the sensation then caused
it to bop away. The hopping was
reflex, bat it was indireofy so ; it
was prompted by the reflex - feeling
which in tarn hM been excited by.
the original sensation. In like man-
ner, if a dog*s tail be pinched by a
stranger, the dog cries oat, and tarns
Boddenly roond to bite his tormentor.
If the tormentor happens to be the
dog's master <Mr friend, the dog will
cry oat, start away, or perhaps even
torn roond to bit»— bat be will not
bite ; shoold he ffet so far as to seize
the hand with the teeth, he checks
himself in time. This control is (tftea
toachingly seen in removing a thorn
frQm a dog's (boti the pain cansesa
reflex-action which brings the doff's
head down upon the operator's hand ;
but instead of biting, the grateful ani-
mal licks that hand*
These are cases of oontroL Thev
are possible only because reflex-feel-
ings are excited ; one sensation being
rapidly followed by another, so that
before one action, directly rdiex, can
occur, another action is set going,
which interferes with it, contr^ it
An examination of the Kervous Sys-
tem disdoses a nomber of centres,
all capable of independent action, yet
all connected with each other, and
thos brought into some dependence
on each other; it is through this
dependence that control becomes
possible. A sensation instead of
issuing in the action which usually
follows it, sometimes issues in an-
other sensation, Uus in turn may
issue in a thfrd sensation, instead «
in an action ; just as, when a row of
billiard balls is struck, the impetus
is transmitted from one ball to the
other, the latt in the row flying off,
and all the others remaining in their
original position.- At some point or
other, could we follow its course, we
should observe that the original
sensation issued in an action, al-
though, because the final stimulus to
this said actbn is a reflex feeling^ the
action itself is very unlike what it
would have been if directly reflex.
Tickle the face of a sleeping man, and
by a reflex-action his hand is raised
to rub the spot; tickle the face of that
man when awake, and instead of this
reflex - action, there will be one of
vocal remonstrance, or perhaps one
guiding a pillow in its descent upon
yourjwad.
Inasmuch as all actions whatever
are the products of stimulated nerve-
centres, it is obvious that all actions
are reflex — reflected from those
centres. It matters not whether I
wink because a sensation of dryness,
or because an idea of danger, causes
the eyelid to close: the act is equally
reflex. The nerve-centre which sup-
plies the eyeMd with its nerve has
been stimulated ; the stimuli may be
various, the act is uniform. At one
time the stimulus is a sensatioa of
dryness, at another an idea of dan^,
at another the idea of communicatmg
by means of a wink with some one
296
Vohadary and Involuntary Actions.
[Sept
Xireseiit ; in each case the stimalos is
reflected in a muBcalar contractioo.
SensatioDs excite other sensatioiis;
ideas excite other ideas ; and one of
these ideas may issae in an action of
control. Bat the restraining power
is limited, and cannot resist a certain
degree of nrgencj in the origroal
fltimnlns. I can for a time, restrain
the act of winking, in spite of the
sensation of dryness ; bnt the reflex*
feeling which sets goinr this restrain-
ing action will only last a few se-
conds; after irhich the urgency of
the external stimnlns is stronger than
that of the reflex-feeling— the sensa-
tion of dryness is more imperions than
the idea of resistance— ana the eyelid
dropa
If a knife be brought near the arm
of a man who has little confidence in
the fHendly intentions of him that
holds it, he will shrink, and the
shrinking will be *• involuntary"— m
spite of his will. Let him have con-
fidence, and he will not shrink, eyen
when the knife touches his skin.
The idea of danger is not excited in
the second case, or if exdted, is at
once banished by another idea. Yet
this very man, who can thus repress
the involuntary shrinking when the
knife approaches his arm, cannot re-
press the involuntary winking, when
the same friend approaches a fin^
to his eye. In vain he prepares him-
self to resist * that reflex-action ; in
vain he resolves to resist the im-
pulse; no sooner does the finger ap-
proach, than down flashes the eyelid.
Many men, and most women, would
be equally unable to resist shrmking
on the approach of a knife : the asso-
ciation of the idea of danger with
the knife would bear down any pre-
vious resolution not to shrink. It is
from this cause that timorous women
tremble at the approach of firearms.
An association is established in tli^ir
minds which no idea is powerful
enough to loosen. You may assure
them the gun is not loaded; "that
makes very little difTerenoe," said a
naive old lady to a friend of ours.
They tremble, as the child trembles
when he sees you put on the mask.
These illustraQons show that the
urgency of any one idea may, like
the urgency of a sensation, bear
down the resistance offered by some
other idea; as the previous illastra-
tions showed that an idea oould re-
strain or control the action which a
sensation or idea would otherwise
hafe produced. According to the
doctrines current, the Will 1b said to
be operative when an idea deter-
mines an action ; and yet all would
agree that the winking which was
involuntaiT when the idea of danger
determined it, was voluntary when
the idea of communicating with an
accomplice in some mystification de-
termined it
The reader will have gathered al-
ready that we admit no real and
essential distinction between volun-
tary and involuntary actions. They
are all voluntary. They all spring
from OonscioueneBs. They are all de-
termined by filing. It is convenient,
for common purposes, to designate
some actions as voluntary ; but this
is merely a convenience ; no jisycho-
lo^cal,: nor physiological, insight is
gained by it ; an analysis of t& nro-
,oes8 discloses no element in a volun-
tary action, which is not to be found
in an involuntary acUon. In ordi-
nary language it is convenient to
mark a distinction between my rais-
ing my arm because I will to raise it
for some definite purpose, and my
raising it because a bee has stnne
me ; it is convenient to say *' I wtS
to write this letter," and ** this letter
is written against my will— I have
DO will in the matter.^' Bnt Science
is more exacting when it aims at
being exact; and the philosopher,
analysing these complex actions, will
find no element answering to the
'* will,*' in one, which is absent from
the other : he will find this only, that
in each case certun muscular groans
have been set in action by certain
sensational or ideational stimuli.
It is a very general mistake to sup-
pose that every act of volition im-
plies a distinct idea of its object
unless such an intellectual dement
be present, guiding the movement,
the voluntary character is said to be
wanting. Bnt we agree with the emi-
nent physiologist, Johann Yon Hfiller,
that ^'the ultimate source of volun-
tary motion cannot denend on any
conscious conception of its object;
for vohintary motions are performed
by the foetus before any object can
1859.]
VdMntarif and InvqUmUiry AUums.
290
oecar to the mind-— befiMW any idea tain actions Tolantary uhlflk initcvi
can pofldbly be ooncelvei of what nsaally consider to be reflex (Involan-
the Yoliuitary motion effiots. ... tary), and reflex-actions with them
The fcetns moves its limbs at firsts mean actions withoot sensation ;
not for the attainnwnt of aily object^ bat as Mr. Bain in his former Tolnme
bat solely because it can move them, remsrksi *' it may be by a reflex*
Since, however, on this snppoation action that a child coiuneBees to
there can be no particular reason for sack when the nipple is pat between
the movement of any one part, and its lips; bat the oontinaingto*sack
the foetus would have equal cause to so long as the sensation of lianger Is
move all its muscles at the same &It, and the ceasioff when that aen*^
time, there must be something which sation ceases, are truljr volitional acts*
determines this, or that, voluntary
motion to be performed. The know-
ledge of the changes of positk>n
which are produced by given move-
All through animal life^ down to tho
very lowest sentient being, this pro*
perty of consciousness is exhibited,
and operates as the instroment for
meots, is gained gradually and only gaidiog and sopportiog existenoe.
h/ means of the mavtmenU tkemr
telves, , . . The voluntary excita-
tion of the origins of the nervous
fibres, without objects in view, gives
rise to moUons, changes of posture,
and consequent sensations. Thus a
eonneetion is esUibiishid in the yet
void mind betv^een certain sensations
To whatever lengths the parely re-
flex instincts, or the movements di-
vorced from consciousness^ may be
carried on in the inferior tribes, I
can with difficulty admit the total
absence of feeling in any bebg we
are accostomed to call an animal;
and with this feeling I ^m obliged
and certain mUions, When snbse- also to indode this property, tphich
queotly a sensation is excited from linis ths state of feeling witfi the state
without, in any one part of the bodyf of present movement** f liia this link
the mind will be already aware that of feeling with action, which accord-
the voluntai7 motion, which is in ing to Miiller, constitutes Yolition.
consequence executed, will manifest Mr. Bain has developed this idea with
itself 'in the limb which was the seat
of sensation ; the foetus in utero will
move the limb that is pressed upon,
and not all the limbs simultaneously.
remarkable skill in the volume now
under notice ; and has furnished
more suggestive and instructive con-
tributions than any psychologist
The voluntary movements of animals are acquainted with, to the difficalt
. , , , , ,_ .. --J -*n. ._.:. problems of the
must be developed in the same man-
ner. The bird which begins to sing
is necessitated by an instinct «to in-
cite the nerves of its laryngeal mus-
cles to action; tones are thus pro-'
and still unsolved
WUI.
Mr. Bain never alludes to the Will
as an independent Entity, not even
as a separate Faculty. He treats it
duoed. By the repetition of this blind as the generalised expression of our
exertion of voUtion, the bird at length power to perform voluntarv actions ;
learns to connect the kind of cause and voluntary actions he distin-
with the character of the effect pro- guishes from those which are in-
duced. The instinct of this dream- voluntary, by their connection wiUi
like and > involuntary-acting impulse
in the sensorinm has some share in
the prodaction of certain movements
in the human infant, which are in
themselves voluntary. In the sen-
certain sensations : whenever a link
is established between a sensation
and one particular action, that action
is voluntary. He pointa to the in-
disputable fact that a sensation of
sorium of the newly-born child there pain excites the active organs. An
is a necessitating impulse to the animal in pain struggles till it has
motions of sucking ; but the different escaped, or thrown its body into
parts of the act of sucking are them- such a posture that the pain ceases,
telves voluntary movements."* These writhings, excited by pain, are
In this passage, MuUer calls cer- involuntary ; and they are so because
* UiTLLKB : Physiology, by Baly, il 835.
f Badt : The Senses and ihelnieUeet, p. 296.'
aoo
Vduntary and /ftf^imtory Actions.
[Sept
Sond dofiiiito conlroly b^^ond ih&
knee of any one feeling; ibey
belong to what tfr. Bdn eelle tiM
^^diffosiTe wave of emotion ;" whereas
Tolnntary actions are isolated, and
t directed to a partionlar end. In
the eoaiee of its straggles, the animal
aooidentally makes one moTement
which is followed bj an alleviation
or oessatton of the pain ; this makes
it disoontinne all the other more-
nents, and coniinoe that which alle-
▼iates. If any of the other move-
menti are set going, the pain recurs,
and warns the animal to cease. The
coBtinaance of an alleviating move-
ment, Mr. Bain regards as the voli-
tional element.
** We must In the first Instance dearly
and broadly separate the diffosive wave,
aooompanying all emotions as their ne-
oeesaiy embodiment, from the active in-
flnence now nnder discussioD. This is
the more neoessaiy as the two classes of
movements are very apt to coexist A
blow with a whip, inflicted on a sentient
creatiue^ produces, as a part of the emo-
tinal effect^ strictly so called, a genemi
convulsive starts grimace, and howl ; it
also produces, in the case of the mature
animal, an exertion in some definite course
to avoid the recurrence of the infliction.
The first effect is entirely untaught^ pri-
mitive, instinctive ; being intimately and
indiflK>lubly connected with fueling in
the very nature of it The other eflbct
is based likewise on an original property,
but brought into the shape that we usu-
ally find it in, after some experience and
oonsiderable struggles. The element
Just mentioned, of aim or purpose, in no
sense belongs to the movements of the
diflused wave, or those constituting the
manifestation or expression of the men-
tal state. The ecstatic shout of hilarious
excitement) the writbiogs of pain, are
energetic movements, but they belong
nehher to the class of central sponta-
neity above described, nor to the volun-
tary class now under consideration."
When a very young infiint is in
pain it straggles and squalls. That
is all it can do ; it does that Instil^.
Mr. BfUn considers it dne to the dif-
fiised wave of emotion. S appose the
cause of the pain to be a needle
prickiog its foot ; the thild will make
no effort to remove that needle, be-
canse the link between such a pain
and snch an action has not yet been
established, and this volnntary ef-
fort cannot be made. Before it
can makesQch an effort it must have
learned to hcalim its senutions.
ISiverj sorgeon knows that the
Tonng infant may be aRowed to
have his hands fke, when operated
00, because it cannot with its hands
interfere with the knffb, not as jet
knowing v^ere the seat of pain isL
When, later on, It has learned to lo^
calise its sensations, it may learn
what actions alleviate them. A baby
in discomfort from some itching of
the nose is at first simply restfess;
it learns to rub that nose with its
little fist, only after much experience
of rubbings.
Let us pause here. In the enosi-
tion of Mr. Bain's views, to notice a
point respecting the nature of the
Will, as understood by two different
schools. Those who hold that the
Will is not simply the generalised ex-
pression of all volnntary actions, but
exists independent of these, thongfa
manifeited by them, may consider
that the helpless infknt has the same
Will as the older infiuit who can per*
fbrm certain volnntaiy actions; but
althoagh he has the Will^and it is
by this that he makes those incohe-
rent efibrts to free himself from the
pain — he has not yet learned what
actions will relieve him. There u
no logical objection to this condu-
sion ; but there is the very fatal ob-
jection, that if the struggles and
squalls of an infant are true vohin-
taiy actions (1.0. prompted by the
Will), there can be no actions tlutt are
invoiaotary : a conclusion we accept,
but one energetically repudiated oy
Hie doctrine now in question. Those,
on the other hand, who hold that the
Will simply means the power of per-
forming voluntarr actions, will deny
that the infant Las any Will until
that power has been developed in
him; and hoto it is developed Mr.
Bain eadeavours to expound. Let as
follow him in this endeavour.
He takes for his basis the primary
fact that when pain ^ coexistB with
an accidental alleviating movement,
or when pleasure coexists wiUi a
pleasure-sustaining movement, snch
movements become subject to the
cootrd of the respective feelings
which occur in theSr company. It
is a primordial law that we shrink
from pain and cling to pleasure ; as
18§9.]
VoiitnN^r9 iind Inodtrntary Adimu.
801
long M tlitt paiii U nnallefiated, more-
ments m kept up; as soon as one
partloalor movement brioffs oeesaiion
of pain, that mOTement is kept up.
An infant lyingp in bed has the painfol
sensation of chiUinees. This feeling
prodaces the osoal emotional display,
namely, movement, perhaps cries and
tears. In the coarse of a variety
of spontaneoQB movements of arms
and legs, there occars an action that
brings the child in contact with the
nofM lying beside it; instantly
irarmth is felt, and this alleviation
of painfol feelmg becomes immedi-
ately the stimnlns to sustain the
movement going oo that moment
That movement, when discovered, is
kepti^np, in preference to the others.
In this way the child learns to con-
nect certiun sensations with certain
movementSi and at a year old will
draw close to its nnrse whenever
the sensation of cold comes on, even
dnrbg sleep. **It is an original
property of our feelings to prompt
the active system one way or another,
bat there is no original connection
between the several feelings and the
actions that are relevant to each pa^
ticalar case. To arrive at this goal,
we need all the resonrces of sponta-
neity, trial and error, and the adhe-
sive growth of the proper couples,
when they can once be got together.
The first steps of onr volitional eda-
cation are a jnmble of spluttering,
stnmbling, and all but despairing
bopeleMnessi Instead of a clear
carrieulum, we have to wut upon the
aecidentSi and improve them when
they come."
Ko one will withhold his assent
from the proposition that a pain in-
creasing in company with any move-
ment must tend to caose the arrest
of that movement ; or that pleasure
increasing in comiMtny with a move-
ment must tend to cause the continu-
ance of that movement
** The qioiita&eous action that brings
a limb into a painftil contact, as wbon
the child kicks its £>ot upon a pin in its
dress, is undoubtedly from the earliest
moment of mental hfe arrested. With-
out this I see no possible commexicement
of voluntary power. So a movement
that mitigates a pain already in opera-
tion is maintained, as long as the crea-
ture is conseiods of diminished suffering.
In fhis way, the arms, handsi and fingers
work for abathig sharp agony, provided
only the right member has found its way
into action. No provision, as I have
often said, exists at the dawn of life for
getting the right member into play. The
m&nt being must go through many a
cycle of annoyance, because, among nu-
merous stimulants to action that have
occurred, the right one has been omitted.
But the true impetus once arising, the
mind is alive to the coincidence of this
with decreashig or vanished pahi ; just
as, on tlie other hand, we must suppose
it alive to the omncidence of some other
movement with an aggravation of the
evil The greater the pain, the more
strongly is the alleviating movement
sustained when once under way. For
the next stage of the process, the esta*
blishment of a connection between the
pain and the special action, we must fall
back upon the foundation of all our ac-
qiusitions, namely, the force of contigu-
ous association. The concurrence of a
particular sensation, as a prick in the
arm, with that retracting movement
which rids us of the pain, leads to tlie
rise of an adhesive bond between the
two, if a sufficient number of repetitions
have occurred. "We cannot say how
many instances of chance coi\}unction
are requisite to generate an association
so strong as to take away the uncertain-
ties attending the spontaneous discharge ;
all the circumstances governing the ra-
pidity of contiguous adhesion would
have to be taken into account in this
case. The excitement of sti;ong pain on
the one hand, or of strong pleasure on
the other, is a &vourable moment for
the growth of an association : and pro-
bably not a great number of those occa-
sions would be necessary to convert an
inchoate into a fhU-formed volition, in-
formed, I say, because when the sup-
posed pain can bring into play the pro-
per movement, in the absence of all
spontaneous tendency, we have a case of
voluntaiy power complete for all the
purposes of the living being. The ex-
ample that I am now discussing, namely,
the retractation of any part of the body
firom a painlhl contact, implies a very
numerous set of coincidences between
local pains and local movements. For
all contacts on the bade of the hand,
there must be an association witii the
muscles of flexion; for the palm, the
extensor muscles must be affected. For
the outside of the arm, the tendency to
draw it towards the side has to be
prompted. And so in like manner for
every part of the body, under an irri-
tating smart, there must be a formed
302
Voluntary and iMolmUary AetionM.
[Sei*.
oonneetioii between paiDful aeiiBttUon
arioDg in the locality and the corre-
spondkig movements of retractation. Thia
is one department of yoluntaiy aoqulsi*
tion, and consists of a multitude of
couples of individual sensations and in-
dividual movements, joined by associa-
tion, after being commenced by sponta-
neity. For the class of acute pains sup>
posed the acquirement is perfect owing
in a great measure to tlie simplioity of
the oasa It is not so with many of
those muscular pains, wliich we are pro-
fessedly considering at present, although
in the foregoing illustration we have de-
parted fiom them, and somewhat anti-
cipated the subject of sensation at laige.
The cramps of the limbs do not ordm-
arily suggest the alleviating action. Ow-
ing partly to the rarity of the feeling;
we .have not usually a full-formed voli-
tion which enables the state of suffering
to induce the alleviating action, and con-
sequently we are thrown upon the pri-
mitive course of trial and error. This
instance shows^ by contrast with the pre-
ceding, how truly our voluntary powers
result ^m education. An established
link between a cramp in the ball of the
log, and the proper actions for doing
away with the agony, is quite as great a
desideratum as drawing up the foot
when the toe is pinched or scalded ; yet
no such link exists, until a melancholy
experience has initiated and matured it
The connection in the other case is so
well formed from early years; that al-
most everybody looks upon it as an in-
stinct, yet why should there be an in-
stinct for the lighter forms of pain, and
none for the severest? The truth is^
that the good education in the one is en-
tirely owing to our being more favour-
ably situated for making the acquisi-
tion.^*
Hitherto we have seen volaotary
actions nnder the gaidaoce of sensa-
tions only ; let us now observe the
ideal element A child Is seated at
table with u& He places bis hand
upoQ the bright teapot, and the pain
of the born makes bim withdraw hia
hiM^d; again the brightness attracts
his ourions fingers, and again the
paio makes him desist Afrer a cer-
tain nnmber of trials the idea of the
pain IS 60 associated with that of the
teapot, that the child no longer bums
himself. But be has thrust his hand
into the biscuit- plate, and finds this
action rewarded with a biscuit in-
stead of a bum. On repeating it be
is scolded, or slapped, or pat into
the eonier— made to sofo pun ; and
if this pain be always inflioted when
be acts thos, he will soob learn to
restrain those forays npon the bis-
cnits. This link which is established
between an action and a pain, is an
ideal link, and finds its place in
memory; it is nearlvas firm as a
sensational link. The supposition,
however, that this ideal link makes
the action volantarr, as distinguisked
from an action whidi is gnidM by a
sensational link, will not .withstand
criticism.
At first onr actions are gnided by
sensations; then by the idod repre-
sentatives of those seosationB.
** Instead of an actual movement seen,
we have for the guiding antecedent a
movement conceived, or^in idea. The
association now passes to those ideal
notions that we are able to form of oor
various actions, and connects them with
the actions themselves. All that Is then
necessary is a determining motive, put-
ting the action in request Some plea-
sure or pain, near or remote^ is essential
to every volitional effort, or evezy change
from quiescence to noovement, or fhna
one movement to another. We feel, for
examine, a painfbl state of the digeatire
system, with the consequent volitional
urgency to allay it ; experience, direc-
tion, and imitation, have connected in
our minds all the intermediate steps,
and so the train of movements is set on.
On the table before us. we see a giaas of
liquid; the in&nt never so thirsty could
not make the movement Ibr bringbig it
to the mouth. But in the maturity of
the will, a link is formed between the
appredated distance and direction of the
glass, and the movement of the arm up
to that point; and under the stimulus
of pain, or of expected pleasure^ the
movement is executed."
It often happens that we are ood-
scious of ** an interval of suspense be-
tween the moment of painful nrgency
and the moment of appeasing action ;*'
becanse the reflex-feelings are many,
abd these cross and recroes eaeh
other, so that no one of them issnes
in action. This was the case with
the frog to which we previoosly ad-
verted; instead of hopping away
when pinched, it cowered and seemed
hesitating as to its escape. And this
leads ns to consider how thoughts,
no less than acUons, can be con-
trolled; how the mind has power
18S9]
Voluntary and htcoluntary JetioM.
303
over ite «otioo8| do kn than over tbe
actions of tbe body. Tbe fact tbat
we can, in some degree, control tbe
tbonghts, is indispatablo ; how we do
$o is not 60 clear. Mr. Bain, if we
do not misanderstand him, has been
led into some confasion on tbifi point,
by bis error of limitiog the Will to
the region of the yolaotarj ma8cle&
" Ab we can under an adequate motive
observe one point in the scene before
us, And negleot everything else ; as we
can single out one sound and be deaf to
the general hum ; — as we can apply our-
selves to the appreciation of one flavonr
in the midst ot many, or be aware of a
pressure on a particular part of the body
to the neglect of the rest ; so in mental
attention we can fix one idea firmly in
the view, while others are coming and
going unheeded. On the supposition,
that the influenee of the will Is limited
to the region of the voluntary muscles
and parts in alliance therewith, some-
thing needs to be said in explanation of
this apparent exception to the rule. It
is not obvious at first sight that the re-
tention of an idea in the mind is operated
by voluntary muscles. Which moving
organ is put in force when I am cogitat-
ing on a circle, or keeping my attention
wedded to my recollection of St. Paul's ?
There can be no answer given to this,
unless on the assumption that the men-
tal, or revived, image occupies the same
place in the brain and other parts of the
system, as the original sensation did : a
position supported by a number of rea-
sons adduced in my former volume,
which need not be repeated. I have
ahown that there is a muscular element
in oar sensations, especially of the higher
senses, touch, hearing, and sight; this
element must somehow or other have a
place in the after remembrance or idea ;
other wise^the ideal and the actual would
be much more different than we find
them. The ideal circle Is a restoration
of those currents that would prompt the
sweep of the eye round a real eirele ; the
difference lies in the last stage, or in the
st<^ping short of the aetaal movement
penormed by the organ. I know of no
other distlnetion between the remem-
bered and the origin^, exc^t this stop-
page or shorteoming of the current of
nervous power, which is no doubt an
important one in several respects, but
stiU permitting the power of voluntary
control'^
This Qzplanatio& ia far from satis-
fkctcry. Tbe Drioeiple whioh Mr.
Bftin has so well iUostrated respect-
rou uoanrx.
ing the gnidance of our actions, is
surely ample to explain the guidance
of onr thongbts. The power of keep-
ing np one train of thonght, is ana-
logous . to that of keeping np one
coarse of mnscnlar action. We cling
to certain ideas becanse they are
pleasant, or interest as, or becanse
some remote pain or pleasore stimu-
lates ns ; and we repress all other
thoughts as they arise, jost as we
shoafd repress movements which dt»-
tarbed a pleasurable sensation. It
'is notorious that we cannot call np
any one idea at will ; but having
once got hold of the idea, we can
keep it before the mind. What Mr.
Bain has said when treating of the
intellectual process named by him
** constrnctive associatbn,*' seems to
ns the true explanation of a// com-
mand over the thought : —
'* When Watt invented his ' parallel
motion' for the steam-engine, lua intel-
lect and observation were kept at work,
going out in all directions for the chance
of some suitable combination rising to
view ; his sense of the precise thing to
be done was the constant touchstone of
every contrivance occurring to him, and
all the successive suggestions were ar-
rested, or repelled, as they came near
to, or disagreed with, this touchstone.
The attraction and repalsion were pure-
ly volitional effects ; they were the con-
tinuance of the very same energy that,
in his babyhood, made him keep his
mouth to his mother's breast while
he felt hunger unappeesed, and with-
drew it when satisfied, or that made
him roll a sugary morsel in his mouth,
and let drop or violently eject what was
bitter or nauseous, lue promptitude
that we display in setting aside or ig-
noring what is seen not to answer our
present wants, is volition, pure, peren-
nial, and unmodified ; the power seen in
our infant struggles for nourishment
and warmth, or the riddance of acute
pain, and presiding over the last endea-
vours to ease the agonies of suffering.
No formal resolution of the mind, adopted
after consideration or debate, no special
intervention of the * ego,' or the person-
ality, is essential to this putting forth of
tiie energy of retaining on the one hand,
or repudiating on the other, what is felt
to be dearly suitable, or clearly unsuit-
able, to the feelings or aims of the mo-
ment. The inventor sees the incongruity
of a proposal, and forthwith it vanishes
from his view. There may be extraneous
16
304
Vdwitary and Involuntary Actions,
tSept.
considerations happening to keep it np ventioQ of feeliog the mark of a
in spite of the volitional stroke of repu- yolantary act We have endeavoured
dlation, but the genuine tendency of the
mind is to withdraw all farther consi-
deration, on the mere motive of un-
euitability ; while some other scheme of
an opposite nature is, by the aame in-
Btincti embraeed and held fast. In all
these new constructions^ be they me-
chanical, verbal, scientific, practical, or
fcsthetical, the outgoings of the mind
are necessarily at random ; the end
alone is the thing that is clear to the
view, and with that there is a perception
of the fitnessof every passing suggestion.
The volitional energy keeps up the at-
tention, or the active search, and the
moment that anything in point rises
before the mind, springs upon that like
a wild beast on its prey."
We have now laid before the reader
the cardinal p^itions of Mr. Bain's
theory of the Will, or, as he calls it,
of yolantary action. It differs, as is
evident, from current theories ; Irat
a careful study of the arffomenta by
which it is supported will convince
the reader that, if not the whole troth,
it is no inconsiderable step towards
a true explanation. We have not
to show that both voluntary and
involantary actions are reflex, fol-
lowing upon the stimalus given to
their centres, that stimolos being sen-
sational or ideational. Nor is this
all : they are both capable of being
broaght under corUroL — that is to
say, of being restrained or originated
by the infloeooe of some other centre.
That we do not habitaally control
(that is, interfere with) the action of
the heart, the contraction of the iris,
or the activity of a gland, is trne ;
it is on this account that sach a^
tions are called involuntary ; they
obey the immediate stimalus. Bot
it is an error to assert, as all physio-
logists and psychologists persist in
assertiDg, that these actions cannot
be controlled, that they are alto-
gether beyond the interfereooe of
other centres, and cannot by any
effort of ours be modified. It is an
error to suppose these actions are
essentially distinguished from the
voluntary movement of the bands.
We have acquired a power of defidte
urged the objections which might be direction in the movemenU of the
urged against some of his views, be- bands, which renders them obedient
to oar will; but this acquisition has
been of slow laborious growth. If
we were asked to use our toes as we
use onr fingers— to grasp, paint, sew,
or write with them, we ehoald find
it not less impossible to control the
movepaents of the toes in these direc-
tions, than to contract the iris, or
cause a barst of perspiration to break
forth. Certain movements of the
toes are possible to as ; but aniens
the loss of our fingers has made it
necessary that we should use oar
toes in complicated and slowly ac-
qaired movements* we can do no
more with them than the yoopg in-
&nt can do with his fingers. Yet
men and women have written, sewed,
and painted with their toeei All
that is required is that certain links
shonM be established between sensa-
tions and movements ; by oontinoal
practice these links a/re established ,*
and what is impossible to the ma-
jority of men, becomes easy to the
individoal who has acquired this
power. This same power can be
acquired over what are caOed the
organic actions ; aldioagh the habi-
cause we wished oor limited space
to be occupied with exposition rather
than criticism ; but our reticence
must not be constraed into acqui-
escence. There is one point, how-
ever, which we desire to notioe|, in
order that some carious physiolo-
gical £icts may be laid before the
reader.
Nowhere has Mr. Bain expressed
himself categorically respecting the
difference between voluntary and in-
volunti^ actions ; bat he assumes
the difference, and, implicitly at
least, he makes it depend on the
establishment of the link of feeling.
*' Voluntary aotions," he says, in the
nearest approach to a definition we
can recall, ** are' distinguished from
reflex and spontaneous activity by
the directive intervention of a feeling
in their production^ In denying
the intervention of sensation in re-
flex-actions, he only follows estab-
lished theories; but nnless he sepa-
rates the involuntary from te&ex
and spontaneous actions, he falls
into manifest contradiction with his
own prindples in making the inter-
im.]
Voluntary
and Inulvmtary AUicM.
305
toil seeds of life do not tend towards
neh aoqnkitioD, and withoat some
itroDg earrent seitiDg in that direo-
tioo, or some pecoliarity of organisa-
tioa lendering it eaay, it is not ao-
qoired. In ordinary experience the
Bamber of thoae who oan write with
Ibeir toes is extremely rare, the ur-
geot DeoesBity which woald create-
each a power being rare ; and rare
also are the examples of those who
Itave any control over the movement
of the iris, or the action of a gland ;
Irat both raritiea exist.
It woold be difficnlt to chooee a
nore strikiog example of reflex action
than the eontraction of the iris of the
cje QDder the stimulns of light ; and
to ordinary men, having no link
established which woaki gaide them,
it is utterly impossible to close the
im by any effort of their own. It
woald be not less impossible to the
hsogry child to get on the chair and
retch the food on the table, nntil
thstchUd has learned how to do so.
Yet there are men who have learned
how to contract the iris. The cele-
brated Footana had this power,
which is possessed also by a medical
mso now living at Glasgow — Mr.
Pszton— a fact stated on the antho-
Tity of no less a person than Dr.
Alleo Thomson.* Mr. Paxton can
eoDtract or expand the iris at will,
withoat changiog the position of his
Vj^ and without an effort of adapta-
tion to distance.
To move the ears is impossible to
most men. Yet some do it with ease,
. sod all can learn to do it. Some
men have learned to **rominate*'
their food ; others to vomit with
esse ; and some are said to have the
power of perspiring at wilL| That
maoy [rlands.are under the influence
of the Will--in other words, that we
can Bthnutate them to secretion by a
mere ideal stimulus — is too well
koowo to need instance here. Even
the beating of the heart can be
arrested. The heart has its own ner-
vous system. The minute ganglia im-
bedded in its substance regulate its
rhythmic movements ; and long after
death the heart is seen to beat Bat
although thus independent, it is also
dependent; its nervous system is in
connection with the spinal chord sod
brain ; and ioflaeooes from these will
act upon it Thus it is that emotions
agitate the heart ; the disturbance of
its movements comes from the inter-
ference of brain or chord. Now, if
once we recognise a channel of sen-
sation, we recognise a possible souroe
of control ; and if the daily needs of
life were such that to falfil some
purpose the action of the heart re-
quired control, we should learn to
control it Some men have, withoat
such needs, learned how to control
it The eminent physiologist, E. F.
Weber of Leipzig, found that he
conld completely check the beaUog
of his heart By suspending his
breath, and violently cootractiog his
chest, he could retard the palsations ;
and after three or five beats, udac-
coropanied by any of the osual
Boonds, it was completely still. On
one occauon he carried the experi-
ment too far, and fell into a syocope.
Cheyne, in the last century, recorded
a case of a patient of his own who
could at will suspend the beating of
his pulse, and always fainted when
he did so.
It thus appears that even the
actions which most distinctly bear
the character recognised as involun-
tary— uncontrollable — are only so
be<»nse the ordinary processes of
life furnish no necessity for their
control. We do not learn to control
them, though we could do so, to
some extent ; nor do we learn to
control the motions of our ears and
toes, although we could do so. And
while it appears that the involuntary
actions can become voluntary, it is
familiar to all that the voluntary
actions tend, bv constant repetition,
to become involuntary, and are then
called secondarily automatic
The conclusion at which we arrive
is this : Popular language conve-
niently classes actions as voluntary
when a distinct conception of tlie
object to be achieved accompanies
* We learn this from Brown Ssquard's Journal de la Phyaioloffie 1859, p. 287,
who dtes the Glaaffow Medical Journal^ 1857, p. 451.
f ^Txa: Die tkmeniarorganizaiian du Seeknorgans^ p. 12, is the aathontj-
fiw the last statement
306
Voluntary and IfM>ohmtary AetwM.
[Sept
or oriRinatee them. Bat Psychotogy
and Physiology, deBcending deeper
than each cTaasiflcatioDS, and ana-
lysing the process which takes place in
the organism, declare that all actions
whatever are the responses of organs
to the stimalas of their nerve-centres.
Whether the action be the movement
of a mnscle or the secretion of a gland,
it is finally determined by the centre
from which the organ is sopplied.
This centre may be stimnlated dv a
sensory nerve goinir from the snrfaoe
— as when the salivary gland poors
oat its secretion, or the limb con-
tracts, after the stimalas of food, or
pain. The centre may also be stimu-
lated by the action of some other
centre ; as when the idea of food
caoses a flow of saliva, or the irrita-
tion of the salivary gland canses a
flow of gastric jaioe. Bat whether
the action resalt lh>m a direct or an
indirect stimalas. it is always the
same response of an organ to Its
centre; whether the starting-point
be an idea or a sensation, Uie fiaal
issne is an excitation of the particalar
centre, and the response of a parU-
calar action. We cannot separate
some actions from others, and call
them Tolantary beoaoae they an
dependent on a link of feeling, sinoe
all actions are dependent on sensa-
tion. And if any reader objects to
snch a oonclasion on the groand that
it makes the Sonl animate the vkoU
body, and preside over aH its actions,
not simply over a few of them — If he
objects that we are thereby retro-
grading towards the doctrine of StaU
»onr reply is : we most fdlow Logic
whither Logic leads. Any reader irao
is ancomfortable at the idea of retro-
grading, who is nnwilling to believe
that all the phenomena of his eeiai-
tive organism have one commoo
source, one kindred nature, and one
common name-— the soal— is at per-
fect liberty to try and reach some
other conviction which, besides be-
ing more agreeable to his feelings,
will better explain the fact& It
is a topic on which no man will
wisely dogmatise. Tlie veil of mys-
tery will never be lifted. We who
stand before that veil, and specu-
late as to what is behind it, cbb
bat baild systems; we cannot see
the troth.
1869.]
Thi ImA 4>/ Ladffsmsde.^Pan VM,
807
THV LUCK OF LADT8HE0K.
OHAPTBK XVII.— THB WARNIKO.
Daxb Elfhilo and her oieoe ooca-
pied their osoal seftts in the solar
window. Isola, too, at OUdice*B
perBoasiOD, had left her chamber;
and the change of scene, and the
natoral efforts which she made to
appear cheerful in the company of
her Icind entertainers, were not with-
oat their good effect apon her health
and spirits. Still, with the excep-
tion of the elder lady, they were bat
a silent party. GHadioe^s eyes might
hftve seemed, as naoal, to have been
eoanting the stones in the old wall
opposite, or the blades of withering
grses in the oonrt below ; there was
the same dreamy gane and indolent
grace as ever; bnt the cheek that
leant on the richly-monlded arm had
an nnnsaal paleness, and there was at
tliiies a passing contraction of the
brow, observed by Isola^s eyes, if by
BO others. For the Italian alone
had no ostensible occupation , and she
might be pardoned if her glance
rested on the beaatifal face, upon
which the foil light of the window
was streaming, with for more inte-
rest tlian npon the elder lady's busy
fingers, or any other object in tfaie
j^loomy chamber. Dame £lf hild also
darted occasionally a qnestioniog
look, such as she conld spare from
her more absorlriog object, in the
same direction; for to the Tarions
discursive remarks, by which that
lady had been doing her best to en-
liven their little cirde, her niece had
made bat short and vague replies.
She was tolerably well accustomed
to Gladice*s moods of meditation;
bat she ooald not surely be wrong
in condoding that the maiden^s
thoughts, on this particular morning,
had taken a more definite shape
than their wont; and she bore her
inattention with admirable patience,
and an inward smile of satisfaction.
Bat as her own ideas of love's dis-
tractions were built rather on theory
than experience, it is possible that
her conclasions in tlie present case
were wrong. It was a subject which
she did not choose to open to the
stranger whom accident had made
their gnest, even by the favourite
feroinioe process of hints and smiltt ;
and Isola's own position was t^o em-
barrassing, and her thoughts too
bitter, for her to niuke ndv aitempt
to break the restraint by indifferent
conversation.
Suddenly Gladice rose, and threw
the lattice open, and called to the
seneschal, who was passiog across the
inner court.
'* I would ride this forenoon, War-
enger,** she said ; " let us get to saddle
as soon as may conveniently be."
Warenger looked up with some sur-
prise, for the lady's tone sounded Ur
more peremptory than he approved
of; he was wont to be consulted
with some deference on such matters.
He felt it due to himself in conse-
quence to make some difficulty, but he
was not exactly prepared with one at
the moment.
" To ride, did my lady say ?'*
**To ride, master seneschal; shall
we be favoured with your good com-
pany ? I trust so."
His lady smiled so sweetly as she
said it, that almost any other man
than the old seoeschal must have
grasped at the invitation at once. It
had its effect even upon him : he was
preparing his line of defence to resist
any form of dictotion which could be
brought to bear upon him, and here
he found himself taken in flank by
smiles and bright eyes. He made a
brave show of resistance, nevertheless,
before he yielded.
'*Hengist hath caught somewhat
of a wheezing in his throat — it were
hardly well to ride him to-day,*' said
Warenger; ** unless, indeed, your
ladyship would be pleased to go
slowly."
This was an alternative which the
seneschal well knew his young mistress
would scarcely avail herself of.
•* Nay, then, it is very ill-timed of
him," said she ; *' but the blame lies ^
rather with those who should have
looked to him better; he would be
well if he knew I wanted him. But
306
The Lvdc of Ladymede^-^Pan VIL
[Sept«
there is the new palfrey which yoa
have been mouthing for me, Waren-
ger ; I will ride him to^ay.'*
The Beneschal shook his head so-
lemDly. '* The saioto forbid,'* said he^
<' that I should saffer it r
^ And why not?" rejoined the lady ;
"I saw Harry pat him through all his
paces two dajs ago, and he carried
himself so discreetly that even Judith
said she should not fear to mount
him."
** Judith may ride what she will,**
returned Warenger gruffly ; ** she is no
charge of mine, and there will be no
great outcry made if harm comes to
her of her own wilfulness."
" Shame on you, master seneschal,'*
said Gladice ; *' if ever yon fall sick
again, I will warn Judith to make yoa
no more possets."
<* Making of possets is one thing,
good my lady, which Judith may do
well enough, but riding of half*
managed colts is another. I would
not put you on the roan-palfrey's
back for the best of the Hope
manors."
** Toa are more careful of me than
I deserve," said Gladice ; ^ but my
good kinswoman here proffers me
her jennet, which is staia enough to
carry an abbess. So prithee despatch,
kind Master Warenger, while the sun*
shine lasts."
**I misdoubt the weather,*' said
the seneschal, ' looking round him
ominously, as a last remonstrance,
into an unusually bright November
sky.
'* I never saw it promise fairer," re-
turned the lady in laughing contra-
diction ; ** we may as well make pris*
oners of ourselves all the winter as be
scared by a passing cloud. Tou will
not ride to-day, then t" she continued,
turning to Elfhild, as Warenger re-
tired from the contest with a protest*
ing wave of his hand, and moved off
to execute her wishes.
The elder lady declared that it was
impossible to spare the time.
"And you cannot, I fear?" said
Gladice to the Italian. Isola shook
her head with a faint smile.
'* Alas 1 no," she said ; " but in a
few days I will gladly try, for it is
full time that I should myself pot
some limit to the kindness of such
generous friendsi I know," she con-
tinued, as both her hearers joined in
{)rotesting warmly against any snob
dea — ^ I know well there is no such
thought in either of your hearts ; but
there are good and weighty reasons
why I should take my journey hence
as speedily as I may find strength."
Gladice alone saw the rising ook>mr
in the speaker's face, and turned her
eyes away.
** I must go prepare me," she said ;
and she left the apartment
Finding herself alone, almost for
the first time, with her elder hostess,
Isola summoned all her courage to
repeat to her the sad tale of eiror
and suffering which she had already
told to Gladice ; and from the kind-
hearted Elfhild she received at oooe,
if not a more real and heart^t sym-
pathy, at least warmer demonstra-
tions than from her niece. On one
point only the confidence was incom-
plete — no mention was made of Sir
Nicholas Le Hardi's name, and no-
thing escaped from the Italian's lips
which could lead to any snspidon
that the faithless knight whom, in the
weakness — or the strength — of her
woman's love, she had crossed the
sea to follow, bad been so lately a
visitor within those very walls. If
such concealment was a faulty it was
at least not altogether a selfish one.
Dame Elfhild's lively recognition
of the stranger's wrongs was c&edred
by the reappeanmce of Gladioe In
her riding-dress. The morning ekrad
had passed from her face, and the
smooth open brow bore no longer
any trace of painful thought Iwla
looked at her as she entered, and
with the warm impulse and in the
expressive langnage of her nation,
murmured audibly her affisetionaie
admiration. BeautiAil as ever, there
seemed a soft consciousness now in
the expresston of the features, which
made her more than ever attraolaw.
The Italian gassd long enoogh to
call up a blush in &% oh^ of
Gladice, but it did not seem a paanfai .
one ; and when at length she took her
eyes away, filling as they were with
tears which were not of sorrow, her
companions needed no skill in \ut-
guages to understand, in the soft im-
passioned Tuscan accents which broke
from her, the expression of her gratip
tude and blessing.
185d.]
Tki Ludt <if Ladymde^Part VJI.
809
Tbtre had been no need to pat in-
to requisition, for the yoooger lady's
nae. the sleek and short-winded ani*
mal wbich went throogh life so easily
nnder ber kinswoman. Heogist's
indispoeition proved not to be very
serioos ; and as Gbidice caressed ber
favonrite before sbe moanted, sbe
smiled to berself at tbe old seneschal's
palpable ezcose, though she wisely
made no remark beyood an expres-
sion of satidaotion. To Wareoger
she had never seemed more gracious,
or in gayer spirits. Once only, before
they left the castle-yard, sbe spoke
with such a strange abraptoess that
the old man looked in her face to read
. there some explanation of the noosual
tone» bat it was turned purposely
away from him. It was when he
asked permission to carry with them
one of the foreign hawks wbich had
been the gift of Sir Nicholas, and
without which he seldom williugly
stirred abroad. That his young mis-
trees, who had always loved the
gentle sport so well, should object to
each an addition to their party at all,
sorprised him ; but the short and
sharp terms, almost of displeasure, in
which she refused this very natural
propoaition, were even more uuac-
couDtable. A few moments after-
wardS) however, when she addrened
him again, her voice was as wiDaiug as
ever, and be set down the momentary
petolance in his own mind as one of
those curious anomalies of feminioe na-
ture which, he thanked heaven, he had
never had any personal interest in in-
vestigating.
Follow^ by a couple of grooms,
they galloped along the level meadows
by tbe river-side, at a pace which
might have discomposed the old
seneschal, had not great part of his
life been spent io tfa^ saddle ; for to-
day iGrladice seemed less than ever
content to ride slowly. As at length
she turned her horse to look round
for her escort, whom she had out-
stripped, she saw that Warenger*s
eyes were fixed on the pathway which
woond amongst the brushwood on the
slope above them. A solitary figure
stood there, which appeared also to
be. watching attentively the party be-
low. As the seneschal rejoined his
lady, still turning his eyes occasionally
to the hill-side^ the wayfarer suddenly
waved his hand as if to attract their
notice, and began to move down to-
wards them at a run.
"Who comes yonder, Warenger?"
asked his mistress.
" I cannot tell, so please you," re-
plied the seneschal ; ** but be knows
us, belike, better than we know him.
I thought he was watching us when
I first saw him ; 'tis some knave that
hath a purpose of his own, no doubt.''
" It IS Baoul, from Ladysmede I" ex-
claimed Gladice, as tbe figure came
plainer into view.
" Nay, that may hardly be, saviog
your worshipful presence; my young -
gallant would not for his life be seen
so far afoot of a morning, for fear of
spoiling his boota*' Wareoger was
very unwilling to think that his eyes
could fail him now more than they did
fifty years ago.
*'&aoul It is, and no other/' re-
turned Gladice, " come he here how be
may ;" and she rode forward to meet
him.
" It hath somewhat the favour of
him," admitted Warenger sullenly, as
he followed his mistress ; ** but it
looks more like a man, and less like a
popinjay."
Very unlike himself indeed did
the young squire look that morning,
as he came panting towards them.
Even had old Warenger's eyesight
been sharper, he might have well been
excused for being slow to recognise
him. His haod:»ome curls were all
uncsred for, his gay dress was torn
and travel-stained, his face was pale,
and the bright bold look which be-
came him so well was there no longer.
Life had run so smoothly with poor
Baod until now, that its troubles
and realities seemed to have come
upon him all at once. A night of
watching and anxiety — the first, per-
haps, that he had ever spent — had
sadly dashed the Joyous young spirit ;
and the forcing himaelf, with Picot's
help, through the narrow window,
lying close under the wall till^ day-
brecuc, and then stealing cautiously
throueh the wet fern and bushes
nntil he was at a safe distance from
the manor, had left him, in outward
appearance, something which he him-
self would have been tbe first to have
felt ashamed of. It was a guise in
which he would have been very slow
810
The Lvek of Ladymeis.^Part FZI.
[Sept
at any other time, to present him-
self before a fair lady. Even Gladioe
coald hardly snpprefls a qaestion-
iog smile of astonishment as she
greeted him. Bat poor Raoal was
now in too serioas a mood to waste
much thought upon his innocent
vanities ; and if his conntenanoe bad
lost something of its boyish grace,
it had a wild earnestness which
checked Gladice*s smile as she read it
closer. If he coloured scarlet as she
spolce to him, it was from no thought
about his personal appearance.
" What is it, Raoul ?" she asked.
Her look was almost as eager as his
own, as he raised his cap to salute
her. ^ Has any harm befallen you 7"
" No, no I" said Raoul — " no-
thing.'' He was out of breath. *' I
was on my way to the Tower, to
tdl you something which concerns
you nearly, lady—I am right glad to
have met with you here."
** And what may be the matter of
such importance, that yon should
run afoot, as I guess, all the way
from Lad^smede, Master Raoul, to tell
me ?'* Glad ice coloured slightly in her
turn, and spoke a little nervously ; for
the esquire's look and manner were
painfully earnest.
" I would rather, if the Lady Glad-
ice please to listen to me, speak a few
words in her hearing alone.*'
** So- be it, in heaven's name," said
old Wareoger contemptuously, draw-
ing his horse back to a respectful dis-
tance ; " be only discreet in vour
communications, young sir : I have
no fancy, I do assure ye, to be a lis-
tener in ought that doth not concern
me ; I would I could shut my ears of-
tener to matters which I am forced to
lear."
'* I bear a message from Sir God-
frey," said Raoul, addressing the sen-
eschal in a tone of haughty explana-
tion.
** It must needs be a weighty one,
that a gentleman of such experience is
charged with it," said the seneschal ;
'' let roe stand no longer in the way of
its being delivered."
" Pardon my boldnesSj sweet lady,"
said the esquire when he was out of
hearing — ** was any message brought
from LAdysmede this morning 7"
*' None, to my knowledge," said the
lady.
** Do not go there at present, If Sir
Godfrey seess your company," said
Raoul hurriedly ; " If yon are told
that Sir Nicholas has left these parts,
do not believe it."
" What have I to do, I pray you,
Sir Squire, with Sir Nicholas Le
Hardis movements, whether be
comes or goes f * She spoke, as sbe
might be excused for speaking, with
a tone and look of offended dignity.
Raoul saw the colour on her face,
and felt neither rebuked nor abashed.
He laid his hand on her bridle, and
only spoke the more earnestly.
'* I do humbly entreat your pardon,
lady ; that you care not for him, I
know — God forbid it ! but — but
— I cannot tell why, but I fear
some evil is on foot." And he told
her of his loteryiew with Sir Godfrey
— all but the blow.
Gladice listened at first with a show
of haughty carelessness, but as he pro-
ceeded, with gradually roused atten-
tion.
'* My lord of Ely expected as a guest
at Ladysmede?" said she, wb»
Raoul repeated that part of Ids lord*8
message — ** it is strange I shoold not
have heard of it"
" Such was Sir Grodfrey's message ;
but that which he bad me be sore
to tell, and which I know is false, was
that Sir Nicholas was to take bis de-
parture to-day."
"Aud this priest — this Father
Giacomo — why are you so ready to
trust him more than others 7" asked
Gladioe after a pause.
'* Because I am sure he has spoken
the truth."
" How can you be sure of it?" re-
peated Gladice; '*tbe report I have
ever heard of him has been evil."
*• Yet I am sure of it, none the less,**
said the esquire ; I would pledge
my life that he means honestly in
this."
<* And what pledge have I, beyond
your own word, young sir, for the
strange suspicions which you hint
against knights and gentlemen of
name? Why should I believe you?"
"Because—'' Raoul checked him-
self before he had well begun hi^i
eager speech, and said, " Do yon
think that I could play yon false,
lady 7"
'*! know not— ye may be all (Use
Id59.]
2%€ luel ^ Ltdyinui€.^Fart Vll
ail
alike," hatr-bltterly ; but ibe did not
moye her eyes from the joath^a sp-
pealing face, aod be read io her look
more oonfidence tban her words con-
veyed.
** I oonfesB I aao siracgely inclined/'
she eoDtioned, ^ to put some faith in
yonr warning; and as for yonr own
honesty in the matter, I have a
theaght to pat it to the trial at
once."
Raoal coloared like a girl, bat only
answered by a profonnd obeisance.
**Toa do not think to return to
lAdysmede?*'
*" Never !** said he indignantly.
*<Then listen." She bent forward
io her saddle, and spoke in a lower
tone, so that no wora eonld reach the
ears of her attendants. ''Ride for
me straight to the mynchery at
Hiohamstede, and ask to have speech
of the lady-abbefis ; she will tell you
where to seek the Bishop of Ely my
good cousin — he is surely by this
time within a day or two*8 journey,
if not nearer ; and when you find
biffl, say to hira from me, that I woald
gladly take counsel with him upon a
matter of pressing importance. You
will do this ? I have none that I may
trust beUer."
" I will not fail you, lady,— -be sure
of it"
> '* I am bound to famish you with
a horse for my service. iJamberl!
this young esquire will hold it a
charity for thee to change places with
him— he does me the grace to ride
to-day upon a certain errand of mine
own."
Both the serving-man and the sen-
eschal heard their lady*8 order with
wme surprise ; but it was not for
them to make objection to it ; and
Lambert, with as good a grace as he
could command, dtsmount^ and held
the stirrup fur the esquire to mount.
Scarcely waiting to fix himself in his
seat, with brief word of thanks to
the groom, and a low bi^nd of part-
ing salutation to the lady, Raool
pQt the horse to his speed over the
level ground, and was soon out of
The lady Gladlee was very thought-
fol as she rode homewards. On her,
too, as well as upon Baoul, the stem
realities of life were fast crowding
aU at once. She bad made her first
personal acquafaitaiioe with falsehood
and with danger. But she was
neither overpowered tor dismayed.
Bather, the call to earnest thoogbt
and action had roused her spirit,
and awoke her from a life which had
seemed to her miserably without a
meaning or an object. She had now
to call forth all her energies, and
think and act for herself. In none
of those about her could she look for
a friend who could give her any real
sympathy or protection. She shrank
from disclosing to her aunt Isola%
unhappy secret, at least until the
latter should have removed to some
quarter where she would be safe from
any danger which she might appre-
hend from Le Hardi*s vengeance.
She had too much reason to fear,
from the esquire*s story, that her
kinsman Sir Godfrey would not be
over-scrupuk)us in the means which
he employed to entrap or even force
her into a marriage with Sir Nicholas ;
she felt by no means sure that the
unfortunate Italian could substanti-
ate her claim — ^however morally right-
ful it might be — as the Grusader^s
wedded wife, if he himself were de*
termined to repudiate it; and she
knew how lightly her guardian would
hdd all obligations which stood in
the way of any cherished design of
his own ; and there was little settled
law or authority in the kingdom to
which she could appeal. Her rela-
tive, William Longchamp, she had
reason to think, was little inclined to
look with favour on Sir Godfrey;
and once under his powerful proteo*
tion, she would at least be safe from
the persecution which seemed to
threaten her at present : even if his
advice should point to the cloister as
her only eventual refuge, the vows of
a rednse did not seem so wholly dis*
tasteful to Gladice at this moment as
they had a short while ago.
Old Warenger looked graver, too,
on their return. There was an un-
comfortable feeling in his mind that
something was going wrong, though
how or why he would have bc^
quite at a loss even to guess to bim-
sdf. That his young mistress was
to marry the Crusader was an estab*
Ibhed fact in his mind, as with the
household generally ; that she would
be so unreasonable as to make any
312
TheLwk of Ladfsnudt.^Farl VIZ
Lfiept.
obJeotioD to an trrangemeot so very
desirable— or, indeed, that she coold
expect to be coneolted on sneh a
pioint except as a matter of coarteBy^
— would never have entered his
thonghts. Still, having as sincere a
feeling of affection for his old lord's
danghter as his rode natore would
admit, be bad remarked to himself
and to others, with considerable satis-
faction, that the knight's attentions
had been received as graciously as
they deserved, and with as little show
of displeasare as might comport with
maiden dignity. He woaid have
been sorry to have caosed his yoang
mistress nnhappiness; but that any
BQch feeling coald arise from the pro-
spect now before her, which promisol
to set her free from the perils and
embarrassments of a maiden heiress,
and the chance (which Warenger's
experience tanght him was not an
improbable one) of having her lands
seized on some pretext by her guard-
ian, and being driven herself into the
dnll shelter of the church, and to
make her the honoured bride of a
stout soldier like Sir Nicholas — this
was a piece of woman*s unreason-
ableness which the seneschal never
contemplated, and would assuredly
have been inclined to laugh at if he
had. fie considered himself in some
sort, too, as Sir Gk>dfrey'e liegeman;
fbr it would have been easy for the
knight of Ladysmede to have put the
keeping of the old tower into other
hands, in spite of any remonstrances
from its female inmates; and if he
had entertained any suspicion that
young Raoul was at this moment en-
gaged in counteracting the designs
of his lawful master, he would not
have allowed him to ride off so
quietly upon his lady's errand. It
needed some caution, therefore, on
Oladice's part, not to turn her own
household mto enemies.
She .'recovered herself, however, as
she re-entered the old tower, and met
her kinswoman with even a gayer
smile than usual Her face was still
lighted with the flush of exercise, and
none could have sospected that there
was an anxious restlessnesa in her
thouj^hts. She was fully prepared for
the intelligence with which Dame
Blfhild greeted her. The message
which BiaoQl had refused to convey
had reached Willan's Hope dmag
GHadice's short absence bv a more
trusty hand. Gundred had done bia
lord's bidding, if not with a very
graceful courtesy, at least with no
mistake as to the terms ; and though
the announcement of Sir Kicholag's
sudden departure from the neigh-
bourhood had taken even Elfhild by
surprise, the diamberlain spoke in
such an important and mysterious
manner of the emergencies of the
king's service, upon which the knight
had visited England, that his unras-
picious listener was more than satis-
fied. She did indeed venture to hint
at the probability that it would not
be very long before Ladysmede would
reoeive him as a guest again; aod to
this supposition Gundred — who was
not slow to perceive what answer
wonld he most acceptable — had
readily assQpted. To the formal an-
nouncement of the legate's expected
visit, be also made bold to add some
more particular details, which would
come naturally within his own de-
partment, of the extraordinary pre-
parations necessary to be made at
the manor itself, and among its sur-
rounding tenants, to receive the large
retinue which was now daily exr
pected.
Glad ice listened patiently while
the ekier lady with some little ex-
dtement, repeated the invitation
which had been conveyed to them by
Sir Godfrey. She judged it wiser to
be silent on the subject of Baoul's
communication, and nothing in her
countenance betrayed any previous
knowledge on the subject. When oon-
suited as to the answer which was to
be returned, she at once agreed that
there could be no good reason for
refusing, and allow^ her relative,
during great part of the ensuing
afternoon, to discuss with much
vivacity the characters and preten-
sions of the good oom^y whom
they were likely to meet in the train
of William of Ely. A. year's resi-
dence in the seclusion of the old tower,
though borne with all the cheerful-
ness of a naturally elastic spirit, and
solaced by the never-tiring compan-
ionship of her busy needle, had not,
as Elfhild began to be conscious sioce
the Omsader's visits, destroyed her
interest in the gayer world of camp
1659.]
The Luck of La(hfmede,^Piai VH
^3
and hall and festival in ivhich sbe the twa Tiie vagne posaibitttieB oC
had once moved conspicnoosly. The the fotme are plesBanter food to feed
Toanger lady, after all, had perhaps upon than reminisoenoea of «n im*
been the more contented reelose of poeaible past.
CHAPTBB ZTm. — THB COKFKBENCS.
There was hnrrying to and firo
amongst the domestics of Ladvsmede
on the morning when the prisoner's
escape was discovered. Baldwin [had
gone round early to the window of
the tower, to convey some word of
comfort, as well as more snbstantiai
cheer, to his onfortnnate brother
esqnire. The severed bar and the
empty chamber told their own storv.
The first feeling in every breast m
the hoosehold, when Baldwin re-
turned with this intelligence, was
hearty satisfaction that poor Baoul
was for the present beyond Sir
Godfirey's vengeance ; for it had been
noticed that the knight's anger against
him, thongh scarce so loudly ex-
pressed as usual, seemed more bitter
and enduring ; and even on their re^
turn (torn the banquet at Bivelsby,
when Sir Nicholas had alluded in
jesting tone to the enforced fast
which he presumed their delinquent
had been keeping meanwhile, the
answer from his host came in alow
tone from between his set teeth, from
which Baldwin, taught by experi-
ence, augured worse than from bis
mo6t violent menaces and impreci^
tioDS. In fact, there was a gleam of
a better human feeling in the knight'ls
present exasperation against Raoul,
than even those who knew him best
were inclined to give him credit for.
The orphan son of an old companion
in arms, whose widow had taken the
veil, Baoul had been received into
Sir Godfrey's household immediately
on his return to his native eounti7
and his succession to his anoestral
inheritance, and had been treated by
his patron with as large a share of
kindness and forbearance as his selfish
nature was capable of. Sir Godfirey
bore the boy as muoh love as be did
towards any human being, and Baoul
had striven diligently to entertain a
similar feeling towards his benefaetor.
That a direct and contemptuous op-
p^tion to his will should have come
ufm such a quarteri awoke, therefore,
in tibe knight's heart, something of the
bitter feeling which a nobler nature
might have entertained at the first
discovery of some base ingratitude,
in a son. He would have forgiven
any one of his household more readily,
because they were perfectly indifi^
ent to bim, except so far as they
eould minister to his convenience or
his pleasures. He would strike them
in his fury, or thunder forth a sen*
tenoe of torture or imprisonment,
just as he might burl from him a
feitbless weapon, or dash down a
vessel that ofi^nded his eye, or crush
an insect that annoyed him; bat
when the vexed mood had passed,
he forgot even without forgiving*
His present vrrath against Baoul had
more of human nature about it, and
was likely to be the more lasting.
But while the first feeling amongst
Baonl's late companions was joy at
his escape, there soon saeoeeded a
very natural apprehension for them-
8elve& Perhaps the consciousness
of many among them that they wonld
wiliinffly have had a hand in it, had
they oared or found safe opportunity,
made them assume at once that Sir
Godfrey would aoouse them of a gaUty
oomplieity. Baldwin, the only one
present who ooold really have been
aooused of any unlawful communicar
tion with the prisoner, bore the bold*
est front of a,Il.
«* He is ffone," said he ;«< and I for
one am right gbd on't."
''And so am not I,'* said old
Stephen, looking cautiously round
him before he spoke ; ** what is to
become of him, poor youth ? though
Sir Godfrey be a rough master by
times, better ride after him than be
running the country. If he had besD
content to bide where he was, things
would httve been like to go easier for
all of na/'
"* There will be a grand stir abont
it, when ow wonhipfol lord comes
to hear," said one of the serving-meD,
who had bem with others to examine
ai4
ne Lmk of Ladytmed^'-Part VH
[6epi.
tin Falcon Tower; "the bar of the
wiodov is cat clean throngh, as I
could cat a carrot ; I never eaw the
like— it was never Master Baoars hand
did that."
*' He hath had help in the business,
no doabt," said Baldwin. ^ Bat give
08 our morning's driok, none the less,
Stephen — trouble never sat lighter
jet upon empty stomachs; and I
would fain not be choked with dry
bread, whatever else is to happen to
me."
Stephen had paused upon the
celier step, astounded at the intelli-
gence, with his empty measures in
his hand. He cast a suspicious
glance at Baldwin before he pro-
ceeded to fill them, for he alone was
aware of the squire's charitable visit
to his imprisoned companion, and
naturally supposed that he might
have assisted him to escape; but he
was too bonest-hearted to hint his
suspicion to the others. There was
a slight uncomfortable feeliog how-
ever amongst the party at their
morning meal ; for the more all the
circumstances of the escape were in-
vestigated, the more evident did it
become that the prisoner had been
aided from without ; and it was
highly probable that some one of
those present was in possession of a
secret which he dared not impart to
his fellows. Nearly all the house-
hold were present, except the chap*
kin and Gundred, but these were
the two very last persons upon whom
any such suspicion was. likely to fall:
the chamberlain, because he was un-
derstood to be devoted to bis master's
interests, and was, besides, at all times
more ready to lock up a man than
to release him ; and the chaplain, be-
cause every man there present felt in
bis own heart, that if th^ had him
once locked up safe in the old tower,
they would take care to keep him as
fast there as bolts and bars could make
him.
Sir Godfrey was astir early as
usual ; and as none of his retinue
conceived that it fell within the line
of their duty to acquaint him with
the fact of Baoul's escape — which, in-
deed, they would have been them-
selves ignorant of but for Baldwin^s
surreptitious visit-^he had summoned
Gundred to attend him, and made
his way to the Falcon Tower with
this intention of questioning the cul-
prit, now that his blood had surely
nad fall time to cool. Those who
saw him go there made up their
minds at once not to cross his path,
if they could avoid it, on hia return ;
bat from more than one eylet-hole or
turret' window of the old manor there
were eyes watching him with mingled
fear and cariosity as he stopped at
the door. Guodred had to apply the
key with some force to the rusty
bolts before they yielded. An ex-
clamation of surprise broke from him
as he preceded his master into the
duDgeoo, for a glance was enough
to convince him that there was no
prisoner there. Sir Godfrey stooped
through the low doorway, and pushed
his attendant aside.
** Escaped, os I live!" said the
knight, as he looked round him. ** I
thought thou hadst been a safer
jailer, Guodred — what cursed negli-
gence is this ?" To any other of his
followers his tone and language would
hardly have been so moderate.
Gundred did not at once reply ; he
was engaged in examiniog the place as
carefully as the dim light allowed. It
was not until de Bargh had repeated
his question in somewhat more em-
phatic terms that he spoke at all, and
when he did, it was more with refers
ence to the result of his own investi-
gations than in deprecation or self-
excuse.
*'The tackling was strong enoogh
to hold half-a-dozen men, much leas
a child like that ; but there has been
a piece of workmanship here I never
saw the like of.'*
He produced the hand-bolt, the
link cut through cleanly and evenly.
While Sir Godtrey was exambiog it,
he reached up to tibe window.
^ Here is the stanchion, too— good
iron, near an inch and a half thick —
with as pretty a cut in it as the
Other. Marry, the tools that could
do this might work a way through
hell gates, if they had time enough."
There was a mixed feeling in Gund-
red*s mind— his mortification at the
escape of his prisoner was scarcely
so strong as his admiration of tire
masterly way in which it had been
eiected.
**He could not have done this
J€59]
Thi Luch of Lad^mede.-^Pwt ViL
816
alone,'* said the kDight, after glano-
ingr at the window-bar.
^No," replied the chamberlain;
"clever as my young sir thought
himself, this was a point beyond him.
I have heard of tools that wonld do
the like of this, bat I scarcely believed
it"
'*Did yon set an^ watch on the
place ?" a^ked the knight.
**^ Nay, I had no orders to do that,
as may be in yonr worshipfal remem-
brance. He lay here safe enoagh,
as I deemed. It passeth my poor
comprehension/' contioaed the cham-
berlain, still studying the severed
iron.
^It is an ill-managed business,"
said Sir Godfrey, sourly ; "there are
wiser beads than yours, Gundred,
about the manor, and we Lad need
look more warily to ourselv^, if we
wonld not have them prove our mas-
ters after all— in other matters than
smith's work."
There was a meaning in his tone ;
but if his hinted suspicion was meant
to point to the Italian chaplain, he
did not choose to give it more open
expression.
"After all," he said, «*the young
knave will have punished himself
pretty heavily for his bold speech. I
Lad scarce dealt so hard with him
as to cast him forth to beg his
bread."
"The phice Is weU rid of him,"
said the chamberlain ; " he waa good
for little, that ever I saw, but to
spend more money on laces than
would keep a better man in meat
and drink, and to twang his gittera
o' nights, when honest folk would fain
sleep, if they could."
I* There was the making of a good
knight in him, none the less," said
his lord. " I wish you could have
seen him, Gnndred, when he sprang
at me like a young wolf-hound after
I struck him^it was thanks to Sir
Nicholas that his dagger had not
made close acquaintance with my
ribs. Faith, I was rather hasty with
him, too, I doubt ; but he was a fool
to chafe me."
•* Will it please, you, Snr Godfrey,"
inquired the chamberlun, " that we
shall raise the country after him ? it
were surely easy to retake him, if we
make search at onee."
« Let him go haog," said the kaigbt
angrily. " Can ye take me the ar-
mourer that for^ this V*
He held up to his follower's view
the broken end of one of the steel
saws, which had attracted bis notice
as it lay on the ground at their feet,
glittering in the ray of sunlight that
streamed Into the dungeon by the
narrow window. Baonl had brokeo
it when his tedious work of deliveraaoe
was all but completed.
Gundred took it from his master^ •
hands, and examined it with admir-
ing attention. The Spanish smith
who had tempered it had sold its
fellows for fifty times their weight in
gold, and died without disclosing tbe
secret of their manufacture.
"The like of it was never seen In
these parts," said the chamberlain, as
he returned it.
" Nor carried in an esquire's girdle,"
said de Burgh. '*Oanst take me
the owner of - this plaything, I ask
thee?"
" I have heard much talk of Sara-
cen steel," said Gnndred in a care-
less tone, without looking at his
master.
"And wouldst have it this might
have been some trophy from the Pay*
nims — ^ha?" said the knight, turning
round towards him.
'* Nay, I know not whence it came
— it may be a work of Mahoond him-
self, for aught I can tell of it"
" Enough"— said his master, setting
his teeth as he turned to leave the
place—** we shall know more of this
anon. Follow me now, Gundred— I
have a charge for thee."
The chamberlain, locking the door
as carefully as if he had a dozen pris-
oners in safe custody, followed Sir
Godfrey into his cabinet, and in a short
time was on his road to Willan*s Hope,
diarged with the same message which
Raoul had contumaciously refused to
deliver.
The kniffht of Ladysmede and his
guest held graver discourse than
usual over their morning repast.
Sir Godfrey himself poshed away,
after a few hasty monthfuls, the
tempting slices which the esquire,
who knew his ^goroos appetite,
placed before him, and let the flagon
stand beside him almost untoucb«d.
He ordered the chamber to be cleared
ai6 Ilt$Lw^of Ladymgd^-^PanVlL gSept
before the aitendaDtB had well done or eoemy at tfaia momeotl Ever
ibeir offioe, aod related to his com- since he carried the boy away, there
paoion, aa soon as they were aloDe* has been little more, I fancy, than a
the ciroamstancea of Raoars escape, hollow trace between ua ; yet for
Sir Nicholas listened with his usqal years he has been trne to me, and he
quiet demeanoar, and was not loud had long ago been a beggar and an
in hia expressions of snrprise even at outcast but for me."
the mode of its accomplishment. He *^ I can well suppose that he is a
did more justice to the good fare than tool that needs wary handling," said
his host, and thoogh he also drank Sir Nicholas ; *' but he must be dealt
Bpariogly, it was his habit. Bat the with in this business, and that
other rose and aat down again from speedily, if we would not have him
time to time, with even more than meddle in it to our confosion. *' If it
his usual restlessness and impatience, like you, I will speak with him znj-
" And now, as touching the lady of self."
VVilhin's Hope/* said Sir Nicholas, " it *' Speak when and as you wfll," said
were time to bethink us of some less de Burgh ; ** it may happen that
delicate messenger." you shall understand him better than I
<« I have despatched Gundred do. But I would not trust him too
thither even now," replied de Burgh ; far.''
** I would I had taken your counsel at The intercourse between Sir God-
the firet— though I tell you now, I frey and his chaplain had of late
would far rather -have trusted the boy ceajsed ahnost entirely. They were
if he would have obeyed me. I knew as much strangers as it was poeuble
not till to-day whatajiest of traitors I for those to l^ who continued mem-
have about me." bers of the same household, and
" You had best have carried your observed towards each other the
message yourself," retomed his decent coartesies of life. In the few
friend ; ^ the fair dames yonder words which did from time to time
would surely have come to the lure pass between them, Father Giacomo
theo." showed more outward respect to his
«<They would have read the false- patron than before; while Sir God-
hood in my face," said Sir Godfrey, frey's words and manner were apt to
with a scowling laugh ; " I can swal- be rudely sarcastic, and such as, a
low a lie in my conscience passably, short time back, he would have been
but it ever sticks in my throat when slow to venture upon with such a
I try to put it into words. I would master in the art of reply. Seldom
givesomethingforyoar smooth tongue, now did the priest appear at meal-
Le Hard! ; bat you have had more times, and never remained to share
experience in the ways of the wicked in the noisy conviviality which some-
than I have." times succeeded, when Sir Godfrey
The Crusader smiled at the compli- could welcome to his board »ome
roent — one of his most unpleasant more genial companion than the too
smiles, which changed the whole ex* abstemious Crusader. Great part of
pression of his otherwise handsome his time was spent still— as hsul been
leatures. hia constant practice — in long soli-
''Words may fail os, though, .at tary walks to a distance from the
times — a bold hand, never. You will manor: and when he ,was within the
match me there, de Burgh. But tell walla, he confined himself more strictly
me, is Father Giacomo of your council than ever to the little oratory in the
in this matter ?" turret, which, besides its communica-
*^ No," said his companion, shortly, tion with Sir Godfrey^ own cham-
*' And why not? we shall need his ber^ had a small external staircase
service* if all goes as we would have of its own, and where his lamp, io
it ; and it were surely safer to make a despite of the chamberlain's protest,
fiend of him at once ; — he knows far might often be seen horning far into
too much already, as you tell me, to the night
make an enemy of." It was here that Sir Nicholas foond
" May the fiend take me if I know him, when he resolved to confide to
whether I am to hold him as fritrnd him his determination to obtain, with
\
ia88.]
Tke Ludt ef Ltti^^an^dei'^PaH VIL
317
Ike sanetkni of tbo king aod of her
^ardiaOf the hand of the heiress of
Willan'A Hope. The two men looked
at each other, as the Italiaa, without
even a shade of surprise expressed in
his eooDteoaDee^ rose and greeted eoor-
teoQsly his aDezpected visitor; and
before aoy words beyond thoee of
mere formality had passed between
them, each was perfectly aware that
he was the object of the other^s
doubt and dlstrast. And again Sir
Nicholas felt an nnoomfortaUe im-
pression that he had seen those eyes
elsewhere, before he met them at
Ladysmede.
He jndged wisely that, in a nego-
tiation with Fadier Giacomo, it was
best to speak to the point at once.
Any kind of diplomatic circomloon-
tk>n, or fencing with the real qnes-
tion to be discoased, he felt would be
time and breath wasted, if not worse ;
for, stroi^ as Sir Nicholas might feel
himself in the art of language to con-
ceal his thoughts, he knew that in
that art he now stood before at least
a rival master.
*'I think," ^said he, ''Father Gia-
como, it would be for our intereet to
be fHends.*^ Even this assumption
of honesty, selfish as it was, hardly
sal well upon httn.
The Italian's eyes, though not his
lips, smiled as he replied, and the.
koigfat fAl that the humility of his
bow was ironical.
'< Tott have need of my serrice?**
be said.
Sir Nicholas found that the priest
could be fully his equal in sincerity. .
**I have," he replied, eontinning
the conversation in the Italian^s own
language, which he spoke admhrably
for an Eoglishman, and hoping by
this means to win something of
the stranger's confidence—**! have,
father, and am prepared to pay for
it in kind."
^ Ton spttk the Tuscan in perfec-
tion, Sir Knight — yon have ho&a
much in Italy ?^
Le Hardi assuredly had not come
there to be quesUoned as to his tra-
vels and adventures; bat he re-
plied with a courteous smile.
" There are few lands I have not
travelled in, fether; in Italy among
the re8l--bnt it is long ago-^ia it
possible that we have mat there 7"
*'Possihb enought" re|>1ied the
other carelessly, *' though such a •
chance were unlikely — I went little
beyond the walls of my cloister
there."
The knight tried in vain to recall
those eyes peering from beneath a
cowl in some Italian street He muMt
have seen them \ of that he was more
stroDglv convinced timn ever.
«I have need of your services.
Father Giacomo," he resumed, deter-
mined to confine himself if possible
to the aotoal business of his visit —
** in a matter which I have much at
heart. And to prove to you that I
can return your good-will, let me say
that I am somewhat in your secrets
abready ; I know where the boy Giu-
lio is in keeping — the knowledge
shall be safe with me."
The chaplain only replied by a
courteous bow.
Sir Nicholas found himself obliged
to begin the conversation again. ** I
am, as you may know, well-nigh a
landless man."
The chaplain bowed again.
*'I wotud wed with wealth and
beauty, Sir priest : churchman as you
are, you will not bkme me in this ?"
The chaplain smiled.
^Men say indeed," continued Sir
Nicholas, encouraged a little by this
token, ** that the Ohurch would fain
keep both for itself; and, under your
favour, what with mCHrtmain and
the cloister-~to say nought of less
legitimate methods — she gets the
lion's share; but yon will not grudge
us poor men of the world the
crumbs T'
** I will gmdge no man that which
he wins fairly, Sir Knights"
'*! will win what I seek fairly,"
replied Sir Nicholas, — ^ with my
sword and spear. In plain words,!
seek the love and the lands of the
lady Gladice, Sir Godfrey's &ir ward.
I have the good knighf s word. King
Richard's special sanction "
— '*But not the maiden's con-
sent," added the chaplain quietly,
without raising his eyes.
**That," said the knight, by no
means disconcerted, for he was pre-
pared to find his companion inti-
mately acquainted with the demgns
and movements of most of the house-
hold--<' that I shall not wvt to ask."
ZiS
Th$ Liuk <f Latd^mtd$.—Fort FIL
[Seirt.
** Or liave almidy asked, and are
little pleased with the answer V*
Sir Nicholas moved aDeasily, and
turoed his face away.
" Suppose it were so/* he answered
with an aoreal laagh, — ^**what does
a maiden know of her own fancies?
A little loving conipaluon, in these
cases, Father Giacomo, is ofteo the
only thing repaired."
**So are EogU^h maidens won?
it is hardly so with ns in the sontb.
Yet It is a marvel to me," continqed
the priest, looking steadily at the
crusader, 'Hhat a knight of sach a
presence and sach gentle and gva-
ciooB discoorse, as I may say most
trnly, should fail to find favor in
hidies' ejes."
Sir Nicholas* face grew dark ander
the Italian's searching glance; hot
again he qpoke io what seemed a bold
and honest tone.
*^I have been wedded once, Fik
ther ; it may well be that I am the
worse skilled in wooing again.*'
"Sol" said Giacomo, in a tone of
oonrteona enrprise and sympathy ;
**I can well understand you, Sir
Knight ; your love lies with the dead :
bat yoQ need the broad lands, and
yoa wonld be geoerous and faithful
to her who coald bestow them on
yoa. Ton speak honestly and well —
yoa cannot f^gn a passion, but yoa
promise honour and good &ith T'
''Ay, more, by heaven 1" said
the Orasader, thrown now somewhat
off his guard by the other's open
speaking. <*I wedded where I
thought I loved— it was an idle folly,
and has passed ; but I love now —
love with a passion of which a
yoath*s fancies are bot the imtgioa-
tion— which you, fenced in by the
vows of your priesthood, may have
learned to cast from yoa, but which
masters sense and reason in a nature
like mine ! But yoa are not my con-
fessor, Father."
*'No, DOT yoa mine," said the
priest; **we may speak the more
Jmntttly therefore. liiCeD, if jwa
will. I have loved once ; nol«*'
he said io a tone of aareaam wbtdi
he seemed anable to restrain, tboagh
his words were earnest and eapfattr
tic — " not with a love like either of
yours. I loved, and I did a wroog;
and the love and the memory live
with me for ever. X see a boried
face. Sir Nicholas— not only in my
dreams, but day and night the vir
sion of her 1 loved and wronged is
before me. Not always, but eaddeo-
]y, it comes— the same pale, sad, re^
proachful faoe : it starts before ne in
the full glare of daylight ^meeta one
in the d^p shadows of tJie woods —
looks into mine at the banqoeti till
all faees roand grow indistinct —
looks not in accosatioo, but in tender
eorrow-^checks the light word opoo
my lipe, rebukes the evil thought io
ray heart, and seems like an angel
holding back the sinful passioD*
which shut me oot from heaveo — ^I
see it now I"
Bis searching eyes had left Sir
Nicholas' face^ and were fixed with
a stony glare upon the tapestry
bevond. The knight torned roond,
pale and shivering, as if he tooex>
peeted to see a face behind him.
•<The church I serve," continued
the Italian after the eUenoe of a
moment, <* teaches as that there is
one Hell, and one Bedeemer-'I tell
you, Sir Knight, there are redeemers
apoa earth every day, that saffer to
save 08 — if it may be — and a bell
about 08 every hoar, of spirits sent
to torment us before oar time I Go
your wajs. Sir Nicholas; yoa have
my promise— I will help yoa to yoor
bride."
The priest, aa he spjoke the last
words io a ookl paasiooleBa voice,
turned away aa if to dose their inter-
view; and the knight whose wonted
self-possession had now wholly fiubd
hin« after some harried and almost
nnintelligible words, rose and left the
little chamber.
CHAPTBB XIX.*-THV JO0RMBT.
If Raoafft feelings had been lesa shown more embarrassment in his in-
profoundly IntereetM in the service terview with the lady-abbeH in her
which brought him to the gates of parlour. Aa it was^he spoke oat. bii
Michamalede, he might possibly have message witk so miich simple e«»^
1859.]
TM Jjudk of UdymtdB.'^Pain VU.
819
iie0§^ thai the wise Mid grRoiou ladj
who niled the hooee, though she
croeaed herself with m alight ahodder
of pione proprie^ wheo he Demed
his oosnectioQ with Sir Godfr^ de
Biugh, Dot odIt mve him readily the
iDiormatloB which he required, bat
jpreesed apoo him with almost mother-
ly kindooBB the xefreshmeDt which
his boyish frame leallT mtieh need-
ed, bat which he woaid have impa-
tiently refused, and eren now, sa? ing
a draaght of wine, smrody more liiaa
tasted. She would also willingly
have kept him longer in oonyersa-
UoD, if he had not seized the first
moment that comrts^ allowed him
to continae hia jonmey. GladSoe had
beoi well known to the abbess from
her childhood, for she had been an
inmate of the convent for some
months immediately after her moth-
er's death ; and it was with nO little
satisfiMtion that the lady Brnnhild
now gathered, from the ihet of Baonl's
being chaiged wiUi a message from
her to the Bishop of £lv, that the
yoong heiress at length intended to
phu9e herself ander his protection;
for she had more than once lierself
gently presaed npon her the wisdom
of seeking peace and happiness in
the religions life, and sach she con-
fidently tmatcd wonki be the result
of her interview with the prelate ; for
she knew that William of Ely's wishes
in the matter corresponded with her
own. Not that the nnsempalons
chorchman took mach care for the
interests of his order, bat he wonld
rather have seen the fair lands of
Willao's Hope swelling the revenues
of the chnrch than enriching any
adventnroos friend of Sir God&ey's ;
and it was much more oenvenient to
iree himself at once from any tronble-
some claims on his protection whidi
their present owner might prefer, by
bestowing ber safely in the ebister,
than by engaging in any contest with
lier j^nardian as to bar disposal in
marriage. He had some pride in the
beanty and spirit of his yonng kins-
woman, and had treated her, in their
slight interoonrse, with mach c<m-
aideration : if he ooald have secured
Sir Godfrey's consent, be wonld
gladly hafe strengthened his own
infioeaee in thoie qnarters, by be-
stowing her hand and re?enaes on
VOLb LZZXTL
some f(rilower of his own ; bat he had
cared little of late for anything but
his own ease and pleasures.
Baoal rode on, revived by the
generous wine of the convent, and
cheered in spirit by the hope of doing
nsefnl servica He met with the
prelate of whom he was in search
even sooner than the abbess's informa-
tion had led him to expect Three
hours' brisk riding, after he left the
convent walls^ brought him within
sight of the towers of Ely. The
bishop had not yet arrived at his
palace, nor was it there that Baoul
had expected to find him ; bat he
had learned at Michamstede that
he had lain, two days ago, at a castle
some twenty miks distant, which
formed one of the private residences
of Hogh, Bishop df Durham, who
now sat as jlord chief-justice for the
king, and was a personal friend of
Longchamp. Halting in the city
only long enough to rest his horse,
and having ascertained from the
bishop's domestics that, although
they had orders to be in readiness to
receive him at any moment, the day
and hour of his arrival there were in
fact very nocertain, as their master's
movements were wont to be, the
squire was soon again in the saddle,
content to think that the object of
his journey would be gained before
nightfall. Scarcely, however, bad he
cleared the suburbs of the city when
be met upon the road a single rider.
Judging him by his dress and bear-
ing to be of near his own degree,
Raoul, who was prndently resolvra to
lose no opportunity of gluing in-
f<Nrmation in a district wholly strange
to him, checked his horse as the other
was passing, and saluted him witib
some inquiry as to his route.
The stranger seemed in haste, for
after a brief reply to Baoal*s ques-
tion, he would have passed on, with-
out pausing to interchange any of that
oourteous gossip between solitary way-
farers which, in the utter absence of
all our modem facilities of com-
munication, was almost the rule of
the road.
<« One thing more I prav of year
goodness— know you aught of my
lord of Ely's movements ?" said BaouL,
nothing daunted by the stranger's
seeming .impatienoe.
16
820
Ih^ lAuk qf La&ym^,-^Part VU.
[Sept
<< My lord of Ely r Tbotray^er<»
steed was easily reined up again, for
he seemed more glad of a breathing-
space than his master. ** Have yon
basineas with his holiness, young
sirr
'* I have ; and have ridden far since
morning to seek him.*'
"Then," said the other, "von may
oonnt Toar joarney well-nigh ended.
If it pfease yon to tarn witii me, my
lord will be in bis own palace of Ely
in the space of an hoar. I am his
poor esqaire of the body, at yoar ser-
▼ice."
In spite of Raoal's yooth, and his
present disordered apparel, there was
something in his free and gal-
lant bearing which won at once
ooartesy and respect from his new
acqoaintance, who in the service of
the magnificent prelate had mixed with
men of many nations and degrees.
Raoal was pnzzled at first how to
introdaee himself, as he felt boand in
courtesy to do, in reply to the other's
annonncement of his own position.
Bat the boy's natural impulse was to
speak the trath, and he had wisdom
enough, nnased as he was to difflcul-
tie9, to follow that safe and simple
policy.
** 1 am of squire's degree also, gen-
tle sir ; I served the knight of Ladys-
mede— until this morning."
*<I remember to have heard of
him," said the other. *'It will be
best that yon turn again with me, as
I said ; I dare hardly promise to get
you speech of his holiness. to-night —
he will be tired, it is like, with travel,
and my lord of Darham is in his com-
pany ; but I will see jon fairly lodged,
«nd yon shall do your master*s errand
•in time to ride homewards again to-
morrow."
** Thanks for your ready courtesy,"
•said the yoong esqaire, with some
little hesitation ; ** but my message to
the ioid bishop comes not from Sir
^todfrey. I ride to-day upon a lady's
service, and did I not fear to seem too
bold, I would go forward to meet the
bishop, who, if I have gathered aright,
is even now upon the road. I l»ve
aoarce five woras to trouble him with,
but 4 shall hardly be easy until they
jtfe said."
•'Kay, in that ease," said the
bishop's esquire, smiling, " ride on,
on
in heavjen'S name. I never rode
ladies' errands, and will by no i
venture to Judge of their urgency.
But I trow I may no longer ddby
mine own. There will be scant
preparation for my lord*8 reception
as it is. I trust we may yet meet at
Ely."
He put his horse to its speed, as if
to make up for the interruption ; his
parting speedi being more creditable
to his discretion than to his veracity.
Raoul proceeded at a slackened
pace, doubting in his own mind bow
far the urgency of the lady Gladioe's
message might suffice to justify him
in the eyes of others, (for in his own
it took precedence of all other con-
siderationei) in stopping tlie papal
legate upon the king's highway. He
felt no hesitation as to his line of
action ; but as he watdied every torn
of the road for the appearance of the
bishop's cavalcade, and thought with
hiraself in what terms be might best
sccoat so high a personage, and what
reception he might probably meet
with, he began to look forward to
the interview with a tremuloas
anxiety which he had not felt until
now ; and when the spears and ban-
ners of the escort who rode in ad-
vance of the two prelates appeared
suddenly over the brow of the hill
up which the road had ^been gradu-
ally winding, scarce two hundred
yards ahead of him, the courage and
self-possession which had sustained
the boy through the trying incidentB
of the past two days wnolly gave
way, and he began to tremble like a
child. In great part it was physical
exhaustion; for he had tasted no
food that day, with the exception of
the few morsels which the abbe«s
had almost forced nnon him, and the
wine which be had eagerly drank
had served rather to stimulate his
powers for the time than to sapply
the place of wholesome refreshment
Dizzy in brain and sick at heart, be
drew his horse up by the roadside,
and was wdlnign nnconseioos that
the foremost of t&s tndn had already
passed him, and that he was -almost
in the presence which be had come so
far to seek.
The escort of laaoes, who rode so
noisily by, cast mde and coatempta-
008 glanoes at the yooog stranger
IWftl
Tke Luck tf Laiymads.^F4rt VII.
321
u tkev pasBed, and bodied tmoiig
tbemKl?e8 inde jests vpon his sad
and weary look and jaded hone,
irhioh» hi^ypily for BaoaFs peace of
mind, ibil apon ears that woald have
been dall at that moBMot even to
dnect personal insalt They were
4fae foreign riders whom William of
Ely, to tM indignation and dis^t of
his own eoontrymeo, kept in his pay,
and by whom he loved to be oontinaid*
ly snrrooaded. They were drafts from
half the nations of Earope — Flem-
ings, Brabanters, Btenois, Ibinanl-
tera, and many whose nationality
might have been as donbtfnl as their
ebaracters. Amongst them were a
few Eoglishmen, the most reeklen, per-
haps, of the whole band. The pre-
late seldom mored from place to
place io his official capacity without
iMiog attended by some foar or five
hoodied of these armed retainers,
who »pread alarm and disgust
wbere?er they went, although dis-
cipline was administered by their
own leadere, whenever any graver
complaint than nsoal reached the
ears of the prelate, with a severity
which waa nnknown in more regn-
larly constitnted forces. It seemed as
if ttie haughty and careless churehmsn
took a pleasure in defying the
feeliogs aad prejudices of the nation ;
and he succeeded by this conduct
in neutralising the respect and the
high reputation which he might
Ihirly have acquired, during the
king's absence, by an administration
which, though arbitrary, was on the
whole just, and by a lavish munificence
at all times popular with Eoglish-
The band of horsemen passed on,
in their loose array, with nionts and
laughter, exohaugiog their ribald wit
with each other in thev peculiar
jargon, in which Qermao, French, or
Anglo-Saxon predominated aoeording
to xbe speaker's extraction ; and still
Baoul want fbrward wearily on his
aaddle-bow, watching their disorderly
march with a dreamv half-unoonsctous
gans. They were followed by a ttaofp
of minstrels, also on horseback, wear-
ing their lord's livery of scarlet and
tawny, with tabors, trumpets, oor^
nets, and other instruments, the com-
bination of whose sounds produced at
the best more noise than hamiony,
and who pHed their art occaskmslly,
plaving a few notes in or oat of time
and tube, according as breath and in-
clination suited tMm^ and produeiog
an effect upon sensitive eant
which might have made the noitiy
mirth of the spearmen sound melo-
dious by comparison. At their hetid
rode an officer, habited in cloth-of-
gold furred with ermine, and bear-
ing upright a tall silver wand in
token of his office, whom Long-
champ, with the assumption of
princely dignity which he was wont
toafi^t—not without some show of
reas(m, since he was virtually regent
of the kingdom — ^had named bis
** King of the minstrels," in imitation
of the style assumed by the chief ma-
sician in the royal courts of France
and England. It was Helion de BJois,
reputed the most periect master
of his art in all its branches, wbooi
Fhiiip of France had vainly endes-
vourfi), by threats and promises, to
retain to m the grace and delight of
his royal table ; for the minstrel,
proud in his degree as any monarch,
and capricious as a flattered beanty,
prefened the more appreciating taste
— or the unbounded liberality — which
even among the courtiers of a foreign
prince were unanimously ascribed to
William of Ely.
There followed a large body of
armed retainers on foo^ of some-
what more reputable character, be-
cause of less noisy pretension, than
their mounted comrades : they moved
at a rapid walk, which broke occa-
sionally into a long swinging trot, ena-
bling them easily to keep pace on tbt^
inarch with the heavy Norman and
Flemish horses on which tbe
spearmen roda At least fifty knights,
or holders of knight's fees, each in
complete armour sod strongly mount-
ed, formed the immediate personal
escort which preceded and followed
the legate. Bight in front of him
was borne the banner of the
Holy See ; and side by side, in dress
and equipment almost the least coa-
spicuous of the glittering show, on
two quiet-paced palfr^s, such as
might beseem churchmeui and which
kMwed almost dimkiutive beside the
stately chargers of some of the
knights of high degree who kept the
post of honor next the legate's per-
•22
Tkt Luek 0/ Ladym§d€.^Fart VU.
[Sept
floo, Fode Loogchanp and bit brother
prelate of Darham. The legate hiiri-
pelf, indeed, had a noble war*hone
led by two eaqnires cloee behind
him ; for he loved better, like many
of the prelates of hie time, to assert
his military position as a feudal
baron than his spiriUial dignity.
He wore a suit of plain bat eoetly ar-
mottr ; Hagh of Darham, his ordina-
ry episoopsi habit— the scarlet roehet
and close black cap. Behind them
followed diancellors, chaplains, and
seoretaries, aod a long array of small
ecclesiastical dignitaries who, in some
real or nominal capacity, were the
ioevitable companions of their sope-
rior*s official progrefis.
The baron— for his d^ree was no
less— who bore the sacred banner be-
fore the papal legate, was now nearly
opposite to Raoal ; and though the
yonth had raised his head and was
gazing open-eyed at the bishops as
they approached, still his cpnscions-
ness of all thai was psssing before
him was little more than the con-
scioosness of a dream ; the words in
which be had meant to address the
prelate had passed from his mind,
bis toogae and his senses failed him
alike, and even the porpoae of his
weary joemey was well-nigh forgot-
ten, when be was rndely awakened
for the moment from this trance*like
apathy. One of the knights who
rode on the left hand of the banner
had cast his eyes upon the young
horseman who was halting — oat of
idle cariosity, as it seemed to him — by
the roadside. He made a side move-
ment towards him as the standard was
borne past
^ Uncover, sirrah, to the banner of
the Holy See— where got ye that hea-
then nurtnre ?'*
Eaoal lifted his hand mechanic-
ally to his cap, and doffed it at
once with some incoherent words of
apology for his anintentional ofifence.
Bat in the sadden action he startled
both his own aod tlie knight's horse ;
and after some jostling, the latter
backed so as to threaten ineon-
venieDce to the prelates who rode bat
a few paces in the rear. The knight,
with a stifled oath, half inclined to
resent the yonog stranger^s awkward-
ness aS intentional, seieed Baonl's
r^, and checked his hone so vio-
lently as almost to bHog him on his
hanoches^ Qoite lost to all sense of
the high presence in which they wen,
the esqaire raised his ridinr-waad, and
aimed a feeble blowat the kaig^tashe
leant forward in his stirmpSi
There were load cries of iadignateo
from those who saw the action, and
a confused movement whidi threat-
ened more inoonveniettoe to the
bishops than the • poor esquire's
mistake. Bot Raoul neither heard
nor saw it He had sank down geotJy
from his horsey and lay on the gronnd
in a swoon.
This result did not serve to lessfo
the confusion. Many thought that the
kmght had stmek mm ; and a few of
thorn who had seen what they acoonnt-
ed his insolent disreq>ect, were not
slow to murmur that he had de-
served it None cared to render him
assistance ; and bad he not fallen al-
raoet directly in the bishop's path, tiie
train might have ridden on and left
him where he lay.
William of Ely, who trampled
withoat scruple on the feelings and
remonstrances of a nation, wonld not
lightly have spumed a beggar from
his feet. He had seen something of
the encounter, and thought as othen
did, that his own follower, aeiJeai
for the honour of Heaven, had atm^
to the ground the irreverent stranger
who had refused or neglected to pay
due homage to its repreeentativa.
But be was not content to see the
youth lie there motionless and aense-
lett, whatever might have been his of*
'* Look to him, some of ye,'* he
exclaimed ; ** bath he taken aoy
hart r
The great man's humanity was
contagions; and footmen ran for*
ward, and knights prepared to di»-
mount, to offer help to the stranger
in whom their lora was pleased to
show an interest But Baool hsd
found a friend already. A yoong
man — ^who, in spite of his plain dresi,
might be judged a person of aooe
consideration, sin<^ he rode dons
behmd the Kshop of Durham, aide
by side with the kgate'a okanodkv
and seoretsry^had already dismoaoted
and left his place in the proocMioB,
and was standing by the side of the
falleii esqoirt.
I8M.].
Th$ Ludt ^f Ladi!ftm$ie.^PaH 7JL
323
**I Borely know his fiu»,*'flaid he
to the othcra who oow prened round
him; ''he is a near oeighbonr of
mine, or I mnch mistake.*' He raised
Baoal*8 head gently on his arm, and
looked at him closely. " What hath
ehanoed to himt" He had been too
fStf in the rear to see clearly what
had passed.
''He overreached himself in strik-
ing at me, and so fell from his horse,
I redkoo," said the koight who had
first accosted hint ^ He rode at me
as thoogh he had been mad, and I
did bat check his horse. The foolish
yooth hath sorely had a cnp of wine
more than he can carry.'*
''Nay, it is hardly that/' said the
other, looking kindly into Raool's
pallid ftoe.
Longcfaamp and his brother pre-
late had stopped ; and the Bishop of
Durham, either ont of hnmanity or
coriosity, tamed his palfrey's head
towards the groap» hot the gather-
ing crowd of heads preyented his
aedng anything distinctly."
"What » It, WarynT he asked
of the yonng man who was support-
ing Baoal.
" This poor yonth hath Men from
his horse, reyeiend uncle," he an-
swered, as the others moved aside;
** he is in a swoon, as it seems to me,
for there was no blow giyeo.*'
** Let some leech look to him, if it
be your lordship's good pleasure,'*
Ndd Hugh of Durham, turning to
Longohamp; "there be each in our
compaay, I may safely ayoueh."
"A leech, ho there T said Long-
ohamp, turning to those behind him ;
'*we should haye some half-score of
them with us, Jews and Christians^
if they haye not fellen out and cut
each other's throats by the way.
Send a brace of them hither— I oom-
monly run them in couples, brother,"
he continued, addressing the Bishop
of Durham, " in ho^ that one rogue
may hold the other in check. I have
oMstfy found that when the Gentile
adyiscs bloodletting, the Jew swears
by the beard of Aaron that it were
rank murder in such a case; and
where one compounds a feyerdrink,
the other will hear of naught but a
cordial; so my knaves are fidn to
swallow both, for the little faith they
have left them is in gifts of hiding.
In mine own case, I thank both for
their counsel, and follow neither."
Two or three of the mediciners, of
whom there were several in the pre-
late's motley train, whose art was
half obarlatanism and half supersti-
tion, were hurried up from the rear
in obediebce to their patron's order.
They were for once unanimous in
declaring, as was tolerably plain al-
ready to common-sense observers,
that the vonth had feinted, and-
seemed to be suffering from exhaus-
tion.
"Who and what is he, WarynT
said the Bishop (A Durham, who
had been told that his nephew pos-
sessed some acquaintance with the
strangeri
"He is esquire, as I believe, to
Sir Qodfr^de Burgh. I have seen
him often in his train, and have
heard that he comes of gentle blood."
" He has faUen early into a goodly
fellowship," said his unda
"Bring him awa^ among ye in
some feshion," said Longenamp,
growing impatient at the delay;
"there shall be lodging found for
him at Ely, and the whole rascality
of leeches shall deal with him there.
We can do no more for him, were
he of the blood-royal."
The council of medieiners, after
some little discussion among them-
selves, the tone of which ' they pru-
dently moderated so that little of it
should reach profaner ears, had ad-
ministered to Baonl some recipe
which had at least the effect of re-
viving him a little. He opened his
eves, looked with a sick and weary
glance round him, and made an at-
tempt to rise. There were plenty of
ready hands now to assist mm ; and
in a few minutes he had recovered
sufficiently to be mounted again upon
his own horse, and, supported by a
groom on either side, to ride back
idowly in the rear of the company
to the bishop^ palace at Ely.
324
FluU and Naviet-^EngiantL-^Faii 12.
[SepL
FLVKT8 AKD NAVIBS-^SNOLAVD.
PART 11.
** Thb awakiDg of a giant shakes
the earth," saya the J^h proverb.
The roneing of the Englifih nation
from its slorober, to open its eyes on
th« state of its navy, was as the
awaking of a giant. It was a roagh
ronRin^, and a heavy shake ; hot the
sleep is broken, and the slamberer
has started to a lifefalness of effort
which will prove to the world that
the might or England did bat sleep,
and that it is eqaal and vigorons as
ever to battle for the supremacy of
the seas. The slumbers are» how-
ever, dangeroasL It so fell that this
awakening fonnd as with an interval
betwixt ns and peril ; there was yet
a ppace intervening before the pre-
cipice, yet time for safety and re-
trieval. Had the alarom been defer-
red— had the ambitions of monarchs
sought a different field, and their
secret preparations taken a difi^rent
direction — had we reposed on the
Fecnrity of assured strength, and risen
to see, on one side of the Channel,
ports filled with ships and trans-
ports, on the other only hulks, a few
guard u>d broken-down block^hips,
the day might have dawned when
the greatness of England would have
departed, and its glory been obscured
by a darkness which would have
shrouded it for ever.
It is well that our warning has not
come from such a crisis of danger.
The warnings brought by conviction
are more salutary even than those
which come as the cries of panic
and alarm — their lessons are more
rational, their results more effective.
The nation has awoke, not with
fire and slaughter on its shores and
ltd homesteads, but to the deliberate
conviction that the strength of its
navy had not a sufficiency for de-
fence, much less for the assertion of
supremacy.
The calm resolve which this warn-
ing has evoked, the unanimous feel-
ing by which this conviction has
been manifested, are signs of healthy
strength and innate reliance, which,
thoneb lees understood by other
people than by ourselves, must and
will bear to the powers of Europe an
expression of supremacv.
Such an assertion, however, if it
be even affirmed by commensurate
results, will not be enoogh, should It
only provide for present need and
present emergency. It must have an
assurance for the future as well as
the present. The state of the navy^
has been adopted as a national charge
— a national responsibility; and it
will now be a national crime if there
be not given to it a magnitude and
a permanency, which shall be abso-
lute and uncontrolled by the policy
of cabinets, the expediency of finance,
or the demands of factions; which
shall insure a naval might equal to the
standard of the greatness, position,
and destiny of England and its people.
A standing navy can alone assure
this^a navy of ships and of men,
fleets and crews, which, in magnitude,
shall poise the navies of the world,
in permaneno;|r defy alarmj the vicis-
situdes of politics, or the changes of
administration, and which shall pos-
sess a capacity for expansion suffi-
cient for the maintenance of a great
struggle or a great defence. Less
than this is not enough for national
safety, or the supremacy in which It
is involved. Such supremacy, ce^
tain and manifest, would be sJso Uie
surest of peace4iffencieB — it wonM
avert attack ana promote neutral-
ity, which can only be maintained
with dignity when it is maintained
in strength. The nation which fban
not war, and is prepared to meet It,
has always a power to avoid It; ra
weakness lies the danger and the
difficulty of neutrality.
The first, the only aim, how-
ever, of naval suimmacy with n?, is
national security and defence, and
this can never be attained except by
the union of all the conditions we
have named. The will of the nation
will certify a sufficient magnitude to
the navy for the present^ but the na-
8ee art '* Fleets and Navlea— France^" in our June Number.
1869.]
Fheti and iTavw*— ^n^lMMf.— iVnt 12.
32fi
tional will la apt, nf ter a great exer-
oiee, to ood ana doze in oomplaoeocj
over its products. Then a time may
come — as it has been before, so will
it be affain— when the tactics of party
demand a redaction in the budget/
and theUf in the lall, when fev are
caring, few observing, ships will be
dismantled, seamen dispersed, arti*
sans dismissed, dockyards reduced to
the lowest ebb of retrenchment, and
the national will, if aroused by any
crisis or menace, would find, perhaps,
that it had scarcely means to resist
an invasion of gun- boats, and that in
the construction of a fleet or navy it
Qiust begin the worlc over agaio.
A great navy, without assured per-
manency, wQuld be only a delusion
and a danger. Men trust much in
the past ; tl^y would know that there
had been a strong naval force, and
believe that it still existed ; and should
any doubts or suspicions arise, they
would be soothed and comforted by
statistics and totals which would
confound real ships with skeletons,
and conceptions represeoted merely
by a few plankp, or a board with a
name painted thereon.
The navy should be the navy of the
couDtry, of the people, not of a min-
istry or government — a certain fdct,
which could not be altered in its suffi-
ciency for defence without the know-
ledge and approval of the nation— a
fact which, iu magnitude, might defy
comparison or danger, in permanency
be established beyond the power of
reduction below the standard of safety
— in ezpaosion be equal to the needs
of the future, or the threats of ag-
gression. What should be the stand-
ard of its magnitude? What the
conditioos of its permanency ? What
the extent of its expansion ? These
are questions all pressing vitally on
OS, aud which must be solved whilst
there is time for practical issues,
whilst the direction of the strength
of our competitors on other projects
offtrrs the opportunity of advance, the
vantage of progression. What should
be the magnitude of our navy, must
be a queer ion of comparison and of
Xiatiohal position.
The position is that of the first
saval power of the world — the com-
pariion involves all the fleets and
navies which singly or in combina-
tion coald dispnte or overthrow that
position. To be the first nayal power
IS, as we have said elsewhan, the
condittOD of the existence of Eng*
land as a great power. It is no pr»>
sumption of ambition, no design of
aggression, but the rightful assertion
of iher own place among nations. To
be less is to be nothing— to decline
from this point of supremacy is to
endanger the commercial ascendancy^
which makes her wealthy, and to
abandon the colonial imperialism
which makes her great This posi-
tion of supreuMK^ts life, very life ta
England. liet its Titality stagnate,
or its sources fail, let it droop or
wither from neglect or maltreatment,
and the old name, which has been a
power and a glory amcmg men, may
become a byword and a reproaoh.
The strength which can uphold this
life and maintain this supremacy,
must be e^ual or superior to all the
forces which can imperil or threaten
it. The fbrces which can thus be pos-
sible foes are the navies of the world.
They have heretofore been arrayed
in hostility to u& The present phase
of the world's politics gives no assur-
ance that such a contingency may
not occur again— and the magnitude
of our navy must, as a necessity of
safety, match the united magnitude
of those which can unite to attack
us. Since they last challenged us,
the navies of the world have very
much altered their olassificatiooy
and now there are two only whose
combination of line-of- battle power
would be dangerous. France and
Russia are the two great rivals who,
by the construction of steam navies,
are still asserting a pre-eminence as
first-class naval powers. America is
strong in frigates, in the armaments
and size of her dififerent shipe, and in
her management and knowledge of
steam; and the other navies which
have not progressed iu the application
of the new power, would still present
a formidable contingent of ships and
seamen. It may not be probable that
these may be all at the same time oof'
enemies; but in a matter so vital,
we may not depend on probabilitiea,
we must prepare for possibUitiss-
The life or death of a nation cannot
be left to. the chances or casts of
politics.
326
Ihdi and JSfanef-^Enffknd.-'Fart tL
[Sept.-
To determine the maifiiUade^ there*
Ibre, of the navy of England, we
must return to an estimate of its pos-
sible opponents. France, as we stated
in a former paper, nambers 81 line-
of-battle ships afloat, and 37 frigates,
and in the year 1660 contemplates
possessing a total force of 40 steam
liners, 6 iron-plated frigates, 30 screw
frigates, 19 paddle-wheel frigates, and
!t6 steam transports.
Kossia, though checked in her ef-<
forts by the loss of two divisions of
her fleet, and the '* treaty obligation
not to reestablish a naval arsenal at
Sebastopol, Is devoting her naval re-
sources to increase her Baltic fleet,
which will in the couve of the next
year amount to 40 steamshipMi of the
line, all the sailing ships being con-
verted into steamers.*' *
The Anstrian, Swedish, Dutch,
Danish, and Spanish navies have as
vet, we believe, only two screw
liners — one Austrian, one Dutch
— and few steam-ships of a large
size; but they could muster an ag-
gregate of about 30 sailing line-of-
battle ships; not all, perhaps, vei^
efficient. Some of tb^, the Dutch
especially, are in a state of progress,
and the Northern States would be
always strong in the numbers and
quality of their seamen. Thus,
should England stand once again
against the world in arms, she would
enter the lists against combined fleets
which in different quarters might
assail her. With 82 screw and
about 50 sailing line-ef- battle ships,
supported by large bodies of heavy
frigates, and swarms of smaller ves-
sds, a naval war would scarcely
b^in with such a coalition ; but in a
conflict with one or two of the great
powers our resourees would be too
heavily taxed to admit of the pre-
parations necessary to meet a& in-
criease of foes. The nation which may
stand against the world in arms
must have arms for the world. The
navy which is to the safeguard of
England and the protector of her
destinies, should be equal in numbers
or power to the collective fleets of
war-ships which float on the seas,
and should have a capacity of expan-
sion which would enable it to com-
pete with the growth of new navies
or the revival of old ones. Is it at
present equal to this high require-
meiitt There are. now floating on
the seas or in the harbours of Eng-
land, 40 screw liners and 35 sail-
ing riiips, which perhaps, until they
are maae more valuable as converted
liners, may nearly balance the sailing
|6rce which would be opposed to
them. At the commencement of the
financial year 1860, it is calcalati4
that we shall have 50 line<>^battle
ships and 34 frigates ready for ser-
vice. France, at the same time, would
command 40 screw liners, 4 iron-
?lated ships, and 46 steam-frigates,
'bus, single-handM, navy to navy,
people to people, we need' not shrink
from comparison or fear the issuer
But the balance is so even, so well-
poised, that the alliance of another
navy on one side or the other wouk^
tnrn the scale, and it behoves os to
see how the comparison would stand
should the fleets of Russia be joined
to those of France. We believe that
the estimate given of them by Sir H.
Douglas is overrated. In 1854-55,
Bussia had only 2 screw liners; and
resolute as that power has ever been
in the^pnrsuit of a purpose, it is giv-
ing too much credit to its enei^ to
suppose that in four years, and those
yews following on the exhaustion of
a disastrous war, it could produce 38
ships, even by the conversion of old
material. Should the number be
much less, and not exceed 15 or 29,
which would be ready durmg the
next year, as stated by the reports of
^e-intnesses who have returned from
Oronstadt tiiis summer, the combina-
tion of such a force with the navy of
France would establish a preponder-
ance which might give it the com-
mand of the Channel, leave our ports
open to attack, our shores to in-
vasion. Should even our fleets exhi-
bit an equality in numbers, their ne>
cessary dispersion to guard :Our coIod-
ies and our military stations would
prevent a concentration sufficient for
our home defences. Both these rival
naval powers, also, possess the means
of equipping and manning their ships
on the instant, and their neighbour-
hood would enable them speSiily to
* Howard Douglas.
1899.1
NUU a/nd Nmk^-^Englamd.'^Fart JL
327
lUtdw tlie word hf Mat blow — te
meoaoo hy the mctioo. The diMid*
Tantage, too, under wMcb RtMri*
wosid opeimt^, in tiogle comboit, from
ha^g her porta doted by the iee for
many montlM in the year, would be
aonulled were she in alliaooe ^(;h a
oodhtry which could oier her ihipe
a harbooragre io the ^'oinque ports
miikaires.*'
Sooh oombhifttioBa, eueh coalitioo,
■lay be sneered at, laughed down by
politicians, etpeoially now that it is
the fashiOD to repose on the faith
and good intent of sovmigoe; but
the people of Bogiand, with the ex*
perienoe of New*year's greetings, se*
eret tresUea, and secret preparations,
might prefer to rely on a formidable
navy and stalwart seamen, rather than
put their trust in prf ooes.
The present age and the policies of
the age give no warranty to England
to confide her safety and immunity
to aught save her own power of de*
ience. What, then, should be the
magnitude of the navy which would
insure such defence ?
One hundred sail of the Unewas
tiie dd stand-point of Enghind's
naTsl might. It often rose above,
sooaetlmes on emereency doubled
itself; but sever fell below until
peace agitations and financial expo-
dienta tampered with our strength
and stagnated our reeouroes.
The standard of the old times
should be the standard of the present
A hundred screw ffoers, and t\xtj
or seventy powerftil frigates — the
smaller craft and gun-boats are ai*
ready in proportion to sudi a force
— would only constitute a aavv cat-
responding with the responsibility
of a nation whose destiny it is to
aphold against the world the supre-
macy of the seas. We have seen
that our navy is bebw — miserably
below this staoderd. The next point
is to see whether it has inherent io
itself an ezpansioD which may attain
it. It is announced, and announced
too as a sort of triumph, that next
year we shall have 60 line^^f-battle
chips afloat, and that in 1861 the
number will be Increased to 66. We
shall then have arrived at the end of
our material, bufiit, building, con*
verted, and convertible. We ^!b$Xi
have wrought oat the new, and used
u{^tliaoM. This rwnlt, however, itf-
spires oonfldence in statesmen, tfa^
exult in it, bnmdlsh it as a defiance
toi the call of the country for defence.*
Bven a gallant admiral has stated
tbat "^with 60 sail of the line in two
divistona-^one ready for sea, and one
io a (brwaxd state— « we might defy
the world." Such confidence sup-
poses that we should have only one
power to encounter, and betrays a
rather ha^ experience of the past,
and a blind forecast into the future.
In what great naval war have we
ever been allowed to battle with any
one navy single-handed ? What is
there in the aspect of present poli-
tics to encourage a belier that, in the
event of anotMr, we should not be
challenged to join issue with a com-
bination? After our late essay of
strength especUdly, it would be only
a ccMdition which would dare to
attack us, and such a contingency,
now that aheolutism wields the
might of the great military peoples,
is neither contrary to probabihties,
nor to the principles by which the
policies and ambitions of empires have
been directed.
Our prosperity is an ofifenoe, our
constitution a reproach, our supre-
macy a barrier to existing systems
aad existbg doctrines of govern^
meat \ and spite of the confiding
faith of politiciaDS and peace-dogma-
tists in the soft*tongued phrases and
aifeotioBate assurances of powers and
diplomats, we know that there bar
been and is a feeling among the
ndgfatTf ones of the earth, which
would lead them to regard our humi-
liation as a triumph, and oor dedine
amon^ nations as a victory to the
principles and mtems they repre-
sent There are few, if any^ of these
mighty ones who have not suflhred
defeat or foil ftom us— few in whom
it has not left a bitter memory— few
in whom this memory has not bred
an impulse to avenge and retaliate.
This IS a consideration which must
entsr iiito our calcnhttons.
Fifty sail (^.the line may enable
us to defy France, to defy Rnsiia, but
they are not enough to defy both—
not enough to defy the world. They
would berdv suffice, according to th«
statistics given by great authorities,
to ibtm a first line against a Juaetieii
328 FUdi and NuvkH-EngUmd.'^Fart IL [9q^
of these two great navies, leaTiog no bat ooly for kaepiog up to a oertdn
reserFO to radeem a revone or oon* ezkting sttodaid At tfaia rate tbe
Bommate a eoooeei. Oar block-ships, staod • poUit eoold not be readied
despised and Mjected as they are in io 15 yean, as oot of the 45 Imen
all etasBifieatioos— regarded as neither which would have been then oon-
fish, flesh, fowl, nor even good red stmoted, 10 at least would be re-
herring, woold doobtless, where there . quired to fill the plaees of those
was an approximation to equality, which had become iaeflfoetive film
tarn the tide of battle ; otherwise age and service. Thirty yean is the
and even then they woold swell the estimated duration of a ship, and
numerical force withoat giving a many of oar present fleet would ere
corresponding reality of strength, and the period mmed have reached the
thus detract from the honour of allotted terms. This is, however,
victory or multiply the disgrace of only a calculation of mabtenaDoe;
defeat Oor flotilla of gun-bMts, too, that of extension would be much
might exhibit a power of war nth greater, and require a large incresse
known in the tactics of the past, of means and appliances. Our dock-
which would balance the superiority yards present a building-Bpace equal
of a line of battle, but this would to.the effort They occupy altogether
depond on the skill with which they m vea of 866 acres, and contain 3S
were handled and on the projectile docks and 44 building •slips. Of
force of their armament But the the slips, 26 or 26 are adapted for
honour, the safety, the life of such line-of*battle-8hips of difTerent cIsmmw.
an empire ss En^^land may not be According to French authority, a
trusted to makeshifts, or calculations liner occupies two years in building
of new war*forces, or the ingenious under the most fisvourable circam-
views of diplomacy ; they most be stances, and generally four or five ;
based on the surest and the strongest oor returns show that of the ships
reliances in inherent strength and which are promised in *60, *' one was
resources. It may be good diplomacy laid down in '55, two in '56, one ia
to court the favonn of fordgn '57, and four in '58," so that as far ss
potentates by weakness, and to do- regards buildingHipaoe we might in
pend on the forbearance of allies, bat two years, countiog from 1860, when
11 is better patriotism to provide for the slips would be empty, attain the
every possibility of attack, and pre- grand stend-point of England's navy,
pare every means of defence. But will the building* power oor*
Neither the present state, then^ of respond with the building- sjjaee 7
the British navy, nor its prospeo- The Secretary of the Adosiraltj
tive stete in '61, can be accepted as has announced that with the pre-
a finality. Fifty-six line»of*battle sent labour -power the dockyards
ships cannot be the limit of oor pre- can turn out in one year 46,000
pantions, but as this number will tons of shipping, and that if we
represent the total in process of con- were pressed for ships, by giving
version and construction, it will be the shipbuilders a four months'
well to see what are the means of stert they would be able to build
expanrion by which this number can half-a-dozen very large corvettes
be extended to reach the old stand- per month in the merchant yards,
point of one hundred ships of the and the steam machinery that
line. The Surveyor of the Navy has could be produced woald be in pro-
stated, <* that the force in the dock- portion. Thus, under an emetgeocy
yards before the last increase of ship* —and the present is an emergency—
wrighte and apprentices was not the construction of corvettes, gun-
more than snfi^ent to build three boala, dec, might be left to the private
line* of* battle ships, three frigates, yards, and the whole power of the Gk>-
and six sloops per annum, berides vemment establishmento be concea*
executing the necessary repairs ; and trated on liners, or the class of ships
that this number ought to be pro* which would snpply their plaoe, and
duoed every year, meraly to maintain the very large frigates. The average
the navy on a proper footing." This^ tonnage of a modem screw lioe-of*
however, provides not for an inGrease, battle ship ia about 8500 toos^ that
18S9.]
Fledi and NavU^-^England.-^Pari IL
329
of a flrtt«la88 frigate aboat 2400 ; to
that our baildtng-power woald repre-
seot ten linen and five heavy fHgates
aDoaallY, beaidea thoae of the latter
daaa which could be bailt by cootract
Thoa the work of ezpaDcioD, with the
preaent diapoeable ageociea, wonld
extend over four jeara, or five — ^mak-
iog alk>waDoe for a hXt atari This ia
a longer period than we ahoiild wiah to
aee intervene between what Sa and
what OQght to be the atate of our
navy, and we wpnld fain aee it dimi-
niahed by extra efforta ; bnt even at
thia rate we ahoald have the aatiafac-
tion of aeeing the proportiona every
Tear Increaaing towarda falfilment.
The coat of thia expanaion ia the next
oonaidemtion. A three-decker, in
oonatnietion alone, without counting
her maata, Ac, and machinery, coata
£106,000 in mere labour and material
— a aeoond-rate would be leaa, of
courae — ao that the completion of
ten Knera might be calculated aa
under £1»000,000 aryear. Thia would
be donbtleaa a tremendoua item, aa
the whole coat of labour (including
aoperintendenoe and material at the
dcKskyarda at home and abroad) for
building, repaira, Ac, amounted only
in 1858-1869 to nearly three and a-
half million. Bnt the outlay wouM
be only one of anticipation in ita
great exeeaa ; for in future yeara, after
the atand- point had been reached,
there would be aolely the cost of
maintenance and repair, and that,
with ahipa comparatively new and
efficient, would be light enough : we
believe, too, that outlay ia not the
great queation at preaent— -that the
will of the nation ia defence, and that
it ia willing to poeaeaa at any coat
Finanden and peace - apoatlea
wonld donbtleaa denounce tbia aa a
war eatabliahmeni Bnt it ia hard to
aay what, in the preaent day, ia a
peace and what a war establiahment,
or how Boon the one may be changed
into the other. The question ia,
whether we ahould have peace with
a war coat, or a peace coat with
the eonatant riak and panic of war.
The time to which economiata refer
with the greater unction aa the gold-
en age of peace and retrenchment
10 the latter part of theyear '44 or
the beginning of '45. We had then
Bine line-o^battle riiipa in commia-
bIou out of eightyeight afloat, and
thia number indudcnl guard*abips, and
flag-ahipe on foreign atationa. The
defence of oor ahorea waa left to two
war -ahipa. Our navy will never
again fail to thia low mark, but
ahould it ever be reduced ta what
politlciana recogniae aa a peace eatab-
liahment, aad should aome word or
phraae be thrown at our plenipoten-
tiary by a great potentate, on aome
New-yetr*a morn or other great
anniveraary, which would ahow na
war looming in the distance, though
like a clond no bigger than a man's
hand, bow could our peace arroa>
menu be converted into war onea,
ao aa to meet the criaiat Ships do
not apring into extatence in a few
weeka or montha; men are not col-
lected from the four qnartera of the
globe in an ioatant ; and the economy
which left Eugland unprepared or
defencelesa, would thua strike at the
very heart of her life. What mourn-
ing would there be throughout the
land ahould the gazettea of victory
even announce such holocauats <»f
alain aa we have lately read of I What
indignation, what humiliation would
there be, ahould thia blood have
been ponred out in defeat 1 What
long lacea and bitter hearta there
would be in Liverpool and Hullf
should it be told that our merchant
ahipa had been ftopped on the aeaa '
ana carried into foreign porta ! What
wailing and gnaahinff of teeth in
Manchester, when tidmga came that
our porta were cloaed and our trade
auapended! Would there not be
then general aorrow and remorse
that the country had not insured
peace at a war coat, rather than
peace eatimatea paid for in alaughter,
apoil and ruin? The deluaion that
mankind will fraternise over cotton
bales, and that billa of exchange and
bilia of lading shall be the future
tokena of brotherhood, baa been
ruddy dispelled; and it ia now a
forced fact, that if we would ait
under our own vioe and our own
fig-tree — if we would send forth
our ahipa in aafety on their miasiona,
if we would insure product for our
industry, prosperity and progreaa for
our people, it mnat be under the
shadow of great armaments. Thna
it ia, mnat ever be, when despotlaaM
Fluts and Kimn^'Englmi.-^Fart U.
ISept.
hold the balanoes of peace or war.
There Is no aecarity save id Btreogtb.
WbeD Btroog mea arm, he who would
keep hfis house mqat be Btronger than
they. Tbe magmtade of the material
foroe of the navy ought not to be, aod
canaot be aafelj, below thie old stand-
point of one hundred Bail of tbe line,
but even ehoold this be adiiered,
how is its permaneDoe to be assorod ?
How is it to be preserved, strong and
intact, against the inroads of economy
and political taetios? There Bcema
only ooe means— pnblioity. Tbe na*
tion has assumed to itself the respon-
sibility of its defence, aod it has a
right to demand a knowledge of the
state and disposition of tbe means
which it has provided for that pur-
pose. The Navy List is at present a
mystification — a puxzle to tbe unin-
itiated as great as a table of loga-
rithms, or a Bradshaw'e Guide, or an
Eigyptian scroll. Tbeuninitiatiid may
waffle through columns of Sphynzes,
Bulldogs, Alarms, &o., without know-
ing more of the real strength of the
xwvy at the end than at the beginning.
It need not be so. The Navy List
/ might be an open book, which all who
mn may read.
Let the screw- ships of the line
actually afloat and fit for service be
included in one list aocording to their
classes, not alphabetically— those in
commiasion being noted as usual.
The screw frigates, smaller vessels,
aiid gunboats, might follow in the
same order. Then should appear
separate lists of the liaets (steam),
fngates, &&, which were in progreas,
the state of forwardness aod the'
probable date of completion being
noted under each. The summary
might be closed by a return of tbe
sailiog - vessels, guard - shipa^ hulks,
Act which are rather accessories to
our strength than realities. Thus
even the most newly -fledged legis-
Ukior might inform himself of the
i^te of the navy without refereobes
to seoretaries or officials, and the
ooontry know fully and surely on
what it might depend in the hour of
danger. The great objection to this
]^an has always been that it would
give too aoourate knowledge to for-
eign powers. This implies a oonfea-
sioD of weakness. Strength needff no
ooBoealmeDt or mystifieatioD. The
faet is, that we cannot and do not
mystify foreign cabinets. The bo-
reaus of France, Russia, and all the
governmebts whieh desire it, can get
and do get as aoonrate iofotmation
of the state of our 'Bhips, our dock-
yards, the number of our seamen,
and our war resooroesv bb Is peseemed
by the Lords of tbe Admiralty them-
selvea. Any mystery or untnteiligi-
hility will only keep in the dark those
who require to have the follest light
on the subject— ^the people of Eng-
land.
The magnitude of our navy should
then, as a necessity of national safety,
be equal to the aggregate navies of
the world; and its permanencv in
quantity and effioiency of material can
be only assured by its actual, re^ state,
in these respeots, being made patent
and plain, that the country may have
the responsibility Mid power of its own
defence.
The great import of this magnitude
and permanent is increased, too,
by the fact that, though our mail
strength may He in producing ma-
terial, and our difficulty be tha rais-
ing of man -power, any sooroes of
war strength are more quickly and
readily developed, and brought into
reserve, than ships: any euaostlon
or deficiency in these may, in a parti-
cular emergency, be fatal In a race
of constructkHi we oould oatbnild
any or all marithme {leople; but, to
commence the oompetitien, we should
start on equal terms with them all.
Possessed of a number of ships saffi-
dent to meet every posrible attadting
foroe, we might send forth fleet after
fleet,--for in nich a orists, with the
great resources of our mereantile
marine, it might be •easier to find men
for our ships than ships for onr men, —
Mid then rely on our great produot^
power to increase our soperiorily and
maintain supremacy.
In the present state of foreign
navies and foreign, policies, we believe
that 100 ships of the Im^ built, afloat,
and ready for commisBioning, would
be essential for this purpose ; and we
believe that It &i a force which the
country would rejdce in, and willr
ingly create. The burden now im-
pwed on ns by the *< reconstruction
of our m,ry** wlU be borne unaiur-
muriogly; its oontmoatlon for two
Fledtmd XMm-^Ei^Umd.-^FQH
i6M]
Of Hirea mn mnre would nbdcr d^
teoe no looger • qiMStion or a doobt
For floeh • roBoit tlie natum woold
not hetttaie to give. It iins )e« ro-
Inatance to nve than ioanden to
aak \ it has leai ajmpatby than is
nippoted nitb pincbed and pamd
badgetfly when theBO mean alB9 cor*
taikd armaments. It will give^ when
it. knows bow and for what it b
giving ; when it knows that it is
^▼ing fior realities and not ehiaaeras
-^thal it it giving for real fleets and
anuesi seamen, soldiers, ships; gnns,
eoginesi, wfaieb majp defend its shores,
and nphoU its empire; and not shams
and idealities wbiek wovM bteak
down and disaii|)ear at the tet shodc
of war.
If we may not be content with tlie
ma^tade of the navy^ there is great
■atisfiMtion in considering the pre-
sent conetitntlon of its eraents, and
the deugne and princijrfes on which
it is being oonstraoted. Of the fifty
linen whi& are to ba afloat in 1860,
there will be four three • deckers
oanying Idl gnns, three having 800
boise* power, and one 700-**tlwSe
of 121 gu», two bearing 1000, and
one 600 horse-power «-*- one of 102
gans and 400 nerse* power*— seven
two-deeken of 100 gnoa and np-
wards, with horse - power varying
from 600 to 800. ''Tbna Eogland
has 15 ships of 100 gana and up-
wardSp carrying collectively 1694
gone, and eogines of 10,800 horse-
power.** She will have 28 or 24 of
90 or 91 gone, with horse'power vary-
ing from 400 to 800. The rest are
80-gan ships of 400 horse "power,
9 of which are converted. Of this
fiwce 27 have been converted from
sailing>sb&ps, and 23 boilt fiir screws.
Of the former it is needless to say
mnch ; th^ were necearities : they
presented material ready for conver-
sion in mnch less time^ and at moeh
less cost, than new ships oonld be
boilt^ and were therefore seised upon
to meet the demand of a stesm-
navy. They belong to difliBront fsyw-
tema and sehooto, which of coarse
varied in the adaptabUity of their
designB to the new power. Many
are good, strong ships, .carrying their
gvna and eogines weU ; and as these
891
am not proposed as models, Imt
merely provided as exigencies, and
as, in esse of a naval war la the pre-
sent tfane, they woald be opposed to
an eqnal or rather greater pi^^portfon
of ships of the same class and style
in the navies of Bonis and France,
they may be regarded as lh!r^f
answering ^e porpose to whl<<ih
tfan* were intended.
The creatioas of the preseat school
of naval architectare are, we believe
(as was stated in a former paper), to
be models of excellent -^ that is,
ships built of timber and encased in
iron are henceforth to be a Itee-of
battle power in naval warfera It
woold be scarcely profitable to trace
the progress of the systems by whidi
we have advanced step bv step to
onr present science of shinbDllding.
Some of the old principles nave been
retateed, others, especially those of
the school immediately pmeding the
abate of transition, have been aban-
doned- as hMpplicable to present
modes and reqnirements ; all, how-
ever, even the most ibnity, are iden-
tified with some improvement ** The
changel which oor navy has nnder-
gono embrace not minor variations
merely, bat entire and onpreoedented
transformations, eonseqoent mainfy
npon the intit>daetion of steam.*'*
It was necessary that the dimea-
siens of oor ships should be mnch
enlarged, and that the tonnage
shonld be largely increased ; '*this
difierence arose partly from the in-
trodnction of the engines and fbd,
bat it is also dae to a wise increase
in the carrying power of the ship,
independent of her steam reqaisiteB."
Again, '* the form of oor present ships
hsB been adapted bv the introdoe-
tion of fine lines to the cireamstances
attendant on screw proprision, so as
to insnre those high speeds Ibr
which oar navy has lately become
remarkable." t These advantages
wen, however, to be united to others
— mobility, stability, stowage, fight-
ing-room, the power of carryiog a
Isrge armament, a steady platform
for guns, and extreme handinees. In
the war of which we have lately
been raoeiving the records^ the vto-
tory was ever gained by projectile
f Ibid.
FUm% and Nam^^EnffimL-^FaH IL
892
force aad mobility. The wme priii-
olples, we beUeve, most prevail
floats Handioeas of movemeDt will
and moat haye great efiecfc in naval
actioDa and naval tactiea. It will
be a qoeaiion of rakinff or bebg
raked, of giving or receiving a broad*
aide ; and thatt witii the preaent arma-
menta, will be a qoeation ao vital
that the ship which can tnm moat
qnickljy and anawer her helm moat
readily, would have aoperiority,
which, if properly need, wonid be
equivalent to victory. The new
projectilea will all reqoire greater
accuracy of aim and ateadineaa of
fire ; bo that a atable platform, to
give dae effect to the long raogea,
will be an iodispenaable quality.
Thia combination of fighting with
motive power, of aize with mobility,
of tonnage with apeed, has, we be^
lieve, been happily achieved in the
oonatrnction of oar new ahipa : even
now, however, ' the Surveyor of the
Navy haa declared that the proceed-
icga of naval architecture moat be
baaed on ezperimenta, and ezperi-
menta alone, and that 'Hhere are a
few great pointa yet to be fixed for
fatnre gnidanoa" Among theae the
principal are the determination of
the amount of ateam-power reqnured
fi>r each ahip, and the adviaability of
^btaininff apeed under ateam by
roeana of length and fine linea. The
firat ia being eataUiahed by repeated
experimenta ; and with regard to the
latter, the Surveyor atatea, *' until it
ahall have been aaUafhctorily aace^
tained that the great length which ia
neoeaaary to high apeed under ateam
alone doea not materially interflere
with the ready performance of the
evolutiona which may be required of
men-of-war under any circnmatancee,
it would not be prudent to depart
otherwiae than gradually, and after
anffident experience, from the dimen*
aiona and forma of the ahipa whidi
have been found to poaaeaa eveiy
good propertv.'"*" The experimenta
on thia pomt have been teated to the
utmoat in the ahipa, eapeoially the
frigatea which have been lately
buUt The Orlando, carryis^ 50
guna, haa 1000 hcnae-power and ia
800 feet in length-^that ia, 60 mora
[Sept
than the Renown er Diadem. H^h
apeed ia doubtleaa of pavamooat m-
portanoe in the preaent day, but it ia
a queation whether haadiaeaa and
mobility can be aafUy aacrificed tp
it. Bhipa of thia extraordinaiy lenji^
would |bave a difficulty in taming,
except in a great apace, and their
utility in opmting under batteriea,
in uarrow (^annda, or even in«an
action, would thereby be much le»-
ened. However, tma point ia in
aafe handa. The men who ate de-
ciding it are not theoriala or iatu-
tive architeota, but men to tiie nat-
ter bom, who have made it a aeienee
and a atudy, and baaed it on experi-
menta of trial and practice. There
ia one other reault, and no mean one,
which haa been Erectly or indirectly
cauaed by theae ohangea, and thai ia
the great improvement in Tentilation
and accommodation. When we look
at the old ahipa, in which a man of
average height ooald only ei^ep be-
twixt deeka, aee the narrow apace,
and fSeel tfaie atifliog atmosphere in
which men were formerly compdled
to extat^ we cannot but rejoice io
the acoeaaion of healtb and comfort,
which, by the great inereaae of air,
room, and light, moat be affixrded ti»
the aeamen in ahipa of the new
Yet theae noble veasela, we are told,
muat ahortly give place to a new
power, and the Don^la, Beoowm,
and Dukes of Wellington become
ere long aa obadete aa the Tictoriea
and Impregnablea of a former time.
HenoefcMTth, according to new theo-
riea, the ahipa mnet be amaller, carry
fewer and larger guna, be coated
with or built of iron ; and it ia aup-
poaed that theae, atationed at lo^
diatancea, would' effectually diaable
or aink line-of-battle ahipa of greater
aiaa, and bearhig greater number of
guna, Thia aupposition is baaed ou
the relative force of projectflea, and
of reaiatance pcBseaaed by each, and
doea not at all take into eonaidera-
tion the influence or effect of the
man-power and the mluMpirit wbioh
muat ever diieot the motlooa, and
determine the notion, of an en-
gine of war. Thia idea of battlea
settled by h>ng boUa, and at diatancea
* Extracted torn Mtehank^s Mafftmine.
1859.]
Fleeb and NMet^Englafid.'^Part 11.
333
where the combtttants eonM searoely
see one Anoth^, reminds as of the
mode adopted by Perumn and
ChQian armies for arraDging fishti^g
matters d la distance^ thoogb it was
probably less bloodless and destrao-
tlve. When the riral troops came
in sight of one another, the drummen
on each side marebod to the front,
and began with all their might to
beat a point of war, and the soldiiirs
shouted with allthefar might and main,
until one army manifested a great
aoperiority in the power of fiings
and dmmstick, and the other then
withdrew, leaWi^ the fidd to the
con<|iieror«
As long as plnck and daring are
elements of hnman nature, men will
never snbmft to be mowed down or
snnic, at an interral of miles, without
attempting to okise, if they have the
power. It was said that rifles and
rifled cannon would dedde military
operntions at long ranges, and that a
close encounter, a hand-to-hand fight,
or a bayonet-thrust, would be a thing
unknown in modem combat ; and vet
in these late battles the baTonet has
done more deadly work than ever,
and positions have been carried by
the rush of men. Unless these
armour -ships have some marveHous
speed which enables them to keep
tneir foei at their own distance,
there will be ch)sing too in naval
actions, and then, spite of plates and
coating, sijee and broadsides will
tell : the traditions, too, of boarding
still rf*main, and the Iron sides would
be little proof against seamen swarm-
ing .over the nettings, or dropping
from the foreyardarm,euUaee hi hand,
as In the time of old.
If we aro sometimes slow in in-
Tention, and in adopting ideas, our
mechanical skill and energy enable
va to embody them better when we
aee their utuity or neoesBitjr, than
even the projectors or originators.
If not first in Invention, we aro
irenfrilly best in adaptation. Our
EofiHd is a decided improvement on
the Minis conception ; the Armstrong
is an advance on the Napoleon riflM
cannon ; and we are about to give
the experiment of the <*Mgate8
bliai^W* a much ftiller development
la the nteam ram. The French trial
of proof-armour has been confined to
sheatiiing ships built with the scant-
ling of three-deckers, or old ships
naeed with thick iron plates, and pro-
vidtog them with engines 800 or 900
horee* power. We are carrying it
much Ihrther. The steam ram Is to be
** a wrought-iron vessel of great sine,
strength and steam-power." ''Her
length win he 380 feet; her bresdth
58 feet ; depth 41 feet six Inches ;
and her tonnage will be 6000 tons.^*
This monster of the deep is to be
propelled bv engines of 1250 horse-
power, at the rate of sixteen knots
an hcmr. The attempt at Impene-
trability is carried to the utmost in
her construction, and must be fairly
tested now if ever. ''The heel U
to iM of immense slabs of wrought
iron, and the ribs which spring from
it are of the same material ; the iron
plates, which commence 5 feet be-
low the water-line, are placed over
beams of teak l\ feet thick, are
15 feet long by 3 feet broad, and 4i
inches thick." «The main and
upper decks will be of iron, and
will be carried on beams of wrought
hron, to which both ribs and decks
are i bolted ; while along the whole
vessel, from stern to stern, are im-
mensely solid wrought-iron beams at
intervals of 5 feet inside the ribs,
which are again crossed by diagonal
bands, tying the whole together in
a perfect net-work. The Iron plates,
however, shield 6n1y the fighting
portion of the vessel, about 220 feet
of the broadside ; and the bow and
stern are coated onlv with wrought-
iron plates of 1^ inches in thickness
over 2 feet of teak ; but both bow
and stern are so crossed and re-
crossed in every direction with water-
tight compartments, that it is a
matter of perfect indifl^noe whether
they get riddled or not, and each of
thm ends is shut off from the en-
gine-room and fighting portion of
the ship by eontinuouB massire
wrought-iron transverse bulk-heads,
so that, supposing it possible that
both stem and stern should be shot
away, the centre of the vessel would
renmin complete and impenetrable
as ever, still offering in all 24 inches
of teak coated with 6 inches of
wrought iron to every shot."* —
* Jimei, June 30.
334
* Fhitsand 2Tav%€S^Eti(fknd.'^Pari il.
'[Sept
This woald seem the very model ^f
reeiataoee, a defiance to projectiie
power. We mast reoaember^ bow-
ever, bow mw, attained the perfee-
tioD, es it was eopfKieed, of ioi|)eoe-
trability by oasiog bioMelf in iroa,
and how be was driveD ot^t of bis
armoar by its owd aawieldioeip and
the new force of projectiles. This
monster tortoise - ship is also to be
▼ery formidable in her offensive qo^-
Htiesh and is to carry thirty^ix of
Armstrong's guns of.lQOlb., twenty>
eight on her main deck, and eight
on the upper. Qf the upper -deck
armament there will be two pivot-
guns forward and t^o aft. lode-
pendent of Uiese she vould be able
to throw hi a broadside a ton and a
half of metal, if 100 lb. be the; real
and not the nominal weight of the
shot.
Thus we have a tremendous repre-
sentation of olfeasive and defensive
power. Here is a mass from which
shot of 100 lb. could be thrown at a
distance of nearly five miles» and
which would al such range be im-
penetrable to any roiwile or projectile
Avhich might strike her. It could
move, too, at the rate of sixteen
knots an honr, a rate which might
enable it to keep whatever position,
with regard to other ships, might
be required. Is there any draw-
back? The ram would weigh, when
fally equipped, armed, stowed, and
provisioned, 9000 tons ; and this^ to-
g^her with her extreme length, sug-
gests nnwiekliQess. It is not known,
too, how she would carry her guns
in the sea way, what water she would
draw, or bow manageable she might
prove in bad weather or in narrow
channels. On her possession of these
qnaJities woald depend her great
superiority as an attacking ibrc^.
It most be admitted that the ram,
constructed aooording to plan, would
be impervious to shot or shell fired
at a long range; nothing save a
direct fire could hurt her. It is also,
we believe, as certain that at close
quarters her impenetrability would
not be proof agamst a concentrated
broadside of heavy wrought -iron
shot. The question, then, will b^,
- whether this tortoise • vessel can be
constructed with speed and mobility
enough to keep the distance at which
she is inpvegmibfe» and taka i^ tin
position whieh would eoable ber to
give full effect to her projectile
power: if so, wooden ships must
become an obsolete force. This is
the p^blem which has yet to be
solved ere we abandon our preseot
ships as. useless, fit ^j to rot^ or be
cat dowp and sheathed la iron. It is
an isipoctaot, it is also a ▼eiy difficult
one.
The aggressive oapacity is not to
be confinca to prqjeotiles* There is
also ta.be the ram power. It is
designed that, she shall not be able
only to batter- ships at a distaoes,
but to crush and sink them by roa-
niog at them* ^ The node in irtiieli
she att^dss.will be to run etcai^
at the enemy, tsking him, if possible^
in the stera or quarter;^' and it is
then supposed, that, with the gieat
weight and speedy she might sink a
liue-of-battle ship in three minutes.
The , bow is made strong enough to
bear the shock of the encounter ; " ber
bowsprit is to be made telescojuc,
in order to be housed on board be-
fore striking the enemy." To escape
any shsr^ Qf the injuiy she would
i0flict> '' her. crew are to be prepared
to retire to the stern to avoid iojary
from her owa masts and spars, which
woald certainly fall by tha. board;
the engineers are to stand by to re-
verse the engines, iu order to clear
ber of the wreck of ber antagonist"
This sounds very theoretic, very com-
plex and unpractical, So much de-
pends on so many oonditions. The
blow must be struck iu the right
place ; the engines mast be reveraed
exactly in time to escape not only
from falling spars, and wreck, but
from the vortex which a sinking
ship would make ; and she could not
have the full services of ber crew at
the time of encounter. That she
would sink the line- of -battle ship
under the proposed oonditions is
possible enough; but it is not to be
supposed that the line-of-battle ship
would remaio fixed like a wall to
receive the blow whoEeyer she was
most vulnerable, and where her foe
chose to inflict it Being in all pro-
bability mora mobile, ^ might be
so handled that the ram m%ht miss
tliemark, ^nd be theuexpoaed to a
crushing, smsshiog broscteide. There
1859.1
FUet9 and 2fwiiH-^England,^Part IL
83S
la a plan »ow ywj muoh practised,
if not uniyeraally, in menof-war,
by which all the guns of a broad-
side caa be so trained as to throw
their concentrated fire within a
spaoe of twenty feet; and we be-
lieve that nothing made of wood or
iron, which conld float, would resist
sQch a weiglit of metal projected at
close quarters. It is well to say
that this ram, even if bow or stern
were shot awi^, would still be im-
pregnable. She might be impreg-
nable, bat she would also be unman-
ageable. Once unmanageable, she
would be powerless— would be at the
mercy of an enemy, or might be left
to , drift helplessly away. Against a
crippled ship the ram would be fatal,
bat in that case it would be as easy
to take 68 sink her; and sinking a
ship, like hanging a man, is about
the worst use to which it can be put.
It is also believed that, in the eon-
fuaion of an action, one of these
armed vessels might run successively
into ships engaged with an enemy,
and so render them hon de earn'
hat. In order that such a plan should
sQcceed, tbe character of the vessel
most be disguised, or the commander
of the opposing fleet too ignorant or
too negligent to foresee or provide
against such a danger. No admiral
would dare to lead his ship^ into
aotion without having fairly assured
himself against the risk of having
them helplessly rammed down. This
calculation^ like many others of the
day, assumes that mechanical science
is to be all in all; that the work of
war even ia to be regulated by me-
chanism, and that geuios and courage
are henceforth to count as nought.
None will dare now, with the ex-
perience of tbe past, to denounce any
new power as an impofisibility or an
imDracticabiiity. A learned man
staked his fame on the impossibility
of steam-ships crossing the Atlantic ;
another talented one opposed, with
might and main, the introduction of
tbe screw into the navy; soldiera
of war experiences scouted the rifle
and mini6 bullet. It would there-
fore be dangerous and unwise to say
that this steam ram will not be a
iwywer in modern wiM^are. It will be
doubtless a power, but whether so
p»at and overwhelmiog a one as.
TOL. LXZZTU
ss
to supersede the present lineof-batUe
ships, remains a question of experi-
ment There are as yet many pn^a
and cons. The ram property will,
we believe, prove a faJlacy. As an
attacking force which, at ^e distance
of three, four, even five miles, can
throw its shot and shell with accu-
racy, and with impunitv to itself, it
must be formidable and dangerous;
but how dangerous, must depend
mach on its stability and manage-
ableness. Gnus fireld at such dis-
tances must have great accuracy in
order to render their fire effective,
and the vessel that is intended to
command ji position must be capable
of being readily and rapidlv moved.
If it should prove, theremre, that
these armour-ships are unsteady and
uneasy, and conld only fire their guns
accurately in smooth* water, or that
they are unhandy, their redoubtable
oltaracter vronld be much diminished.
There is one respect, however, in which
they must be ever a power, and that
if*, in assailing forts or arsenals,
stationary objects whiph cannot move
out of their way, and would there-
fore require little change of position,
or ships lying in a harbour or road-
stead. Against such objects they
would launch destraction, and them-
selves defy reprisals.
. One of the fallacies invoked by
these new inventions is, that the
great aocession of mechanical appli-
ances in war will diminish the neces-
sity of man-power and nullify sea-
man skill. A leader of the Man-
chester school proclaims that ^Svar
depends not, as heretofore, on indivi-
dual bravery, on the power of a man^s
nerves, the keenness of his eye, the
strength of his body, or the power of
his soul ; but it is a mere mechan-
ical mode of slaughtering men.''
Whence comes this deduction?
Not surely from the experience of
the manufacturer? Does he find
Uiat steam-power and mechanical
science do away with the require-
ment for skilful labour, and that a
biunpkin from the plough or a lad
from the streets would be as use-
ful as an experienced artisan? We
have heard, and believe, that skilled
labour is of more account and more
need in manufactures than ever since
the introduction of steam-machinery.
8Sd
FleeU and Kaieiu—B}nglaiii.'--PaH IL
[Sept
It is the fate, however, of this pro-
phet to make his denunciations and
deliyer his orocles at times when the
patent facta and ex|)eriences of the
day contradict and belie them.
There was never a period wlien
strong nerves and keen eyesiglit
were of such import as now. With-
ont them the rifled musket and the
rifled cannon wopld be merely useless
tubes, from wliich projectiles would
be cast into empty space. In former
times, the dash of a rush or the
solidity of endurance were the quali-
ties essential in soldier nature. Now,
the direction of most powerful pro-
jectiles requires nerves tsteady as iron,
liniba which shall not quiver, an eye
which shall not falter, and which
shall extend its vision to thousanda
and thousands of yards. Let the
fields of Magenta and Solferino say
whether "imlividual bravery and
power of soul " are no longer soldier
virtues — no longer powers in war 1
We believe that the greater the
power, especially if it be mechanical,
the greater the:fikiil required to wield
and direct it. Thus this steam ram,
instead of being under-manned,
would require to be full-handed, and
to be maimed by the most able men,
both ganners and steersmen. Even
if the ship were impervious to shell
striking her, or falling on her decks
from a distance, this would not ex-
tend to her crew. The shell which
would not penetrate her bides, or
force through her decks, would yet
scatter death amid the crews of her
guns. Therefore it would be neces-
sary that she should be possessed of
relayR, and the nicety of her hand-
ling and the pointing of her guns
would demand the most skilled and
experienced handp.
The ram, as it comes forth from
our workshops, will represent the
principle of impregnability and resist-
ance. Betwixt it and the Annstrong
gun will rest the question of the
power of attack and the jniwer of
defence. The '^ir^gates blinds *'
are comparatively very inferior con-
ceptions—they have engines only of
800 horse-power, move only at the
rate of five or six knots, and are sup-
posed to be unwieldy; they would
thus fail in tlie two forces which
oould alone make them formidable
— mobility and velocity.
Onr wenpons of war have neoeni-
tated this change in the constructian
of our war-ships, and these changes
of construction again demand an
alteration in our existing armaments.
At present^ spite of the assertions of
the ^ Conversations-Lexicon," onr
ships are well and efi^ciently armed
to meet the existing exigaides of
war, and we believe, in guns, fit-
tings, and fighting equipments, are
superior to the French. The oi»m-
mon armament of our ships consists
of 82-f>ounders, 8-inch gnns, throwins
66-1 b. hollow shot, 10 inch gnns, and
68- pounders. The 10-inch gun has
been generally condemned, and will
probably be shortly disuaed ; the 68-
pounder, on the contrary, has been
as generally af)proved of, though its
great weight (95 cwt.) would pre-
vent its being largely used as a broad-
side gun. As a pivot-gun it is most
efificient and efiecrive, both with shot
and shell. The 82-{K>under8 of diffe-
rent dinionsiuns and weighty and the
8-inch gun, are for present purposes
well apfiroved of. A great objeoiion
against the latter will, however, be,
that it cannot thntw solid nhot, which
alone would take efl^ct on iron-coated
ships, and therefore in such warfare
it would be reduced solely to the ac-
tion of a shell-gun, and in a cIoho en-
counter, a very formidable part of a
broadside would thus be lust. These,
however, must and will give way to
rifleil cannon and Armstrong guns,
and may therefore be ocmsldered
only as existing until their successors
are ready to take their plac<«. Id
the interim, betwixt the creation of
the war-engines- which shall super-
sede them, and the annonr-ships
which necessitateLan increase of pro-
jectile force to balance the power of
attack and defence, they may be re-
ganled as a very sufiicient armament,
and equHl to any which may be op-
posed to it. The armament of the
first- dafs French liners consists now
of six 84's, sixty long 80-poundera, and
fifty-four SO-pounder Paixhana. One
of our three-deckers would carry 8-
inch guns on her lower deck, 82's on
her middle, main, and upper decks,
and a 68-ponnder pivot-gun on the
forecastle. So that^, according to the
old war- establishment, there would
be little inequality in the relative
armaments. But the. French have
1659.]
Fleeti and N0i9i^»^En9land,^PaH 11.
8S7
alrendy (gained ft stride ahead In this
respect, by introducing rifled cannon
into their ships. They have employ-
ed and provided for the interregnam
whilst the new inventions and the
new powers are in their oradleship,
by rifling their old ordnance, and
thns, unless we adopt the same plan,
wilKas they did in the constraction
of their steam navy, achieve an ad-
vance in the arm -power of their
ships.
The Armstrong gnn is no doubt,
as yet, the most advanced stage of
projectile development. Thongti its
principles and constrnction are only
partly known, and the experiments
have been conducted privately, vet
there exists a general conviction that
in rang?, accuracy, and lightness, and
all the ciiief requisites of an engine of
war, it is the model gnn of the times,
and initiated and uninitiated alike
accept it as such. Indeed, a gun
irhich at a distance of 5000 yards
can make first-rate practice at a tar-
get nine feet square, and which
weighs scaroelv half as much as guns
of the same calibre of the old pattern,
may fairly, in the present state of pro-
jectile science, challenge pre-emin-
ence among the arms of the world.
Itif adaptability as a ship gun iias
not been queitttoned ; its adoption as
such will be an era in naval warfhre.
Tiie conception and suggestiim of it
have already caused a great change
in the system of defence, and its snc-
ceris will initiate a complete revolu-
tion in the tactics of actions at nea.
We know too little tX present of the
derails to determine whether the
100 pounder will be available as a
broadside -gnn. This will depend
much on the space it wonid require,
and the nature of the carriage on
which it will be mounted. The
weight will be no ohjt- ciion, as it will
scarcely exceed that of the pre^nt
8-irich gun, if it bear any proportion
in that respect to those already pro-
dace<l ; nor will the length ; and the
breech-loading principle will of course
save exp(>snre and manual labour in
luading and firing. The idea, how-
ever, that it<< introduction will enable
ns to have smaller ports in our ships,
and to diminish the strength of a
gun's crew, is, we believe, a fallaov.
The ports cannot be oontracted with-
out interfering with the ventilation,
the escape of the smoke, the fiioility
of taking aim; and the difflouUy
which the o(mtracted limits of the
port-hole as an embrasure will at
present place in the way of obtain-
ing the necessary training and eleva-
tion to give full eflloacy to its power
of range and precision, will require
to be overcome by some new expe-
dients. Nor do we believe that the
diminution of the, manual labour in
handling the gun will Justify a de-
crease of its crew. The attention
required by an arm of such nicety
mast be most minute and incessant,
and would demand the superintend-
ence both of well-trained and full*
handed skill. However, its adoption
as ^ broadside gun, irres|>eotive of its
merits, must be some time deferred
in c<msequenoe of the limited supply ;
and its hrst test will doubtless be as
a pivot-gnn, and in that capacity it
is confidently anticipated that it will
exhibit a new and high phase of pro-
jectile progresf). The experiments of
the effect of the Armstrong bolt on
iron-caned ships were not so perfect
or satisfactory as to a'^tablisb the
ascendancy of the power of attack
over that of defence, but it is yet to
be a^^c^rtained what will be the pene-
tration and f(»rce of the heavier and
larger bolt; and should it be found
to have the requisite penetration, its
property of bursting after entering
would make it an unpleasant visitor .
on the decks of a ram or t(»rto{se.
We are told that one hnndred of
these guns may be ready at the be-
ginning of the next year, and two
hnndr^ more in the ensuing. At
lYiU rate, it will be several years ere
they can be supplied in numbers suf*
ficient to fully, or even f)artial]y9
arm our 8hi(rii and forts, and in abont
the same time probably the ram
problem will attain a solution. Then
Greek may meet Greek. In the
mean time there are other Greeks to
be met — the rifled cannon of France.
We have a profhsion of material —
plans enough, workman skill, work-
man power enongh for the purpose.
We Ruppose that the means thus at
onr dis|H>sal are being used to place
ns on a footing with our rival. It
cannot be otherwise— we cannot lag
behind: Gompetitioa in snob a raee
888
lUeti and Ifama-'Migland.-^JPart II.
Pcpt.
is not A ^boice, it k a necessity.
Plans are not, will not, be wanting.
Inrenti.ve genins, inventive skill,
wonld witb os eqnal tbe raecbantcal,
were it not so nullified, so clogged,
fettered, perverted, deadened by clr-
oamlocntion offices and red-tapist
prejudices, that it grows tired of
being shnttlecocked from band to
hand, and being docketed and pigeon-
holed, takes fligbt to more con-
genial spheres, and gives the ini-
tiative to other governments. The
invention, neglected and overlooked
among us, becomes a power, and we
are compelled to imitate where we
might have originated, to follow
where we might have led.
The plan for rifling gnns, now car-
ried out in France, was, we believe,
first proposed to ns. So were many
others, which have been allowed to
remain in abeyance. The idea of the
mini^ bullet lay ensconced for half a
century in the dust of pigeon-holes
and the notes of Mvam; and our
neighbours have since reproached us
that we did not give our discovery
to the world, if we were not dbposed
to develop it ourselves.
Official routine, official system, is,
perhaps, the stmngest thing in Eng-
land. It has a vitality, endurance,
and tenacity greater than any other
system or principle existing among
us. Though bearing all the signs of
decrepitude, decay, weakness, it yet,
like Sinbad*s old man, can override
the public will, and control the mili-
tary genius of the nation.
How long shall these things be?
How long? Until they cease to be,
England will ever be striving by
forced strides to make up for halts
and false steps-^will ever be strug^
gling for the vanguard, instead of
aasuming it as an assured and right-
ful position.
Before closing our remarks on the
material of our navy, we must notice
a force which we believe would play
a conspicuous part in any future
naval war, and which will not be
superseded or rendered obsolete even
by rams, and that is the gun-boats.
We believe (as was stated before) that
their importance has been overlooked
in the estimate of our strength, and
tbat thc^ wlU be formidable auzi-
Uariee to a liueof-battite, and that the
navy which possesses them in ib»
greatest perfection and the greatest
strength will have a great vantage
in all the preliminaries and details of
operations where larger shipa could
not act.
England numbers now 13 gun-
vessels, varying from 40 to 160 horse-
power, and 185 gun-boats, varying
from 20 to 60 horse-power.
This force, armed with the Ann-
strong gun, acting as a light body in
an action, would doubtless embarrass
the evolutions of the hostile fleet —
would tease slow ships, and prevent
the esvape of crippled ones— would,
from their dniwing so little water,
be very efficient in reconnoitring in
shallow channels, in cutting out ves-
sels, and in annoying and oonaider-
ably damaging a fleet at anchor in a
roadstead; whilst they, mere specks
themselves, and constantly in motion,
would suffer little from an eneoiy's
fire.
To be thoroughly efifective, how-
ever, as a light force, these vessels
should have not only mobility, but
velocity — ^should be able not only to
shift and change their position, but
to maintain safe distance. Our gnn-
boats possess the requisite mobiUtj,
as was well shown at Sveaborg and
elsewhere; but, constructed as they
were on an emergency, and for a eer^
tain purpose, the speed was not so
much considered. Their average speed
is barely eight knots, and that would
not enable them to command tbe ne-
cessary distance fiom ordinary line*
of-bat^e ships or frigates. We are
promised, however, vessels of this
class of a superior description, and
trust they will not be stinted in
number, and will combine the neces-
sary velocity and mobility. They
would then be in naval warfare what
the voltigeur, chasseur, and Zouave
forces have proved to an army in a
campaign, and would give to a mari-
time power or naval commander the
means of taking the initiative in a
war or battle.
Thus, in the material of a nav^
we have, prospectively, at least, the
power of a supremacy. We have the
power of producing ships in a less
time than any other country; we
possess inventions and plans which
might enable ua to take the lead in
1861^.] Jimrnal of a Oruvte an the Thni^npika Lake, Central Africa, 8S#
the armament, machinery, and the
armour of ships; ire command r^
foarces of finance which ahoald in*
rare ns the fulfilment of every project
and the advance in every detail and
principle of naval efBoienoy necessary
for the national position and the na-
tional defence ; we can challenge &e
workman-Dower of the world; we
are assured of the will of the nation
to employ ail its resoarces, to pnt
forth all its strength, to establish the
maritime supremacy which is to it
legitimate defence. And yet why is
it, with all this, that there are ques-
tions of defence f Why is it ? Gan
it he that there exists a sospl-
don that the intent of Qovemment
accords not with the wUl of the
nation?
A retnm to the old stand *po!nt of
oar navy — ^the assured poesession of
a force eoual to the united marine. of
the world — can alone allay this suspi-
cion, and establish a confidence undia-
tnrbed by periodic alarms and panics;
and we miffht then exhibit to the
world the grand spectacle of a people
repudiating war and aggression as
false to its policies and interests, re-
pelling attack by the might of its
defence, seeking peace and ensuring
it by the demonstration and con-
sciousness of its strength.
Bo much for material : in that re-
spect the prospect is hopeful. There
remains the more serious and difficult
question of the supply of man -power
—the certun and instant command
of crews for our ships. It is too
diflkult, too serious, to be discussed
at the end of an article; we muert
reserve it for another occasion. It
is the meet important problem we
have been called upon to mlve for
mony generations. It is one which
will involve and det^mine the future
of England.
JOUBKAL or ▲ OBITISB OX THB TANOAMTIKA LAJEB, OBNTBAL JLFBIOJL
XJordAnMy Taunton, Auguet 1809. Mr Dbab Blaobwood, — As a
great number of friends, both here and in India, have expressed a warm
desire to be made acquainted with my late Joumeyings in Africa, as well
as with the social state and general condition of the people whom I found
there, I send for publication in yoAr Magazine the aooonipanyiog Journal)
which I kept when travelling alone in Africa. Very numerous inquiries have
been addressed to me by statesmen, clergymen, merchants, and more
particularly geographers ; and I hope the appearance of the Journal in your
widely-oireuhited pages will convey to them the desired information ; although,,
bsiag more of a traveller than a man of the pen, I feel some diffidence as to
my own powers of narrative. The country which I have recently dis*
covered by the influential aid of the Royal Geographical Society, invites
our attention by the commercial tendencies of the inhabitants, and the
desire diown by them to improve their present fearfully degraded position.
For the better comprehension of my Jonnial, I begin with a short introdno-
tory sketch of the country through which I passed, conducting yon f^m
Zanzibar to Ujiji, on the borders of the Tanganyika Lake, lying in hit 5° S.,
and long. 29° E. During this early part of the journey the Journal was
kept by my commandant^ Captain Barton, I taking only the subordinate
office of snrveyor, and applying myself solely to mapping, entering topo*
9^hloal remariBB, and ahootiiig for the pot Yon must, therefore, look else*
wh«re for detiOls of this stage of the Jonmey. Anybody desirotif of beecmihif
MO
Jcumdl qf a Oruiis on
[Sept.
ftilly ftcqnidnted with the geographical features of theie regions woald do
ireU to obtain those Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society which
have been lately published, and will eventaally be contained in the Sode^^
rolume for this year. — Tours very truly, J. H. Spkke.]
Maitt may remember the excite-
ment prodoced by an extraordinary
map, and a more extraordinary lake
figuring upon it, of a ratiier slug-like
shape, which drew forth risible ob-
servations from all who entered the
Royal Geographical Society^s rooms
in the year 1856. In order to ascer-
tain the truthfulness of the said map,
the Royal Geografihical Society ap-
pointed Captfiin Burton to investi-
gate this monster piece of water, re*
presented as extending from the equa-
tor to 14° S. latitude, as having a
breadth of two to three hundred miles,
and as lying at a distance of seven hun-
dred miles inland west from Zanzibar.
As Captain Barton and myself
had been engaged on a former occa-
sion exploring the Somali country in
Eastern Africa together, he invited
me to join him in these investiga-
tions. Having, therefore, obtained
the necessary equipments in the scien-
tific and other departments in Eng-
land and India during 1856, we
left Zanzibar at the end of June
1857, in a vessel of war, lent by
Sultan Mt^id, to convey us across to
Eaol^, a village on the mainland, a
little south of the Kingani river.
Colonel Hamerton, late British Con-
sul at Zanzibar, accompanied us
there, to support us by his pre-
sence in case anybody should en-
deavour to oppose our starting; a
precaution which he thought neces-
sary, because the only European, a
young Frenchman, who had ever
tried to enter Africa by this route,
was barbarously munlered before he
had penetrated one hundred miles;
and up to the present time, although
bis assassin is well knovm, nobody
will divulge who the instigators of
the murder were. Our caravsn con-
sisted of an Arab called Sbajkh Said,
the Ras-cafila (head of caravHu) ; pome
Belooch soldiers lent us by Mnjid
Soltan of Zanzibar, some porters of
the Wanyamu^ tribe (people of the
Moon), negroes who inhabit a large
portion of central Africa, and a host
of donkeys for riding and carrying
our spare kit. Besides these we
hired, through the medium of an
Hindi merchant called Ramjt, a
number of the slaves of certain Di-
wans (headmen) living on the main-
Und o[>posite to Zanabar, to carry
muskets in the manner of guards, as
well as to do odd jobs. Leaving
Kaol^ we passed the Mrima, a low
hillv tract of coast-line, diversified
with flats and terraces, well peopled
and cultivated, and rich in tree-
forests and large tropical vegetation,
and following the course of the Kin-
gani river through the districts of the
Wazeramos and Wakhutus, we reach-
ed in about a hundred and ten miles
the first great elevation of Eastern Af-
rica, which we shall, for distinctiou's
sake, call the East Coast Range, This
hilly district is about ninety miles
broad, is composed chiefly of granite
and sandt^tone, formed into groups
and lines, intersected transversely
and otherwise by considerable rivers
— such, for instance, as the Kingani
and Luflji — which, rit«ing far in the
interior, flow east to the Indian
Ocean. This — a longitudinal range
extending from 9*^ N. latitude down
nearly to the Cape of Good Hope
— attained, where we crossed it, alti-
tudes varying from three hnndivd to
six thousand feet above the level of
the sea. It is occupied 1i)y the Wasa-
gara tribe — a people who live in
lightly constructed conical huts of
grass and wicker-work, tend cattle,
and cultivate extensively when not
disturbed by the slave-hnnters, who
live nearer to the coast, and fre-
quently make excursions here to
supply the Zanzibar market with
human cattle.
On descending its western side, we
found an elevated plateau of rather
poor land, bearing more wild finreat
than cultivation, and more wild
iaB9.]
the TanganfUa Lake, Oentral Africa.
841
beasts than men, and not very many
of either, ezoepdng near some oon-
genial, springs, the foon tains of Afri-
ea's glory. This plateau extends
westwards two hundred miles. Its
average altitude is from twenty-five
handred to four thoa<«and feet, and it
is. ooonpied by the Wagogo and the
Wanyamu^zi tribes, who live in hats
of a very civilised appearance, and
fiir more comfortable than those pos-
sessed by any other interior clans.
The conception fbr building on so
grand a scale was probably first oc-
casioned by the travelling habits of
the Wanyamu^zta having brought
them earlier than any other people
into contact with the coast, where
tqaare rooms divided by nmd walls,
eonstrncted much on the same prin*
ciple as the common East- India ones,
are the prevailing fashion. These
men are industrious for negroes,
mostly oconpving their time • in
trafficking with the coast, or tilling
groond and tending cattle ; many of
them again are rope- makers, smiths,
or carpenters and weavers. Here, in
the centre of this latter tribe*s coun-
try, at an Arab depot called E[azeh —
io soQth latitude 5^ and east longitude
88", the immediate district of which
IS called Unyanyemb^, and which we
might well designate the great em-
poriom of Eastern Interior Africa^
ibr to this place moat of the caravans
come before diverging off to the
respective places north, soath, and
west, when c:irrying on their iv(»ry
transactions with the more remote
negro tribes — our porters took their
discharge, and dispersed to their
homes. The Arabs we fonnd col-
lected here were extremely obliging,
especially one called Shaykh Snay,
who gave us a house, looked after
our wants, and assisted in procuring
fresh porters not only for that occa-
rton, but every other; in short, we
Ktablished him our agent, and fonnd
him a most creditable one. After
waiting a month or so reforming our
caravan, we proceeded westwards
in the height of ttie monsoon, and
passed through a hi^ly cultivated
country, which, by determining with
the thermometer the temperature
at which water boiled, I funnd
gradually declined as we proceeded
west, and in 145 miles made a
remarkable descent of 1800 feet.
In this region, differing greatly
from the first and greater part
of the preceding one (where great
droughts act detrimentally on the
ofO|w), rice, sugar-cane, and all
Indian productions, grow in great
profusion, and the people wi^ave
Uieir cotton ioto loin cloths. After
travelHng along this decline about
one hundred and fifty miles, we
began to ascend at the eastern
horn of a large orescent-shaped
iuas9 of mountains overhanging the
northern halfoftheTanganvikaLake,
which I am now about to describe to
yon.
This mountain mass I consider to
be THB TBUK Mountains of tot
Moon, regarding which so many
erroneous specnTations have been
ventured. I infer this because they
lie beyond Unyamu^zi (country of
the moon), and must have been first
mentioned to geographical inquirers
by the Wanyamu^zi (i^eople of the
moon,) who have from time out of
mind visited the coast> and must have
been the firi^t who gave information
of them. I am the more satisfied of
the correctness of this view from re-
membering the common Greek prac-
tice of changing significant general
names into equivalents in their own
tcmgue, and the consequent proba-
bility of their calling these mountains
after the men who live near them.
Indeed, modern geographers, I am
inclined to think, would have christ-
ened them in similar manner, since
neither they nor any other places in
Negroland bear general names to dis-
tinguish them by. Stmie must be
originated; and nothing more ap-
propriate could in this case have been
found for th s group than that which
Ptolemy has given, as the mountains
form a crescent overhanging the
north end of the lake, large and deep
in the body to the north, and taper-
ing to horns as they stretcl^ south-
wards down the east and west sides
of the lake. Our line of march,
about six hundred rectilinear geo-
graphical miles, had been neariy due
west from Zanzibar. Here you may
picture to yourself my bitter disap-
pointment when, after toiling through
so many miles of savage life, all the
time emaciated by divers tickneeaea
342
Joufnal <^ a Oruiw dn
[Bept
and weakened by great privations of
food and rest, I found, on approach-
ing the zenith of ray ambition, the
Great Litlce in question nothing bat
mist and glare before my eyes. From
the snminit of the eastern horn the
lovely Tanganyika Lake could bia
seen in all its glory by everybody but
myself. The fact was that fevers and
the influ^oe of a vertical sun bad re-
duced my system so, that inflamma-
tion, caught by sleeping on the
ground during this rainy season,
attacked my eyetw, brought on an
almoet. total blindness, and rendered
every object before me enclouded as
by a misty veil.* Proceeding on-
wards down the western slopes of the
hill, we soon arrived at the margin
of the lake, and hired a canoe at a
village called Ukaranga to take us to
Ujtji, tl)e chief place on the lake
which Arabs frequent^ with which
name we had long been familiar, and
by which they called this lalce. This
mode of nomenclature is qnite in ac-
cordance with the usual custom of
semi-civilised people, as we see in
Arabia, where tlie Arabs call, the Red
Sea by the names of the different
ports which they frequent. Thus for
instance, at Jeddah, it is called by
them the Sea of Jeddah, whilst at
Suez it is the Sea of Suez, &c. &c.
As in its present state your atlas
presents a blank instead of one of the
most beautiful inland seas in tlie
world, you would be glad, perhaps,
to know its position and dimensions,
which will enable yon to lay it down
on the' map yourself. The Tangany-
ika Lake, lying between S* and 9*
south latitude, and in 29' east kmgi-
tude, has a length of three hondred
miles, and is from thirty to forty
broad in its centre, bot tapen to-
wards each end. The snrfaoe-leve],
as I ascertained by the temperature
of boiling water, is only eighteen
hundred feet, and it appears quite
sunk into the lap of these roountoiofl.
It lies in a trough-like or synclmal
depression, draining the waters of dl
the surrounding districts into its own
bosom. Its waters are very sweet,
and abound with delicious fish in
great variety. Its shores are thiekly
inhabited by numerous tribes of tlM
trae Negro breed, amongst which the
most oona^jicuous are l£e Wsbembo
cannibals, into whose territory no
Arabs durst ever venture. Bombay,
my interpreter, describes them as
being very dreadful creatnrea, who
are ^^ always looking out for some of
our sort" Tlie port we finally
arrived at is called Eawel^, a smaH
village in the Ujiji district. Here we
found ourselves in the hands of a
very ill-disposed chie^ called Kan-
nina, tyrannical, and, as snch savages
invariably are, utterly unreasonable.
We paid a heavy tribute for the
advantages of this savage monster's
protection^ and were too short
of beads and cloth to search
out for and pay another chief of
more moderate inclinations. This
* On my return to England, Dr. Bowraau, after inspeoting my eye% aent ms
the following ezplanation of the causes of this blindneM :—
" 6 Cltfiokd STBtnr, May IS.
** DcAR SiB, — ^I have much pleasure in replviug to vour inquiry is to the natars
of the attack from which you suffered in Africa, 'fhe dimueas of sight resulted
from an inflammation of a low type affecting the whole of the interior tanics of
the eyes, particularly the iris, the choroid eoat^ and the retina. I find in one of
the pupils positive proof ss to the existence at a former period of the iuflamma-
tion of the iriet, known as iritis, there being a deposit of some of the black pig-
ment of the iris on the front of the lens. The gauzy films which flit before your
sight, depend on delicate microscopic web.<i in the vitreous humour floating before
the retina, and casting their fine ebadows upon it They are fortanutely not
thick or dark enough to impede vision in any serious degree. They may in time
disappear, but I do not know that the medical art can, supply any remedy for
them. They are one of the results of the low inflammation of which I spoke.
" This whole attack, such as you describe it, resembles what I have occasion-
illy witnessed in persons whose blood has been impoverished. I saw some cases
of It in officers who hod gone through the Crimean winter of 18d4-5. — ^Yoare very
sincerely, " W. BowaiJi.
•«CaptainSnxK, Ac."
1850.]
ths Tamganifikm LaH^ Cmtral J/Hea.
148
was a fletioQs misibTtwie, for, hav-
ing ODOd entered his dominions^ and
established our headquarters there,
we oonld not very well leave theni, the
more espeoiaUy as we ooald not have
removed oar camp to any disiano9—
Ujiji being the only distriot where
caooes are obtainable. This was the
more dislifessing as comfort, pleaanre,
4Uid everything is at the mercy of
these headsmen's wiHs, and we werb
destiaed for a long scgoDrn here. To
war with these ohiefs is like ^^cnt-
tiog off the nose to spite the fsoe."
Nobody, let his desire be what it may,
dares assist yoa without the chief's
full .approbation, and Kannina's aos-
tere government we had occasion to
(eel from first to last Onr first ob-
ject on arrival was to get boats for
thesmnrevof theloke; bnt here arose
a dimcai^. Hostilities were rife
with nearly all the border tribes^ and
the little cockle-shell canoes, made
from the hollowed tranks of trees,
are not only liable to be driven ashore
by. the slightest storm, bnt are so
small that there is bat little stowoge-
rcMm in Uiem for carrying supplieSi
The sailoris aware of this defect, fear
to ventara anywhere except on cer-
tain friendly beats, and tlierefore their
boats were quite unfitted for our work.
This dilemma made us try to hire
a dhow or sailing-vessel, belonging to
Bbaykh Hamed bin Solayyim, living
at Easeng^ Island, on the opposite
or western shor^, as it was the only
boat afloat on these waters fitted for
carrying provisions, and moving
about independent of the border
dans. On arriving here, we were
Bo disabled by nckness -*- Captain
Barton ntterly, and I suffering from
ophthalmia, and a weakness in the
lower extremitiea resembliog par*
alysis-^tbat we at first proposed
sending our Ras-oafila, 8haykfa Said,
across the lake to bargain for the
dhow, and applied to Kanniiia fo^
the means of transport. At first he
Beemed inclined to treat, though at
an exorbitant rate; but when we
came direct to terms, he backed en-
tirely out We fortunately obtained
a boat and crew irom another chie^
At the extortionate charge of four
kitindia and four dhotis Amencan^
besides the usual sailort' foe. The
^U is a piece of American sheet-
ing measuring eight cabits. The
oubit is still the negro's yard, the
same as was adopted at the time of
the Flood ; they have no other mea-
sure than that with which nature
has provided them — via. the first
joint of the arm. These kitindis
are a sort of brass wire bracelet
worn on the lower arm by the
negro femalea, coiled np from the
wrist to the elboW| Hke a wa|[
taper circling up a stick or stem.
S<mietimes this wire is re-formed and
coiled flat out round the ne<^ to a
breadth of about dgfat inches, and
gives the wearer's head mdch the
appearance of John the Baptist's
standing in the middle of a charger.
These necklaces are never taken cH
so at night, or restinsr^time, the
wearer, on lying down,, places a block
of wood or stone beneiath his head,
to prevent the wire from galling.
This concession of the chief was
given under the proviso that Kan-
nina would not object, which, strange
to say, he {fromised not to do, and
hopes were entertained of an early
departure. However this, Hke everj
other earthly Expectation, especially
in these black regions, was des-
tined to be disappointed. In the
first place, an African must do every-
thing by easy stages, nor can he en-
tertain two ideas in his head at the
same moment First a crew had to be
collected, and when collected to be
paid, and when paid, the boat was
foond to be unseaworthy, and must
be plugged ; and so much time ebipsed,
and plans were changed. But after
all, things, it happened, weife wisely
ordained; for the time thns wasted
served to recruit my health, as I em-
ployed it in bathing and strolling
gently about during the cool of the
mornings and evenings, and so gained
considerable benefit There is a curi*
ons idea here with regard to the bath*
ing-plaee, in foncying the dreaded cro-
codile will obey t^ mandates of a
charm. They plant the bough of a
particular tree in the water abont fifty
yards from the shore, which marki
the line of safe bathing, for within it
they say the animal dares not vraturcb
At noon, protected by an umbrella, and
fortified with stained-glass spectacles^
I usually visited the market-plaoei
with beads in hand, to pumhase daily
844
Jawmdl of « Oruiu m
[Sept.
•applies. The market is held between
the honn of 10 jl.m. and 4 p.m., near
the port, and consists of a few tem-
porary huts, compoi^d of grass and
branohes hastily tied together. Most
of these are thrown op day by day.
Tlie commodities brought for sale are
fish, fieth, tobaeoo, palm-oil, and
spirits, different kinds of potatoes,
artidKikes, several sorts of beans,
plantains, melons, cotton, sugar-cane,
a variety of pulse and regetables,
and ivories, and sometimes slaves.
Between tb€«e perambulations, I
spent the day reclining with my eyes
dbut. At length, after eighteen days*
negotiations, improved by these con-
atitutiunal diversions and rest, and
longing for a change, especially one
that kd across the sea, and afforded
the means of surveying it, I pro-
posed to go my^elf, and treat di-
rectly with Shaykh Hamed. This
intention soon reached the ears of
EJsnnina, who, fearing that he might
thus lose much cloth, threw obstacles
in the way, and most* unjustly de-
manded as large a pass{)ort fee for
my crossing, as had been given to the
other chief; which demand we were
obliged to comply with, or the men
would not take op an oar.
Tbs JouairAL.
8(i ifaf\9A 1858.— All being settled,
I set out in a long narrow canoe,
hollowe<) out of the trunk of a single
tree. These vessels are mostly built
from large timbers, growing in the
district of Ugnhha, on the western
side of the lake. The savages fell
them, lop off the branches and ends
to the length required, and then,
i^ter covering the upper surface with
wet mud, as the tree lies upon the
ground, they set fire to and smoulder
» out its interior, until nothing but a
case remains, which tliey finish up
by paring out with roughly con-
structed hatchets. The seats of these
canoes are bars of wood tied trans-
versely to the length. The kit taken
consists of one load (60 lb.) of cloth
(American sheeting), another of large
blue beads, a magazine of powder,
and seven kitindis. The party is
composed of Bombay, my interpre-
ter, Gaetano, a Geoanese cook-boy,
two Belooeh soldiers, one Nakhnda or
iSa-oi^tain, who sometimes irore- a
goat-skin, and twenty stark- naked
savage sailors: twenty-fliz in all. Of
these only ten started, the remainder
leaving word that they would follow
down the coast, and meet us at a
Ichamhi (encampment), three miles dis-
tant, by 13 o'clock. The ten, bow-
ever, sufficient ibr the occasion, mcffB
merrily off at 9 am., and in an hoar
we reached the rendezvous, under a
large spreading tree on die right
bank of the mouth of the river RucM.
The party is decidedly motley. The
man of quaintest aspect in it is ^£
Mabarak Bombay. He is of the
Wahiyow tribe, who make the best
slaves in Eastern Africa. His breed
is that of the true woolly-beaded
negro, though he does not repre-
sent a good specimen of them
physically, being somewhat smaller
in his general proportions than
those one generally sees as fire-
stokers in our steamers that traverse
the Indian Ocean. His head, though
woodeny, like a barber's block, is lit
up by a humorous little pair of pig-
like eyes, set in a generous benign-
looking countenance, which, strange
to say, does not belie him, for his
good conduct and honesty of pur-
pose are without parallel. His
muzzle projects dog-monkey fashion,
and is adorned with a regular set
of sharp - pointed alligator teeth,
which he presents to full view as
constantly as his very ticklish risible
faculties become excited. The tobac-
conist's jolly nigger stnck in the
comer house of ... . street, as it
stands in mute but full grin, tempt-
ing the patronage of accidental pass-
engers, is his perfect counteipart
Tins wonderful man says he knows
nothing of his genealogy, nor any
of the dates of the leading epochs
of his adventurous life, — ^not even
his birth, time of captivitv, or re-
storation. But his general history
he narrated to me as follows, whidi
I give as he told it me, for this
sketch may be of interest^ presenting^
as it does, a good characteristic ac-
count of the manner in which slave-
hunts are planned and carrieil into
execution. It must be truthful, ibr
I have witnessed tragedies of a simi-
lar nature. The great slave- hunt-
ers of Eastern Africa are the Sowa-
bili or oo^st people ; formerly slaves
1U9.]
the Tanffark^ilM JMe^* Omtrul 4firiea.
345
themselves, they are more enlight*
ened, and faller of tricks than the
interior people, whom thej now in
their tarn catch. Having been once
eangbt themselves, they know how
to proceed, and are conseqnently very
caotioue in tlieir movementa, taking
sometimes years before they finally
try to accomplish their object They
first ensnare the ignorant unsnspi-
eions inlanders by allnring and en-
tangling them in the treacherona
meahes of debt, and then, by cap-
turing and mercilessly selling their
hainan game, liqmdate the debt,
insinuatingly advanced as an irre-
sistible decoy to allure their con-
fiding Tictim). Bombay says, *^ I am
an Uhiyow ; my father lived Mn a
village in the oonntry of Uhiyow (a
large district sitaated between the
East Coast and the Nyosaa Lake, in
latitude ll** 8.) Of my mother I
have bat the faintest recollection;
she died whilst I was in my infancy.
Onr village was living in happy con-
tentmenti until the fated year when
I was about the age of twelve. At
that period a large body of Sowa-
hilis, merohanta and their shivee, all
equipped with sword and gun, came
suddenly, and, snrronnding our vil-
lage, demanded of the inhabitants
instant liquidation of their debts
(cloth and beads) advanced in for-
mer times of pinching dearth, or
else to stand the coiiseqneiioes of
refusal. As all the residents had
St dififerent times contKiCted debts
to difi^erent members of the body
present, there was no appeal against
the .equity of this sudden demand^
but no one had the means of pay-
ment. They knew fighting against
firearms would be hopeless ; so after
a few stratagems, looking for a good
opportunity to bolt, the whole vil«
lage took to precipitate flight. Most
of the villagers were captured like
myself; but of my father, or any
etiier relatives, I never more gained
any intelligence. He was either
shot in endeavouring to defend him-
self, or still more probably gave leg-
hail, and so escaped. As soon as
this foray was over, all the captives
were grouped together, and tethered
'will) chains or ropes, and marched
off to Kilwa, on the east coast (in lati-
tude 9*" S.) Arrived there, the whole
party embarked in dhows, which, set-
ting sail, soon arrived at Zanzibar.
We were then driven to the slave-
market, wliere I was bought by an
Arab merohant,and taken off to India.
I served with this master for several
J^ears, till by his death I obtained my
iberation. My next destination was
Zanzibar, where I tocik service in
the late Imaum^s army, and passed
my days in half-starved inactivity,
until the lucky day when, at Chongw^
yon aaw and gave me service."
Shortly after we had encamped
under the rendezvous tree, and be*
gun our cooking, some villagers
brought ivories of the elephant and
hippopotamus for sale, but had
to suffer the disappointment of
meeting a stranger to merchandise,
and straightway departed, fully oon-
vinoed that all Mzungos (or wise, or
white men) were mere fools for not
making money, when they had so
good an op[)ortunity. Noon and
evening paased without a sign of the
black captain, or the remaining men.
We were in a wretched place for a
halt, a sloping ploughed field ; and,
deceived by the captain*8 not keep-
ing his ]>romi8e, were unprepared for
spending the night there. I pitched
my tent, but the poor men had no-
thing to protect them; with the
darkness a deluge of rain deHcended,
and owing to the awkwardness of
our position, the surcharged earth
poured oft a regular stream of water
over our beds, baggage, and every-
thing alike. To keep the tent erect
-—a small gable-shaped aflQcdr, six feet
high, and seven by six square, made
of American sheeting, and so light
that with poles and everything com-
plete it barely weighs one man^a
load — I called up the men, and
for hours held it so by strength
of arm. Even the hippopotami, to
Judge by the frequency of their snorts
and grunts, as they indulged in their
devastating excursions amongst the
crops, seemed angry at this unusual
severity of the weather. Never from
the 15th of November^ when the rainy
season commenced, had we ezperi4
enced such a violent and heavy down*
pour.
4th» — ^Halt The morning is no
improvement on the night. The
eaptaifi now arrives with most of the
S46
JaumtU <if a Cfidm W
P0|rti
fwnaiiiiiig orew, feara the troobM
waterfl) and will not pat out to sea.
In oomeqaeDod of this disappcrint-
nent, a roetBenger is sent back to
Kaw^l^t to fetch some fredh pro-
▼iBions and firewood, as what little
of thie latter af tiole can be gather-
ed in its saturated state Is useless,
fbr it will not burn. During the
afternoon the remainder of the crew
keep dropping in, and at nightftdl
seventeen bands are mustered.
ht\, — At 3 JL.K. the sea subaidea,
and the boot is loaded. To pack so
manj men together, with material,
in so small a space as the canoe
affords, seems a difficulty almost
insurmountable. Still it is effected.
I litter down amidships, with my
bedding spread on reeds, in so ebort
a compass that m^ le^ keep slip-
ping off and dangling m the bilge*
water. The cook and bailwnan sit
on the first bar, facing me; and be-
hind them, to the stem, one half the
sailors sit in couples; whilst on the
first bar behind me are Bombay and
•ne Beloooh, and beyond them to the
bow, also in couples, the remain*
ing orew. The captain takes post in
the bows, and all hands on both sides
paddle in stroke together. Fuel,
cooking apparatus, food, bag and
baggage, are thrown promiscuonsly,
under the seats. But the sailors^
blankets in the shape of grass mat-
ting, are placed on the bars to render
the sitting soft. Once all properly
arranged, the seventeen paddlee
dash off with vigour, and steering
southwards, we soon cross the mouth
of the Ruch^. Next Ukaranga, the
kst village on this line down the'
eastern shore, lying snugly in a bay,
with a low range of densely wooded
bills about three miles in its rear, is
passed by dawn of day, and about
sunrise t&e bay itself is lost to sight.
The tired crew now hug a bluff shore,
erowoed with dense jungle, until a
nook familiar to the men is entered
under plea of breakfasting. Here ali
bands land, fires are kindled, and the
•ooking'pots arranged. Some prepare
their rods and nets fbr fishing, some
fo in search of fungi (a favourite
food), and others collect fuel. My
cook-boy, ever doing wrong, dips his
oooking*pot in the sea for water— *a
dangerous experiment if the tradl^
tlons of Tanganyika hold good, that
the ravenous hosts of crocodiles sel-
dom spare any one bold enough to eX'
f^\» their appetites with such drs^s
as usuAlly drop from tboiie irten-
sils ; moreover, they will follow and
even board the beats, after a single
taste. The sailors here have as^great
an aversion to being followed by
the crocodile as our seamen by a
shark, and they now display thdr
feelings by looks aad mutteringa, and
strictly prohibiting the nse of the
oodking-pot on that service again.
Breakfast ready, all hands esgerly
fall to, and feast away in huippy
ignorance of any danger, when snd*
denly, confusion enters the camp,
and with the alarming cry that foes
are coming, some with one things
some with another, all hurry-ekurcy
for tlie boat The greater psk of the
kit is left upon the ground. A breath-
less sUence reigns for several minutea.
Then one Jumps off and seeures
bis pot; another succeeds him, and
then more, till courage is gaioed to
make a search, and aso^tain the
cause of the alarm. Sneaking, crawl-
ing in the bush, some peering this
way, others listening that, thev
stealthily move along, until at length
a single man, with arrow poised, in
self-d^ence I suppose, is pounced
upon. His story of why Im came
there, who and how many are his
comrades, what he wanta in such
a desert pUice, and why he carries
arms, though spoken with a cunning
plausibility, has no effect upon the
knowing sailors. They prodalm him
and his party, some eight or ten
men, who are clamorously squab-
bling in the jungle at no great
distance, to be a rough and lawless
set of marauders, fearing to come out
and show themselves on being chal«
lenged, and further insist that none
ever ventured into such wilds who
had not got in view some deeper*
ate enterprise. In short, it was
proverbially men of tbeir sort who
were the general plunderers of hon-
est navigators. Tbey therefore b«»m
his weapons, cut and break his bow
and arrew^ and let him go ; though
some of the orew advocate his Itib
being taken^ and others, that the
whole party should be chased down
and slaughtered. The saUora then
xm.}
, ths Tang0npil» Zol^ CUtn^rtd Africa,
m
T^tam to t)i« QEBoey Moh ymn*-
ing hM part in this adv^tarouQ
•zpk4^ and banding ooogratnlo-
^oD8 IB the highest spirits. They
are one and all as proad of this sno*
068% and each as boastfal of his prow«
ess, as thongh a mightj battle had
been foogbt and won. On starting
again we pass alongside another bla^
backed by small well*wooded bills, au
ezteDsion of the aforesaid east horn
of the Mood, and cross a little bayi
when the lazy crew, tired by two
hoars' work, bear in with the land,
and disembark, as they say^ to make
some ropes, or find some creepers
long and strong enough for mooring
this migMp canoe. It is now eleven
o'clock ; there is more rest than work^
a purely negro way of getting through
the day; three hoars went in idle-
ness before, Mid now five more are
wasted. Again we start, and after
crossing a similar small bay, con-
tinoe along a low shelving shore,
densely wooded to the water's edge,
nntil the Malagaran river's month
is gained. This river is the largest
en the eastern shore of the lake, and
was previously crossed by the cara^
van on its way from Kaaeh, in small
bark canoes, mnch rougher, but con*
strncted something similar, to those
of the Americana. £adi of these
oanoes contains one man and his load,
besides the owneri who lives near
the ferry, and poles the vessel across.
8tili to the eastward we have the
same tree-clad hilly view, beauti-
fnl in itself, bat tiresome in its oon^
fltant sameness. After a stretoh,
and half an hour's pipes and breath*
ing, we start afresh, and cross
the bay into whioh the river de-
bouches. Here tall aquatic reeds
diversify the surface, and are well
tenanted by the crocodile and hip-
popotami, the latter of which keep
staring, grunting, and snorting, aa
tboqgh much vexed at owr intrusion
on their former peace and privacy.
We now hog the shore, and con-
tinue on in the dark of night till
Mgiti Khambi,'* a beauUful little
harbour bending bock away amonast
the hills, aitd out of sight of the lakcti
is reached at 11 vm. CJould but a
Utile civilised art^ as whiterwashed
houses, well-traiped gardena^ and the
like, vary these ever-.gFeen hille and
tvees^ and diversify the unceasing
monotony of hill aud d^e^ and dale
and hilU-of green trees, green grasfr-^
greeU' grass, green trees^ so wearisome
in their laxnriance, what a paradise
of beauty wonld this place present I
The deep bine watess of the lake
in contrast with the vegetation and
lai^e brown rocks form everywhere
an object of intense attraction; but
the appetite soon wearies of such pro-
fusion, without the contrast of more
sober tiDta^ or the variety incidental
to a populous and inhabited country.
There are said to be some few seat*
tered villages concealed in these
dense jangles extending away in the
background, but how the shores
abould bo so desolate strikes one
with much surprise. The naturally
excessive growth of all vegetable
life is sufficient proof of , the soirs
capabilities* Unless in fonneir timea
this beautiful country has been ha-.
rat»sed by neighbouring tribes, and
despoiled of its men and oattle to
satisfy the spoilers and sell to dis-
tant markets^ its present state ap-
pears quite incomprehensible^ In
Warding this conjecture, it might
be thought that I am taking an ex-
treme view of the case; but when
we see everywhere in Africa what
one slave-hunt or cattle-lifting party
can effect, it is not unreasonable to
imagine that this was most probably
the cause of such utter desolation
here. These war-parties lay waste
the tracks they visit for endless time*
Indeed, until the efifects of skveiy
and the so-colled /rM Idbawr are sup-
pressed in Africa, we may expect to
and such places in a similariiy meJaur*
oholy state.
Immediately on arriving here I
pitch my tent, and cook a meal;
whilst the sailors, as is usual on
arrival at their eocainping-groanda,
divide into parties^—eome to catch
fish, others to look for fungi, whilst
many cook the food, and the resft
construct little huts by plantiQC
bongbs in a circle in the gronnd and
fastening the tofis togetlier, leaving
the hut in the shape of a hnycods
to which they further assimilate it
* iC&aiifit-^ED^aiBpipept.
848
Jowrwd of a Oruiu <m
Pept.
by throwing gmas above; and in
rainy weather it is farther ciwered
by their mats, to seoQre them
against getting wet. As only one
or two men occapy a hut, many of
them, for so large a party, have to
be oonstracted. It is amnsing to see
bow some men, proud of their supe-
rior powers of inventiyeness, and pos-
8ef«{ng the knack of making pleasant
what would otherwise l)e nnoomfort-
ahle, piume themselves before their
brethren, and turn them to derision :
and it appears the more ridiculous, aa
they all are as stark naked as an
unclothed animal, and have really
nothing to boast of after all.
6tA.->-Tlie following morning sees
us under way, and clear of the
harbour by snnnse; but the gath-
ering of clouds in the south soon
cautions the weather-wise sailors to
desist from their advance. Timely
is the warning; for, as we rest
on our oars, the glimmer of ligiit^
sing iliuiuinates the distant hills;
whilst low heavy rolling clouds of
EiU'hy darknesi^ preceded by a
eavy gale and a foaming sea, out-
spread over the whole southern wa-
ters^ rapidly advance. It is an ocean-
temr)est in a miniature, which sends
us right about to our former berth.
Some of our men now employ
themselves in fishing for small fry
with a slender rod, a piece of string,
and an iron hook, with a bait of
meat or fish attached ; whilst others
use small hand-nets, which they
place behind some reeds or other
cover, to secare the retreating firth as
he makes off on being poked out of
his rt-fuge on the opposite side by a
wand held fbr tliat purpose in the
sportsman^s other hand. But the
majority are occupied in gathering
sticks and cooking breakfast till
1 P.M., when the sea abates^ aud the
journey is resumed. During this
portion of the journey, a slight
change of scenery takes place; the
chain of hills running parallel with
the shore of the lake is broken, and
in its stead we see some small de-
tached and other short irregular
lines of hills, separated by extended
plains of forest, thickly clad in ver-
dure, like all the rest of the country.
After two hours' paddling, we stand
opposite the Luguvu river, and rest
awhile to sm<^e; then start again,
and in an honr cross the mouth of
the little river Hebwe. Unftirta-
nately these streams add notliing
to the beauty of the scenery; aiid
were it not for the gaps in the hills
suggesting the probable coarse of
river^ tliey might be passed withoat
notice, for the mouths are always
concealed by bulrushes, or other tall
aquatic reeds; and inland they are
just as closely hnlden by forest vegs-
tation. In hslf an honr more w«
enter a small nook called Luguvu
Khambi, very deep, and full of cro-
codiles and hipfiopotami. On land-
ing, we fire the usual alarm -guns—
a pNoint to which our captdn is ever
strictly attentive--~cook our din-
ners, and turn in for the night
Here I picked up four varieties of
shells — two unis and two ^i valves —
all very interesting fnmi being quite
nnknown in the conchological world
There were numbers of them lying on
the pebbly beach.
7^.— We started at dawn as
usual; but again at sunrisie, the
wind increasing, we put in fur the
shore, for these little cranky boats
can stand no sea whatever. Here a
herd of wild bufialoes, homed like
the Oape ones, were seen by the men,
and caused some diversion; for,
thongh t«x> blind mjself to see the
brutes at the distance that the others
did, I loaded and gave them chase;
whilst tracking along, I saw frvsh
prints of elephants, which, jadging
from their trail, had evident y just
been down to drink at the lake,
and sprang some antelofies, but oould
not get a shot. The sea going
down by noon, we proceeded, and
hugKod a blufi^ shore, till we arrived
at Ins^igazi^ a desert ()laoe, a littls
short of Kaliogo, the usual crossing-
point. Although the day was now
far advance<l, the weather was so
promising, whilst our prog was run-
ning short, that impatience bug-
gested a venture for the opfKisitA
shore to Kiviro, an island near it,
bearing by compass 8. 66*^ W.,
and which, with the Uguhha Moun-
tains in the background, is from
this distinctly visible. This line
is selected for oanoes to cross at,
from containing the least expanse
of wat^r between the two shores^
im.}
the Tanganyiim Lak&^ Ckntral Jfriea.
349
between l|}yi and the eontli end.
The Eabogo Island, which stands
80 eoospicoonsly in tlie map that
bung on the Rojal Geographioal
Society's waU» in 1656, and, as
slready inentiimed, the acearacy of
which we were sent ont to inveati-
frate, is evidently intended for this
Eubogo or starting-point, near which
we now are, and is so fiir rightly
placed npon their map as represent*
iog the half-way station from Ujiji
to Ea«ene6» two places on opposite
aides of Uie lake, whither the Arab
merchants go in search of ivory. Fur
Ksbttgo, as will be readily seen on a
corr<fcted chart, lies jnst midway on
the line always taken by boats tra-
velling between those two porta—- the
rest of the lake being too broad for
even tliese adventurous spirits. In
fihort, tliev coasit sonth fn»m Uj^ji
to Kahogb^ which ooostitutes the
first half of the journey, and then
cross over. On the passage I
oanrfutly inquired the names of
several points and places^ to take
their bearings, and to Irarn the geo-
graphy of the lake, but all to no
purpose. The superstitious cufitain,
and even more' su|ierstitii>us crew,
rvfuiied to answer any questions, and
earnestly forbade my talking. The
idea was founded npon the fear of viti-
ating their uganga or *'*' churc))/' by
answering a stranger any questions
whil>t at sea; but they dreal more
€S{)ecitlly to talk about tlie places of
departure or arrival, lest ill luck
sbiHild overtake them, an<l def)rive
tliem of the chance of ever reaching
fthore. They blamed me for thmwing
the remnants of my cold dinner over-
boanl, and pointed to the hottiim of
tlie boat HS the proper recet»tacla fi»r
refuse. Night set in with great
i«erenity, and at 2 ▲.x. the following
murnhig (8th Mnrch), when arriving
amongst some islands, close on the
westtern shore of the lake — the
principal of which are Kivira,
K&bisia, and Koseng^, the only ones
iuhahited — ^a waioh-buat beloitgiug
to Sultan Easanga, the. rtf inning
clkief of this group, challenged cs,
and asked our mission. Great fra-
teruising, story-telling, and a little
pi|)e enaned, for every one loves
tobacco; then both departed in
peace and friendship; they to their
former abode, a cove in^ a email un-
inhabited island which lies due
sonth of Elvira, whilst we prooeeded
to a long narrow barboar in El-
vira itself, the largest of all theee
islands. Fourteen hoars were oc-
cupied in crossing the lake, of which
two -were spent in ^swliiig and
smoking. At 0 ▲.!&., the islandeni,
reeel»ving intelligence of onr tirrival,
came down the hill of which this,
island is formed, in great nmnbers,
anil held a market ; but as we were
unprovided wiih what they wanted,
little business could be done. The
chief desideratum was flesh of fish
or beast, next salt, then tobacco,
in fact anytliing but what I had
brouffht as market money, doth
and*olaas beads. This day (lassed
in rest and idleness, reorniting from
our late exertions^ At night a vio-
lent storm of rain and wind beat
on my tent with such fnry that its
nether parts were tinrn away from the
pegs^ and the tent itself wa^ only
kept npriglit by sheer force. On the
wind^s iibating, a candle was lighted to
rearrange the kit, and in a momi-nt,
as though by magic, the whole in-
terior became covered with a host of
small black beetles, evidently at«
traoted by the glimmer of the o ludle.
They were so annoyingly determined
in their choice of pUce for |Hir«^grin-
ating, that it seemed hopele!>s my
trying to brush them off Uie clothes
or bedding, for a^ one was knocked
aside another came on, and then an-
other, till at Isftt, worn out, 1 ex-
tinguislied the candle, and with dif-
ficulty— trying to overc^ome the
tickling annoyance oooabionul by
tliese intruders crawling up iny
sleeves and into my hair, or <}uwa
my back and legE— fell off to »>leep.
Repose that night was not destined to
be my Kit One of these horrid little
insects awoke me in his struggU-s to
penetrate my ear, but judt tou la e:
for in my endeavour to extract him,
I aided bis immersion. He went his
o(»urse, struggling up the narrow
cliaunel, uniil he got arrested by
want of passsge-room. This impedi-
ment evidently enraged him, for he
b^an with exceeding vigour, like a
rabbit at a ht^ to dig violently
away at my tympannm. The queer
sensation this amusing mmuure
800
JhumeU of a Crmim m
BSapf.
excited in me is [wvt deaoHptioo* I
f^t inidtiied to act m oar donkeyB
onoe did, \rheii b^set by a ewarm of
beee, wbo bussed about tbeir ears
and stQDg tbeir heads and eyes nntil
tibey were so irritated and coofiised
that they galloped abomt in the most
distraeted order, trying to knoek
them off by treading on their heads,
or by roshiDg under bashes, into
booses, or through any jangle they
oonld find. Indeed, I do not know
whioh was worst off. The bees
killed some of them, and this beetle
nearly did for me. What to do I
knew not. Neither tobacco, oil, nor
salt could be foand ; I therefore tried
melted batter ; that fiiilh^g, I applied
the point of a penknife to his tUck,
which did more harm than g6od;
for though a few thmsts kept him
qaiet, the pdnt also wounded my
ear so badly, that inflammation set
in, ssTere snpparation took place,
and all the racial glands extending
firom that poiut down to the point of
the shoulder became contorted and
drawn aside^ and a string of bnbos
decorated the whole length of that
region. It was the most painfol
thing I ever remember to have en«
dared; but, more annoying still, I
could not open my month for several
days, and had to feed on broth alone.
For many months the tumour made
me f^inost deaf, and ate a hole be-
tween that orifice and the nose, so
that when I blew it, my ear whistled
BO audibly that those who heard it
laughed. Biz or seven months after
t^is accident happened, bits of the
beetle, a leg, a wing, or ports of its
body, oame away in the wax.
It was not altogether an unmixed
evil, for the excitement occasioned by
the beetle^s operations acted towards
my blindness as a counter-irritant
by drawing the inflammation away
from my eyes. Indeed, it operated
fer better than any other artificial
appliance. To cure the blindness I
once tried rubbing in some blistering
liquor behind my ear, but this unfor-
tunately had been injured by the
journey, and had lost its stimulating
properties* Finding it of no avail, 1
then caased my servant to rub the
part with his finger until it was exco-
riated, which| thoagfa it proved in*
suffioieBtly strong to core n«^ was^
aeoording to Dr. Bowman^ whooa I
have since consulted, as good a sub*
stitnte for a blister ascouki have been
applied.
9fA.— 'The weather still renwn-
ing too rough for sailing, I strolled
over the island, and from its sum-
mit on the eastern side I found
a good view of the lake, and took
bearings of Ujiji, In^igaxi, and a dis-
tant pojnt souihwards on the eaatetn
shore of tiie lake, called Ukongwe.
Kivira Island is a massive hill, about
five miles* long by two or three
broad, and is irregulariy shaped. In
places then are high flats, foimed in
terraces, but generally the steepa are
abrupt and thickly woodecL The
mainland immediately west is a pro-
montory, at the southern extmnity
of the Uguhha Mountains, on the
western coast of the Tangan^ka;
and the island is detached mm it by
so narrow a strip of water that, iw-
less you obtained a profile view, it
ipight easily be roistakett for a bead-
land. The population is oonmderable,
and they live in mushroom huts, situ-
ated on the high fiats and easier slopes^
whero they cultivate the manioo,
sweet potato, maiae, miUet, various
kinds of pulse, and all the common
vegetables in general use about the
country. Poultry ab6unds in the vil-
lages. The dress of the people is mm-
pie, consisting of small black mon-
key rtcins, cat-skins, and the fars of
any vermin they can get These aro
tacked under a waist-strap, and, ac-
cording to the numb^ they possesa,
go completely or only half-way round
the body, the animals' heads hanging
iA front, and the tails always depend-
ing gracefully below. These monkeys
are easily captured when the maize is
ripe, by a number of people stealthily
staking small squave nets in cooti-
gnons line all round the fields which
these animals may he occupied in rob-
bing, and then with screams and yells,
flinging sticks and stones, the boat-
ers rush upon the affrighted thieves,
tUl in their huny and ctrnfusion
to escape, -tiiey become imtrievably
entangled in the meshes. But few oif
these islaaders carry spear or bow,
though I imagine all possess them.
They were most unpleasantly inq«-
lAtive, and by their stares, jabber» ml
pointinfBy inoespgntiy wanting ma t9
1869.]
the TtmgmnuHa Uk^ CkaiktnA Africa,
861
show them everything that I possess*
ed^ with expknatioDs about their va-.
rtoos ases, qaite tired oat my pa-
tienoe. If I tried to get away, they
plaguingly fbllowed after, so at last I
dodged them by getting into the boat
To sit in the tent was the worst place
of all ; they would poll up the sides,
and peer under like so many monkeys;
and if I turned my head aside to avoid
their gaze, they wonld Jabber in the
most noisy and disagreeable manner
in order to arouse me.
IQik, — We quit Kivira early, and
paddling S. 25^ W., making the &m-
oaa fish-market in the Httle island
Dabizia, Jast in time to break&st
on a freshly-caught fish, the cele-
brated Singa^ — a large, ugly, black-
backed monster, with white belly,
small fins, and long barbs bat no
scales. In appearance a sluggish
groand-fish,*it is always immoderately
and grossly fat, and at this season is
full of roe ; its flesh is highly esteemed
by the natives. This island is very
small, with a gradual rising slope
from the N.W. extremity: and at the
S.£. end assumes the form of a boll's
hamp. There is but one village of
twenty odd mashroom-shaped hats,
chiefly occupied by flshermen, who
live on their spoils, and by selling
all that they cannot consume to the
neighbouring islanders and the vil-
lagers on the mainland. Added to
this, they grow maize and other ve-
getables, and keep a good stock oi
rowls. I tried every mode of induce-
ment to entice the crew away to
complete the journey, for the place of
my destination, Easeng^, was in sight ;
bot in vain. They had tasted this to
them delicious fish, and were deter-
mined to dress and lay by a good
store of it to carry wi^ them. About
noon Shaykh Kbamis, a merchant
from Kaseoff^ bound for Uj^i, ar-
rived, and kindly gave me a long
needle to stir up the beetle in my ear ;
but the insect had gone in so w, and
the swelling and suppuration of the
wounds had so imbedded him, that
no instrument could have done any
good. Khamis, like myself, was very
anxious to complete his journey, and
tried every conceivable means to en-
tice his crew away, but he failed as
signally as I did. On the maioland
opposite to this, we see the western
horn of these ooncavely-dicposed
moontains^ which eneircle the north
of the lake, and from hence the horn
stretches away in increasing height
as it extends northwards. Its sea-
ward slopes are well wooded from
near the summit down to the water^s
edge; bat on the top, as though
strong currents of air prevailed, and
prevented vegetation from attaining
any height, grass only is visible.
Westward, behind the Island of £a-
seng^, and awav to the southward^
the country is or a rolling hilly for-
mation, and devoid of any objects of
iutersBt
llik, — ^The morning wind was too
high for crossing from Eabizia to
Kaseng^, but at noon we embarked,
and after paddling for ninety minutes
S. 80<' W., we arrived at the latter
island, my destination. Bhaykh Ha-
med bin Sulayyim, with many atten-
dants and a host of natives, was
standing ready to receive me. He
gave us a hearty welcome, took my
hand, and led me to his abode, plac-
ing everything at my disposal, and
arranging a second house ror my fa-
tore residence. These worthy Arab
merchants are everywhere the same.
Their warm and generous hospitality
to a stranger equals anything I have
ever seen elsewhere, not forgetting In-^
dia, where a cordial welcome greets
any incidental traveller. Hamed's
abode, like all the semi-civilised onea
found in this coantry, and constructed
by the Sowahili (or coast people), is
made with good substantial walls of
mud, and roofed with rafters and
brushwood, cemented together with a
compound of common earth, straw,
and water. The rooms are conveni-
ently partitioned <^ for domestic con-
veniences, with an ante-room for gen-
eral bufflness, and sundry other en-
closures for separating his wives and
other belongings. On the exterior
of the house is a pcUaver platform,
covered with an ample verandah, un-
der which he sits, surrounded by a
group of swarthy blacks, gossiping
for hours together, or transacting
hia worldly business, in parchasing
ivory, slaves, or any commodities
worthy of his notice. The dhow I
had come for, he said, was lying at
Ukaranga, on the eastern shore, but
was expected in a day or two, and
YOLb LXXXVL
28
85S
Journal qf a OruU$ mt
[S«pt
would then be at nnr Bervioo. Indeed
he had sent a letter by Khamis, whom
I met at Kabizia, of&ring it to Cap-
tain Barton, as soon as ever he had
been made aoqoainted (by native re-
port, I imagine) with oar desire of
obtaining her. He thoaghti howeyer,
that Uiere might be some difficnltj in
forming a crew capable of managing
her, as this oraft was too large for
paddles, and no natires understood
the art of rowing, and, moreover, like
all Easterns, they are not disposed to
learn anything that their fathers did
not know before them. Ilia own men
were necessary to him, for in a few
days he intended inarching to Uraw-
wa, aboat a hundred miles soath-west
of this island, a territory belonging to
Saltan Kiyombo. Daring that trip,
every one of the dhow sailors (who
are Sowahill slaves, and the Arabs'
gun-bearers) would be in requisition.
But he thought, if I had patience to
wait, he might be able to prevail on a
few oi the dhow's present crew, men
in his temporary employ, to take ser-
vice with me. My host gave me a full
description of the lake. He said he
had visited both ends of it, andfoand
the southern portion both longer and
broader than the northern. '* There
are no islands in the middle of the
sea, but near the shores there are se-
veral in various places, situated much
in the same way as those we are
amongst ; they are mere projections,
divided from the mainland by shoals
or narrow channels. A large river,
called Marungn, supplies the lake at
its southern extremity ; but except
that and the Mahigarasi river on
the eastern shore, none of any con-
siderable sice pour their waters
into the lake. But on a visit to
the northmn end, I saw one which
was very much larger than either
of these, and which I am ourtain
flowed out of the lake; for although
I did not venture on it, in conse-
quence of its banks being occupied
by desperately savage negroes, inim-
ical to all strangers, I went so near
its outlet that I could see and feel
the outward drift of the water.'' He
then described an adventure he once
had when going to the north, with a
boisterous barlMrous tribe called Wa-
rondi. On approaching their hostile
shore, he notioed as he thoQi^t a great
commotion amongst the fiahing-boats,
and soon percei v^ that the man were
concocting a plan of attack upon him-
self, for they concentrated foroea, and
came at his dliow in a body of about
thirty canoes. Ocmcdving that their
intentions were hostile, he avoided
any conflict by putting out to see,
feu4ng lest an anhiy would be pre-
judicial to future mercantile trsos-
actions, as stdns of blood are not
soon eSEenoed from their black me-
mories. He further said he felt no
alarm for his safety, as he liad thirty
slaves with guns on board. My
opinion of this story — ^for everybody
tells stories in this country — is, that ill
he stated with regard to the eontfaem
half is very near the truth, for it is
an exact corroboration of many other
evidences. But I feel convinced that
he was romancing when talking d
the northern rivePs flow, not only
because the northern end of the lake
is encircled by high hills— the oon-
cave of the Mountains of the Moon
— ^but because the lake's altitade ii
so much less than that of theadjaoent
plateaus. Indeed, the waters of tbe
lake are so low as to convey the im-
pression that the trough they lie in hss
been formed by volcanic agency. With
reference to the time which it would
take as to traverse the entire lake,
he said he thought we should take
fortv-six days in going up and down
the lake, starting from nj\ji. Groing
to the north would take eight days,
and going to the south fifteen. As
the Bhayldi had said nothing about
the hire of the dhow, though he had
offered it so willingly, I thought it
probable that shame of mentioniog
it in public had deterred him Irom
alluding to tbe subject — so begged a
private conference. He tlien came to
my house with Bombay and a slave,
a confidant of his own, who oould
also speak Hindustani, a!nd was told,
through my medium Bombay, exactly
what things I had brought with me,
and requested to speak his mind
f^ly, as I had called him espedsllj
for business, and we were now alone.
His reserved nature had the mastery
over him, and he still remained mute
about the price ; but again saying I
oould have his dhow whenever I
1800.]
th$ Tanganyiha Lake, Central Africa,
858
cbose, he asked permiaslon to retire,
and departed. Pazzled at this pro-
cedure, I sent Bombay to observe
him. and find ont if he had any secret
motives for shirking so direct an ap-
peal, and empowered him to offer
money in case my cloth and powder
did not afford safBcient inducement.
Bombay soon returned as much pns-
zled as myself, nnable to extract
any bat the old answer-— that I was
welcome to the dhow, and that he
would try and procure men for me.
As a hint had reached me that the
Shaykli cast covetous eyes on my
powder-magazine, I tried enticing
him to take some in part pavment
for her, but he replied that he did
not require anythmg in payment,
but would gladly accept a little pow-
der if I hiM any to spare. To this
I readily assented, as he had been
so constant and liberal in his atten-
tions to nae ever since I landed on
the island and became his guest, that
I felt it was the least I could do in
return for his generosity. Indeed, he
was constantly observing and inquir*
ing what I wanted, and supplied
everything in his power that I found
difficult to obtain. Every dav he
brought presents of flesh, fowl, ducks
(the Muscovite, brought from the
coast), eggs, plantains, and ghee
(clarified Butter).
The island of Kaseng€ is about one
mile long, a narrow high ridge of land
lying nearly due north and south, and
is devoid of trees, and only a small
IK)rtion of it is under cultivation.
The lake washes its north-western
end ; the remainder is encircled by a
girdle of water about eighty yards
brood. It appears, from being so
imbedded in the land, to be a part of
the coast to anybody approaching it
from the sea. The population is very
considerable, more so than that of
the other ports. They are extremely
filthy in their habits, and are inces-
santly inquisitive, as far at least as
gratifying their idle curiosity is con-
cerned. Frotn having no industrial
occupations, they will stand for hours
and hours together, watching any
strange object, and are, in conse-
quence, an infinite p^t to any
stranger coming near thenu In ap-
pearance they are not much nnlike
the Sjiffir, reeembling that tribe both
in size, height, and general bearing,
having enlarged lips, flattish noses,
and frizzlv woolly hair. They are
very easily amused, and generally
wear smiling facee. The women are
bettel* dressed than the men, having
a cloth round the body, fastened
under the arms, and reaching below
the knees, and generally beads, brasa
necklaces, or other ornaments, while
the latter only wear a single goat-
skin slung game-bag fashion over the
shoulder, or, when they possess it, a
short cloth tied, kilt fashion, round
the .waist. They lie about their hnts
like swine, with little more anima-
tion on a warm day than the pig
has when basking in a summer's
sun. The mothers of these savage
people have infinitely less affection
than many savage beasts of my
aoquaintance. I have seen a mother
bear, galled by constant fire, ob-
stinately meet her death, by repeat-
edly returning under a shower of
buHets, endeavouring to rescue her
young from the grasp of intruding
men. But here, for a simple loin-
cloth or two, human mothers eagerly
exchanged their little offspring, de-
livering them into perpetnal bondage
to my Beloooh soldiers.
Talking abont slaves brings to
recollection the absurd statements
that have been appearing in the
newspapers and in parliamentary
discussions, regarding the French
and Portuguese slave transactions in
the Mozambique Channel : leading
people still to suppose, who know
nothing about the internal condition
of Africa, that such a state of society
can exist there as would induce the
negroes to leave their easy homes and
seek for hard service abroad. Nothing
is more foreign to their inclinations.
Nor can men be found wiUing to
exile themselves as ft'ee labaurert in
any part of these African regions.
In the first place, the negro has as
great an antipathy to work as a mad
dog has to water ; he will avoid it by
every stratagem within his power.
It is true that the slaves whom the
Arab merchants, or other men, have
in their possession, never forsake
their master, as if they disliked their
state in bondage ; but then, when we
SM
Jpumal of a Oruue on
(Sept
oonsider the^r podUoo, what plea-
sure or advantage would they derive
by doing so? Daring the sUve-
hunts, when they are caught, their
oonntry is devastated, their friends
and relatives are either killed or are
scattered to the winds, and nothing
but a wreok is left behind them.
Again, they enter upon a life which
is new to then), and is very fascinat-
ing to their tastes; and as long as
they do remain with such kind mas-
ters as the Arabs are, there is no ne-
cessity for our commiserating them.
They become elevated in their new
state of existence, and are better off
than in their precarious homes, ever
in terror of being attacked. But
under what is mi8<Muled the Free-Up-
hour system the whole matter is en-
tirely changed. Instead of living, as
they in most part do, willingly with
the families of the Arabs, men of a
superior order, and doing mild and
congenial services, they get trans-
ported against their will and inclina-
tions to a foreign land, where, to live
at all, they must hibour like a beast ;
and yet this is only half the mischief.
When a market for free labourers is
once opened, whai the draining poul-
tice is once applied to Africans exte-
rior, then the interior will assuredly
be drained of all its working men,
and become more a waste than ever.
Te supplv the markets with thoee
/ree cattle becomes so lucrative a
means of gain that merchants would
stick at no expedient in endeavouring
to secure them. The country, so full
as we have seen it of all the useiiil
necessaries of life, able to supply our
markets and relieve our people bv
cheapening all oonmiodities, would,
if slavery was enly permitted to in-
crease, soon be devastated for the very
minor consideration of improving a
fsw small isUnds in the Indian Ocean.
On the contrary, slaverv has only
to be suppressed entirely, and the
country would soon yield one-hun-
dredfold more than ever it has done
before. The merchants themselves
are aware of this, for every Hindi on
the coast with whom I ever spoke
on the subject of slavery, seemed
confident that the true prosperity of
Africa would only commence with
the cessation of shivery. And they
all say it would be far better for
them if slavery were put down alto-
^ther than allowed to remain as
It is, snbject to limited restriction;
for by tills limitation many incon-
veniences arise. Thoee who were
permitted to retain slaves, have a
great and distressing advantage over
those who could not. They ar-
gue, and very nroperlv, that in con-
sequence of these slave-hunts the
country is kept in such a state of
commotion that no one thinks it
worth his while to make accumula-
tions of property, and consequent-
ly, the negroes now only live for
the day, and keep no granariea,
never tninking of exerting them-
selves to better their condition.
Without doubt it is mainly owing
to this unfortunate influence of
slavery on African society, that
we have been kept so long ignor-
ant of the vast resources of Eastern
and Oentral Africa— a vast field full
of resources, which would be of so
much value to Zanzibar and n«gh-
bonring India, were it only pro-
perly developed: — ^but I have been
aigressing, and must again return to
Easeng^.
The village is very large and
straggling, and consists of a collec-
tion of haycock-looking huts, framed
with wood or bou^s, and covered
over with grass. Kasanga^s palace
is the grandest one amongst them.
This monarch is a very amiable des-
g>t, and is liked in consequence,
e presented me with a goat and
Bome grain, in return for which I
gave a kahongo (or tribute-fee) of
three Dhotis, two Kitindis, and two
Fundas, equal to twenty necklaces
of large blue beads. The food of
these people consists chiefly of fish
and fowls, both of which are veiy
abundant. All other articles of oon-
sumotion, except a very little grown
on tne spot, are imported from the
mainland, and are, in consequence,
dear. The surrounding country,
however, is very highly cultivated —
so much so, that it exports for the
Ujiji and other distant markets.
The Africans have no religion, un-
less Fetishism may be considered
such. They use charms to keep off
the evil eye, and believe in fortune-
tellers. Their church is called Ugan-
ga, and the parson Mganga, the plural
1809.]
the Tangtmffika Zahty dntrai Africa.
865
of which^ priests, ehanges to Wajj^-
engft. The prefixes {T, if, and TTo,
are used miiformly throog^bont this
land from Zanzibar, to denote re-
Bpeotiyely, tJ, ooantnr or place, M,
an individual, and Wa for plurality,
as in tribe or people : thus, Uganga,
Mganga, Wa^nga, or Unyamn^zi,
Mnyamn^zi, Wanyamn^zi.
18M.— The dhow came in this
evening, bringing oows and goats,
oil, ghee, and other articles of con-
81101 ption not found immediately
in this neighbourhood. She looked
▼ery graceful in contrast to the
wretched little canoes, and came
moving slowly up the smooth waters
of the channel decked in her white
Bails, like a swan upon ^*a garden
reach.'' The next day the Shaykh
declared himself endeavouring to se-
cure some men, but none appeared.
The day following be told me that
the dhow was out of repair, and
must be' mended. And the sacceed-
ing day he coupled shifts and ex*
coses with promises and hopes, so
likely to be further deferrea, that
my patience was fairly upset; and
on the 17th, as nothing was settled,
we had a little tiff. I accused him
of detuning mj in the hopes of
getdng powder, for as yet bis ar*
mourer had not succeeded in opening
my chest, from which I knew he
wanted some; at any rate, I could
see no other cause for his desiring my
fhrther stay there, when even Bom-
bay had notified his displeasare at
these long-continued procrastinations.
The Shaykh, however, very quietly
denied the imputation, declaring that
he desired nothing but what I might
frankly g^re, and continued his for-
mer kindnesses as though nothing
had happened. I then begged his
oonnsel as to the best mode of
proceeding, upon which he advised
my returning to tJivJi, where an
Arab merchant called Shaykh Said
bin MiKJid, with many men of the
sort I required, waa reported to be
arriving. In the meanwhile, during
hia abeenoe at IJrnwwa, he would
authorise his agent to make the
dhow over to me whenever I. should
come or send for it. It is needless
to say how easily, had my hands
now baen free to act, I might have
availed myself of this tempting op-
portunity of accompanying Shaykh
Hamed on his journey to Uruwwa,
and have thus nearly connected this
line from Zanzibar with the Portu-
guese and Dr. Livingstone's routes to
Loando on the western coast The
Shaykh describes the roads as easy
to travel over, for the track lay
across an undulating country, in-
tersected by many small insijEtnifl-
cant streams, which only contribute
to fertilise the land, and pre-
sent no obstacles whatever. The
line is cheap, and affords provi-
sions in abundance. It may appear
odd that men should go so far into
the interior of Africa to procure
ivoiT, when undoubtedly much is to
be round at places not half bo dis-
tant from Zanzibar; but the reason
of it is simple. The nearer coun-
tries have become so overstocked
with beads and cloth, that ivory
there has risen to so great a price, it
does not pay its transport Hence
every succeeding year finds the Arabe
penetrating farther inland. Now, it
will be seen that the Zanzibar Arabs
have reached the uttermost limits of
their tether; for Uruwwa is half-way
across the continent, and in a few
years they must unite their laboors
with the people who come from Loan-
do on the opposite coast. As to obtain
the dhow would, in our hampered
state, have been of much importance
— for our cloth and supplies were all
fast ebbing away — I did not yet
give in applying for it, and next daj
tried another device to tempt this
wily Arab, by offering SOO dollars, or
£)00, if he would defer his journey
for a short time, and accompany us
round the lake. This was a large,
and evidently an unexpected offer,
and tried his cupidity sorely ; it pro-
duced a nervous fidgetiness, and he
begged leave to retire and con the
matter over. Next day he said he
was sorry th^t he must decline, for
bis business would not stand defer-
ment, but declared himself willing
to sail with us on his return f^om
Uruwwa. three months hence, if we
could only stay till then.
Feeling now satisfied that nothing
would prevail upon the Shaykh to let
us have the dhow, I wished to quit
856
Journal ^ a Orum en
{Sepl.
the island, and retara to TJjQi, bnt
fouDd the crew had taken Frenoh
leave, and gone fbraging on the main-
land, where, all grain being so mnoh
cheaper than at Ujiji, they wanted
to prooare a supply. I therefore
employed the day in strolling all
over the Island, and took bearings of
some of the principal features of the
lake; of Thembwe, a distant pro*
montory on the western shore sonth of
this, which is occupied by a powerful
sultan, and contains a large pecula-
tion of very boisterous savages; of
'Uknngw^, on the east shore, and
the idand of Eavira and Xabizia. I
could also see two other small
islands lying amidst these larger
ones,— too small for habitation.
Thott^ my canoe arrived on the
20th, bad weather prevented our
leaving till the 22d morning, com-
pleting twelve days at Easeng^. I
now took leave of my generous
host, and bidding adieu to Kaseng^
soon arrived and spent the day at
Eabizia.
28i2.— We crossed over to Ki-
vira, and pitched the tent in our
former harbour. Next day we halted
from stress of weather; and the fol-
lowing day also remaining boisterous,
we coukl not put to sea; but to
obtain a better view of the lake, and
watch the weather for choosing a
favourable time to cross, we changed
Ehambi for a place farther up the
island.
24tA. — We moved out two miles
in the morning, but returned again
from fear of the weather, as the
sailors could discern a small but
very alarming-looking cl«ud many
miles distant, hanging on the top
of one of the hills, and there was
a gentle breeze. In the evening,
as the portentous elements still
frowned upon us, the wise crew sur-
mised that the uganga (church)
was angry at my endeavoiudng to
carry across the waters the goat
which the Sultan had given me, and
which, they said, ought never to
have left the spot it was presented in
alive; and declared their intention
of applying to the mganga (priest)
to ascertain his opinion before ven-
turing out again. As the goat had
just given a kid, and produced a
good snpply of milk^ T was anziovxs
to bring her to UjHi for my sick
companion, and told the sailors
so ; yet still they persisted, and
said they would run sway rather
than venture on the water with the
goat again. Then fearing detention,
and guessing their motive was only
to obtain a share in the eating her,
I killed both kid and mother at
once, and divided them amongst my
party, taking care that none of the
crew receiv^ any of the flesh. At
night we sallied forth again, bnt
soon returned from the same cause
that hindered us in tbe morning.
And I did not spare the men^s fed-
ings who had caused the death of
my goat in the morning, now that
their superstitious fears conoeming
it, if they ever possessed any, were
proven to be without foundation.
27iA.— We took our final depar-
ture from Eivira in the morning,
and crossed the broad lake again
in fourteen hours, two of tiiein^ as
before, being spent in pipes and rest.
I have now measured the Lake's
centre pretty satis&ctorily by trian-
guhition, by compass in connection
with astronomical observation, and
twioe by dead-reckoning. It is
twenty-six miles broad at the place
of crossing, which is its narrowest
central part. But alas that I should
have omitted to bring a sounding
line with me, and not have asjer-
tained that highly interesting fea-
ture— ^it9 depth. There is very litti%
doubt in my mind but that its bed
is very deep, owing to the trough-
like formation of it, and also because
I have seen my crew haul up fishing-
baskets, sunk in the sea near to the
shore, from very considerable depths,
by long ropes with trimmers at-
tached. For the benefit of science,
and as a hint to future travellers, I
will mention that had I brought
a lead, I might, as if by accident,
have dropped it in the sea when
they were resting — have tapped the
bottom and ascertained its depth—
whilst the superstitious crew would
have only wondered in vain as to
what I was about. Let easy-chair
geographers now take lesson by
this passage across the lake of
twenty-six miles, and Imow for the
1859.]
the Tangmnfiia IM$, Otn^rul^Jfriea.}
zn
fotare, that if they will have
lakes of great and imaginative
breadth, they shoold stud them
with islands at distances not more
than thirty miles asnnder; for no
Nagoe oanoes dare ever ventore
on a broader sheet of water than I
have now erossed. And If they
cannot hear of islands on a sheet of
water as broad as the Slog alladed
to before— which they affinned was
oroflsed by negroes — let them panse
before describing anything so ridica-
lons.
28eA.— We started np oosst early,
and at 10 ▲.x. pat in amon^
some reeds oppodte the Lngnvn
river, as the wind, rain, and waves
had very nearly swamp^ the boat,
and drenched ns all from head to
fdot. I pitched the tent in the
canoe, to protect me fhim the storm,
bat it only served to keep the wind
fK>m blowing on my wet clothes and
chilling me, for wave after wave
washed over the gunwale, and kept
me and all my kit constantly drencn-
ed throngh. Three lingering miser^
able hours were passed in this
ikshion; for there was no place to
land in, and we oonld not venture
fbrward. The sea abated in the
afternoon, and we gained Hgiti
Khambi. After a day*s halt, the
weather being stormy, and every-
thing being wet and comfortless, we
hail^ with diBlight the sncoeeding
snnny day, and making good our
time, reached the old tree on the
right bank of the month of the
Ruoh6 by 9 p.m.
, 31*t— We arrived at Xg^ji by
breakfturt-time, when I disdosod to
Captain Barton, then happily a little
restored, the mortifying inteUi-
gence of my filing to procure the
dhow. This must have been doubly
distressing to him, for he had been
led to expect it by Khamis, whom I
passed at Kabiria, and who had de-
livered Hamed*s letter, stating that
the dhow was at his service. The
Bbaykh's numoBuvring with tiie dhow
bears much the appearance of one
anxious to obtain the credit of gen-
erofiity, without incurring the at-
tendant inconvenience of its reality.
Otherwise I cannot divine what good
his procrastinations and the means
he took for keeping me near him so
long could have been to him ; for he
made no overtures to me whatever.
Bombay now thought, when it was
too late, that if I had offered to give
him 500 doUars' worth of cloth,
landed at his bouse, he could not
have resisted the offer. I give this
notice for the advantage of any fd-
ture explorers on the lake. I could
not form a true estimate of the
lake's positive breadth, in conse-
quence of the numberiesB bays and
promontories that diversify the regu-
larity of its coast Une ; but I should
say that thirty to forty miles .is pro-
bably near the truth.
This condudes my first indepen-
dent travel in Central Africa; and
next month yon shall have my
second Journey to what I believe to
be the fountains of Thb Nili«
J. H. Spjekb,
Obtain 46eA Bmffal y. I.
856
A Dr0Bm ^ tU BwL
[Bept
▲ DBBAH OF THS DEAD.
I DBBAMKD that I found my-
self BaddeDly in a plaoe wbioh im-
preased me with an instantaneoug
sense of stnmgenew; it was like
nothing I bad ever seen* I then be-
oame aware that mj own state of
feeling was like nothing I had ever
felt It was a sensation of Inez-
prassible physical relief; all ailment
to which I bed been familiarised, was
gone — gone all wearineae, heaviness,
uiertneas of muscle, of nerve, of spi-
rit Time and its efiEeots pslpably'—
abmptly— lifted from me as a load
may be lifted from the shonlders of a
tired and nnking man. X was con-
soioQS of an elasticity and lightness of
frame, to which that of a vigeroos
sdioolboy bonnding into the play-
gronnd can be bat inadequately com-
pared. My first idea wss that I
was made young again; ray second
idea, which flashed on me as convic-
tion, made me aware that I wss dead.
I said to myself ^ I am dead, and
amongst the dead." With that con-
sciooaness came no awe, no fear, only
the sensation of nnatterable strange-
ness, and a sentiment of intense cario-
sity. The place in which I stood was
the fiur end of an immense hall or
chamber,— so immense that it baffles
all attempt to convey a notion of tlie
space. Its walls were proportion-
ably lofty, it was withoat roof;
above it^a doll blue sky, vithont
doad, wiUiont son, moon, or star^.
Along this hall human beings, dressed
as we dress in life, were hanying in
various groups or detachments. But
so vast was the place, that though I
was aware there were millions of
snch beings within the walls, they
appeared like tiny rivulets running
on through a mighty plain. I hast-
ened towards one of these detach-
ments, accosted a man, and said,
'^Tell me, is it true that I am
dead?"
*^ You are dead, of course,'* said
the man impatiently, without stop-
ping. ** And you, too ? " I asked.
'' All here are dead 1 We art The
Dead."
I caught the man by the arm,
which I felt inquisitively. I won-
dered to find it so material^ oontiary
to all my preconceived notions.
^^ But yon are no spirit f " I said ;
*^this arm is fiesh and blood. Can
you explain 7 "
*^ Nothing is ever explained here,''
interrupted the man, soaking me o£
He hurried on after the rest, and dis-
appeare<l within what may be called
a doorway ; but there was no door.
There were many openings as for
doors in the hall— none of them had
doors. This also excited my cariosity.
Why no doors t I walked lightly
across the fioor, pleased at the brisk-
ness of my own step^ and again I
accosted a fellow-inmate of this
strange place.
^^I b^ pardon," said I ooorteously,
" but why is this hall left unfinished ;
why no doors where these lofty open-
ings are left?"
^^Find out for yourself j no explan-
ations are given here."
^^Stop one moment, I am a
stranger just arrived. Many dear
friends have come here before me.
Tell me, I pray, how I am to find
them?"
''Find them I This is Infinity.
Those who move on never return to
the same plaoe; those who come
after never catch up those who have
gone before."
'' What I shall I never see even my
own mother?"
''Never. This is Eternity; once
lost, for ever lost"
" Bat my owo mother I What has
become of her? whither has she gone?"
" How do I know 1"
" But I %kaU overtake her," I ex-
claimed angrily.
*' And if you do ? " said the man
drily, "you would not know each
other — ^you do not wear the same
bodies as you did in life. Perhaps
you and I were intimate friends once.
You do not know me now, nor I yon.
No knowledge of each other amongst
The Dead."
The man hurried on through the
opening. I was so amased at what
he said that I awoke.
"This is the most extraordinaiy
dream," I said to myself when awake.
1869.]
A Drmn iff ih$ Dead.
86»
**How I wish that I ooold oontiDiie
itl^' In a few minQtee I was asleep
again, and there I was— ^xaotiyin the
aatne plaee in that hall where the
man had left me, near the opening.
I followed a string of paflsengere
tbrongh that opening into a narrow
corridor— the same height of wall,
the same dull hlne eky overtiead.
'' How light it is,*' I said to a man
in the throng, ^*and yet there is no
son, and no moon, and no stars. Is
St always as light here, and is this
day or Is it night r
^ Neither day nor night. No day,
no night, to the dead. Time here is
dead too!"
I tried in vain to keep this man
in oonversstioD. I tried In vain
to make friends with others ; all
answered cnrtly and impatiently,
shaking me off and hanging on.
What how b^^n most to perplex
me, was the ntter absenoe of all social
intercourse. No one seemed to talk
to another; no two persons walked
arm-in-arm. I said to myself— "In
any city on earth one stranger may
iioGost another, and get some infor-
mation what be is to do— where he
is to find a lodging. Society seems
diasolyed here— «yery one lor him-
self. It is well at least that I feel so
Btrong and so young.**
I passed my hands over my limbs.
Tes, I tD(u flesh and blood. Sud-
denly I began to feel hungry. This
amazed me. Again I accosted one of
the throng. '^ Can it be true that one
feels hunger here? do the Dead know
hunger?"
^^ Hunger I of course ; you have a
body, have not yon ?"
**• And how can one get food ?"
" Find out for yourself.**
" Stop, must one pay for it ?**
•*Pay! of course, of course; you
cannot rob The Dead.*' The man was
gone.
I hurried on with the hurrying
throng, and began to feel In my
r^kets. In my right troaser pocket
found a sovereign and twelve
ahillings in silver, exactly the sum
that I had in my po<^et when I
went to bed the night of that dream.
Again I began to wonder, ^^ How did
I bring this money with me, why no
more? Can I get no more money?
Is this all that is to provide for me
liiroughoQt eternity?'' Several of
the crowd now stopped before a re-
cess in the corridor; in this recess
persons were serving out oofi^
which I observed those who took
rid for. I longed for the oouce, but
was sdzed with a prudent thrift.
I thought, " I must not fritter away
any part of so small a sum, until I
know at least how to get more." I
resisted tiie coffee-shops, and con-
tinued to rove on — always in a build-
ing, always in a labyrinth of balky
and chambers, and passages. I ob-
eerved that none or them seemed
formed for reeidenoe, none of them
were fhrnished, except here and there
was a thin comfortless bench against
the tall undeeorated wall. But
always, always a building— always,
always as within a single Immea-
surable house. I was seized with
an intense longing to get out ^ If
I could but find my way into the
fields," said I to myself— "if I could
but wander into the country, I have
been always so fond of nature."
Again I accosted a man. *^How
can I get out of this building?"
^ You can't get out of it, you are
**Te8, I know I am dead; but I
still long to see Nature."
** There is no Nature here. Nature
is finite«>-thiB is infinity."
*^ But is infinity dreumscribed to
this building 9— no escape from these
walls? Explain."
** Explain I" interrupted the man
with great anger, as if I had uttered
something wicked ; '^ nothing is ever
explained here. Wretch, leave me."
And the man broke away.
I continued to stride on through
the building, always trying to escape
out of it. Miles and miles, and
leagues and leagues, I went (m-«-
always between those lofty walls,
under that unchangeable sky. And
I could never get a peep into what
lay beyond ; for to those walls there
were no windows.
I said to myself, *^ If I were alive I
should have dropped with ISsidgue ; but
I feel no fifttigne— ^ot the least tired.
Still, if I am to remidn here, I should
like to have a quiet lodging to my-
self. Where can I rest ?"
So again I stopped a man — I say
a man ; for hitherto I had seen only
8«0
A Lnam ^ ih$ Dtad.
[Sept
men, no wameD<«-iBeQ mneb as one
•eea every day in Oxford Street or
Cbeapsideb I stopped a man, aay If
The eziHression is incorrect : no tpan
ever stopped at my biding, bat
walked on while I spoke, and only
walked faster when he escaped. And
never again did I come up to the
same man. Well, then, I aceoited a
man i-^-^^ What are the mles of this
place? Oan one have a home as on
earth f-Hum I have a lodging to my-
self somewhere ?*'
" Of coarse yon can."
^ Where shsll I go for one ? — ^how
ami to contrive— ?"
*^Find ont for yoorself; no one
helps another here«"
" Bat stay. I have only got about
me one pound twelve. Is there dif-
ference of fortune in this place ?— are
there wealth and poverty 9— -do some
.people come with more riches than
others?"
" To be sure."
" And is it as good a thing to be
rich here as it is on earth ?"
"Better. Poverty here is dread-
M; for here none lend, and none
give."
" I left a great deal of money be-
hind me ; can^t I get at it now ?"
*^ Certainly not ; yon should have
brought more."
"Alas! I did not know I was
coming here. Bat I am quick and
hardworking: I coald mase money
easily enough in the earth I came
from. Can money be made here ?"
•* Yes !"
"How— how t"
" Find out for yourself."
The man escaped me.
I woke a second time, revolving
all I had seen in my dream, and
much struck by the prosaic and
practical character of the whole.
" So very odd," I said, " that monev
should be of use amongst the dead.
I will write down this dream to-
morrow morning;" and I began to
impress all its details on mv memory.
While so employed I M asleep
again, and again found myself ex-
actly in the same spot on which I
had last stood in this singular dream.
I felt my pockets— only one pound
twelve still "What a fool was I
not to take advantage of my waking.
and bring more money -wiih me t" I
said with a sigh.
I now came into a desolate ban«
quet-hall: in the midst was an im-
mense table, and several thousand
persons were sitting down to a feaal
I observed ornaments of plate on the
table, and great profusion of wine.
I approached; the table was full;
there was no room for me. And in-
deed, tiiough still hungry, I had no
desire to Join the banqueters. I felt
as if I were not of them ; no social
sentiment bound me to them. Bat
now, for the first time, I nerodved
women-*-women at the table. That
sight gave me pleasure. I began to
count them. At first I only distin-
guished one or two; gradually the
number grew-*4o many that I ceased
to count. " Well," I said, " now I
shall see something like gallantry
and gaiety and afieodon amongst
The Dead." I was soon undeoeived;
people ate and drank as on earth,
but without mirth or talk — each
helping himself. The men had no
care for the women, the women had
no care for the men. A dreary con-
sciousness that love existea not
amonffst The Dead came over me,
and I left the banquet-halL I now
came into another corridor, at the
end of which, to my great joy, I de-
scried what seemed a more open
space. I caught a glimpse of green
trees, A great throng was hurcy-
ing towards this space. I pressed
forward in advance of the throng, and
entered first; but I was disappcniit-
ed: the space was still within the
building, the walls ronnd it ; only it
resembled what the French call a
Place d^armee. The trees, planted in
a formal row on either side, as thev
are in a Plaee d'armee^ were small,
stunted, and the foliage clipped.
Looking more narrowly, I perceived
that the? were not real trees, but of
some painted metal; and I thought
of the words, " There is no nature
here." While I was thus gazing on
the trees, the lower end of this
court haa become filled with the
crowd ; and suddenly, from an open-
ing opposite to that by which I aod
the crowd had entered, I heard a re-
gular tramp as of the quick march
of soldiersi and presently a defile of
1859.]
A Drpam qf the Dsad.
B%1
armed men came into the Place so
quickly that I had ooly time to draw
on one side to eeoape being trodden
down. They hastened to the upper
part of the Flaee^ and formed them-
aelves at the word of command.
Then, for the first time. I felt fear;
for these soldiers did not seem to
me so hnnum as all I had hitherto
eeen. There was something preter-
human and ghastly in their aspect
and their movements. They were
armed with muskets. Id another
moment, to my inoonceiyable sur-
prise and horror, they fired upon
the crowd at the far end, and then
charged with the bayonet. They
came so close by me, that I felt one
of the soldiers graze me. But I did
not recede ; on the contrary, I put
myself somewhat in the way of the
charge. For my predominant senti-
ment throaghout all this dream was
curiosity, and I wished to know if I
could be capable of bodily wound or
bodily pun. But the soldiers S{>ared
me, and charged only on the crowd
below. In an instant the ground
was covered with victims — braised,
wounded, groaning, shrieking. This
exploit performed, the soldiers de-
]>arted down the passage they had
entered, as rapidly as they had
marched in.
It seemed to me that I felt no pity
for the crowd and no resentment
against the soldiers. I only felt an
exceeding surprise. However, I ap-
proached the sufferers and said, *'But
are you sensible of wounds, being
already dead ?^^ A man, mangleS
and lacerated, answered impatiently,
*' Yes, yes— of course."
^' But still, being dead, you cannot
be killed, and that is some comfort."
I got no answer to this remark.
The sufferers gathered themselves up,
no one helping the other; aud, limp-
ing and groaning, dispersed. I then
addressed a man who was one of the
few who were unhurt. He was taller,
of better mien, and with a less busy
and anxious expression of ooonte-
nance than those I had hitlierto
questioned. He gave me the idea of
a person of rank.
'^ Sir," said I, insinuating into my
manner aU the poiite respect I coald
convey tS it, **the appearance of
soldiers here has startled me; for
where there are soldiers there must
be law and Government. Hither-
to I have seen no trace of either.
Is there, then, a Government to
this place? Where can one see it?
Where does it reside ? What are the
Laws? How can one avoid displeas-
ing them?"
** Find oQt," answered the man, in
the same form of words which had so
often chilled my questions, bat in a
milder voice.
^'At all events, then, there is a
law of brute force that prevails here
as on the earth," I said in extreme
wonder.
"Yes; but on earth it is under-
stood. Here nothing is explained."
"Can I know even why that
crowd was punished; whence the
soldiers came; .whither they have
now gone ?"
"Sesrch— this is infinity. You
have leisure enough before you ; you .
are in eternity."
The man was gone. I passed very
timorously and very wistfully along
the passage from which the soldiers
had emerged.
The object of my curiosity now
was, to get at the seat of that Law of
Force which was so contrary to all
my preconceived opinions. I felt a
most awful consciousness of uncer-
tainty. One might then, like that
crowd, at any time be punished;
one did not know wherefore. How
act so as to avoid offence? While
thus musing the atmosphere seemed
darker, and I found that I was in a
very squalid part of the building ; it
resembled, indeed, the old lanes and
courts of St. Giles's (onlv still within
the mansion), and infinitely more
wretched.
''So then," I said, "I do see
poverty here at last," and I felt with
proud satisfaction my one pound
twelve. A miserable-looking lad now
was beside me. He was resting on a
heap of broken rubbish. Lookmg at
him I observed that he wa^ deform-
ed, but not like any deformity I
had seen in the living. I cannot de-
scribe how the defMmity differed,
except that he showed me his hands,
and they were not like human hands,
but were distorted into shapeless
862
A Dream ^ the Dead.
[Sept
knots and lamps. And I said, ** Ko
wonder you are poor, for yoo cannot
work with those hands. Man's phy-
sical distinction fVom the brutes is
chiefly in the formation of his hand.
Your hand is not the hand of man.*'
And the lad laughed, and that was
the first laugh I had heard amongst
the dead.
** But are you not very unhappy ?"
said I in amaze.
" Unhappy ! No 1 I am dead.*'
*'Did you hring your infirmities
with you, or did you contract them
here?'^
"Here!"
I was appalled.
"How? by what misfortune or
what sin?"
The lad laughed again, and Jump-
ing off his block of ruboish, sidled
away, mocking at* me as he went
with a vulgar gesture.
" Catch me at explaining," said he,
and was lost.
Now a sort of desf»air, but an in-
tellectual despair, seized me. I pay
intellectual, for with all my amaze
and all my Mense of solitude in that
crowd, I never felt sad nor unhappy ;
on the contrary, I kept constantly
saying to myself, " After all, it is a
great thing to have done with life. —
And to feel so well and so young !"
But my intellect oppressed me ; it was
in my way ; my curiosity was so in-
tense, my perplexities so unsolved,
even by conjecture.
I got out of the squalid part of the
building; and in a small lobby I
encountered a solitary being like
myself. I joined him.
I said, "Ton and I seem both
alone in thw vast space. Can we not
explore it in company ? "
"Certainly not; my way is not
your way, nor yours mine. Ko two
have the same paths through in-
finity."
"But," said I, angrily, "I always
understood on the earth, that when
we left it we should come into a re-
gion of spirits. Where are the angels
to guide us? I see them not. I
have seen poverty and suffering, and
hrute force. But of blessed spirits
above mankind, I have beheld none.
And if this be infinity, such spirits
must be here."
" Find them out for yourself then,
as I must find them out for myselt
This is my way, that is yours."
" One word more : since I cannot
discover those who nave gone before
me, whom I loved, I will wait for
some one whom I have left on earth,
and he will be my companion, for he
will be as strange to this place as I
am, and will want a friend, as I
want some one. Tell me where I can
watch and see the dead come hers
from life."
" Tes, that I can tell you. There
are plenty of places in which you will
see the dead drop down — there is
such a place close by. Ton see that
passage ; take it, and go straight
on."
I did as the man told me. I came
to an open space always between
blind walls, but the outer wall seemed
far loftier, soaring up, and soaring
up, till the dull blue sky that, rested
on it appeared immeasurably re-
mote.
And down at my feet from thia
wall dropped a man. ** You are one
of the dead," said I, approaching
anxiously, "just left the world of
the living?"
He seemed bewildered for a mo-
ment ; at laist he answered, rubbing
his eyes, and in a kind of dreamy
voice, " Yes, I am dead."
" Let us look at each other," said
I; "perhaps we were friends in
life."
We did l(H)k at each other with-
out recognition. But, indeed, as
I had been told, not amongst the
myriads I had met, had I recog-
nised one being I had ever known on
earth.
"Well," said I, " this is the strangest
place I There is no getting on in it
alone ; no one will put you into the
way of things. Let you and I be
friends now, whatever we were before.
Take my arm ; we cannot fail to be
more comfortable if we keep to-
gether."
The man, who seemed half asleep,
took my arm, and we went on to-
gether. I was very much pleased and
exceedingly proud to have found at
last a companion. I told him of all I
had witnessed and experienced, of all
my doubts and perplexities. He list-
1869.]
Th0 JBlectum Petitiom.'—Who doe$ the Bribery t
S6d
ened with very little interest or atten-
tion, still I was glad that I had got
him safe by the arm.
''I doQ^t think it is each a bad
place,*^-8aid I, ^* if one could once get
into the way of it. But the first
thing is to find a lodging to oqr-
selves; and are jou not hungry? I
am. By the by, what money have
you brought with you ?"
Thereon my man looked at me sus-
piciously, and extricating himself
from my arm, broke off; and though
I hastened to follow him, he was lost
in the infinity, and I felt that I was
once more amidst infinity— -dead and
alone.
So I awoke, and I wrote down this
dream just as it happened; and at-
tempting no explanation, for no ex-
planation was given to me.
Hebmidbb.
THK SLBCTIOK PETITIONS.
WHO POB TBI BBZBERT f
Thb country is beginning to find
ont what it owes to the Coalition
€$abinet and its motley mass of Libe-
ral supporters. In order to replace
the Whig chiefs in office,->in order
that Louis Napoleon might again see
the author of the Conspiracy Bill at
the head of the British Grovernment,
—and in order that Lord John Rus-
sell might once more exhibit how
easily he is overreached by foreign
diplomatists, — ^for these several rea-
sons, of which the first is of course
the chief, the Liberal party combined
to out short the career of the Con-
servative Administration, and there-
by flung back into the void the many
excellent measures, of legal and other
reform, which that Administration
bad introduced. For this the coun-
try has bad no equivalent. As re-
gturds foreign affiiirs, every one knows
in what a blundering and offensive
podtion ti^e peace of Yillafranca has
]daoed the jBritish Government in
the eyes of Europe. And if we turn
for compensation to home affiurs,
what do we find f Nothing. Not a
angle measure has been proposed by
the new Cabinet. They do not appear
to have given a single successful
thought to the work of internal imr
provement Possibly the occupants
of Downing Street had too much to
do in keeping on good terms with
one another, to have any spare
strength left to devote to the inte-
rests of the public. Yet the session,
after aU, has not been wholly unpro-
fitable. .It has cleared the public
Apprehension upon something more
than the admimstrative incapacity
of the Ministry; for it has made
plain, also, the disgraceful corruption
of the Liberal party and the hypo-
critical effrontery of the Liberal
chiefs. The session has been short,
but it has served to elbibit the Libe-
ral party in an aspect which the coun-
try will not soon forget. It began
amidst a chorus of Liberal invectives
against the Conservative Ministry for
Gurrupting the constituencies ; it has
ended amidst a wail of the Liberals
over lost seats, lost money, lost repu-
tation ; and some of them, professors
of most Pharisaic purity, are now go-
ing about in a state of moral unclean-
ness which no amount of whitewash-
ing will ever cover any more. Even
the house of Bright has fallen into a
lamentable state of impurity. And
that Brutus of politics, so implacable
towards the fabulous failings of his
opponents, ought now to stand forth as
the moral executioner of those of his
own household. It is a pretty spec-
tacle for those who have hitherto be-
lieved that the purity of the Liberals
corresponded with their glowing pro-
fessions. The Liberal journals are
silent on the subject. It is a disgrace
too deep to be apologised for — ^the
facts are too indisputable to be ex-
plained away. In some quarters, in-
deed, it is faintly suggested that this
is the first time liberalism has lost
her virtue. But the examination made
by the Parliamentary Committees de»
monstrates authoritatively that this
is no virgin lapse, and that the illicit
connection between Liberalism and
bribery has been carried on for a long
time. The evidence of this is so
864
Th$ EUetian Petitioni,--Who doei tU Bribery f [Sept.
strong, that the Daily NetM prefers
to make a clean breast of it With
a naiveti that certainly borders on
itie coolest effrontery, it admits that
^^ the old system of management has
broken down!" — and that the "seats
lost to the Liberals by the decisions
of the Committees^' show plainly that
some other kind of "management*'
mast be had reoonrse to. Are the Jo-
seph Surfaces of Liberalism at length
going to open their eyes to the truth
that honesty is the best policy, and
that instead of profesHing so mnch
virtue they wonld do better to prac-
tise a little of it ?
" Organised calumny," as Roebndk,
who knows them well, has told us, is
the forte of the Whig party. It is
an engine of party which they have
ever worked most assiduously, and
upon which they place great reliance
in all their contests with their rivals.
It is their Armstrong gun, brought
out on all occasions when the tide of
battle threatens to go against them.
And its volleys, it must be admitted,
are very effective; for as long as a
party which panders to the masses,
and whose grand professions of prin-
ciple have not been found out to be
but a whitewash over corruption, fills
the journals with calumnies against
its opponents, the public seldom fails
to believe the greater part of what it
is told. Four months ago the Liberal
party were in a most excited state of
mingled hope and desperation. They
had been looking forward to the Min-
isterial Reform Bill as a question
which would surely reinstate them in
power; but after playing their trump-
card upon it, they tbund themselves
sent back to their constituencies, with
the public mind showing symptoms
of its inclination to turn against them.
In this emergency their Armstrong
gun of calumny was brought out as
usual, and Sir James Graham took
upon himself to fire the first round.
How, consistently with any feeling of
personal integrity. Sir James Graham
could conduct himself in the manner
he did, we do not pretend to explain.
On the hustings of Carlisle, elated at
his nephew's l^ing returned to Parlia-
ment along with him, one wonld have
thought that the milk of human kind-
ness would have displaced for a mo-
ment that soured and bitter spirit pro-
duoed In him by his recent political
isolation. Not so. His old frienda,
Lord Derby and the Conservatives,
bade fair to win the day ; and with an
intensity of hate which none but an
apostate can feel. Sir James roused
himself to spoil their triomph. Call-
ing to his aid the most oaring ca-
lumny, and appealing to the ignorant
prejudices of the masses, he accused
the Government of the most flagi-
tious practices for oomipting the
constituencies. Hundreds of thoo-
sands of pounds, he told his aadienoe,
had been subscribed by the Tories to
buy votes and "foully pack the new
Parliament." Lord Derby himself, he
said, boasted that he had subscribed
£20,000 for that iniquitous purpose.
Sir John Pakington, as First Lord of
the Admiralty, was making an extra-
ordinary expenditure of the public
money for the purpose of securing ad-
ditional votes in the seaports. Gen-
eral Peel, the Secretary at War, was
building useless barracks at Berwick,
in order to buy up that constituency;
and, in order to eecure the votes of the
publicans and innkeepers all over the
country J the rate of billet-maney^ said
Sir James, had been trebled, by an
arbitrary act of the Government.
Fifthly, a compact had been made
with the Pope, by the promise of
another Catholic University in Ire-
land. And sixthly, there was the
Galway contract, of which Sir James
said — "It would have been cheaper
for the people of England to g^ve the
Government £100,000 capital to be
expended as secret service money in
buying up the Galway votes and de-
bauching the voters, rather than this
£70,000 under contract for seven
years ! I" We do not know where to
find a parallel to the exhibition which
this bitter and unscrupulons old man
made on the hustings of Carlisle. He,
a Privy Councillor of her Majesty,
dared openly and ostentatiously to
charge the Government, collectively
and severally, with acts of gross
political corruption, practised widi a
view "fouUy to pack the new
Parliament:" and yet every chai^ge
which he made was. to nse Dis-
raeli^s well-merited epithet, '^an im-
pudent fabrication.'^ Lord Derby
had never subscribed £^,000, nor
£10,000, nor £5,000 ; and the febulou
snms alleged to have been sabscribed
by the Carlton Club existed nowhers
1859.]
The SUUion FitUion$,--'Wko dm the Bribery t
865
8aTe ia the heated and ranooroos
imaginatioQ cyf tibe veteran Member
for Oarlisle. The bailding of bar-
racks at Berwick, and the extraor-
dinary ezpenditore of the Admiralty,
were pure inyentions. An "Inde-
pendent Liberal " himself came for-
ward to approve most highly of the
Gal way contract; not a trace of
bribery was alleged to have taken
place at the Gal way election, and the
town returned an oppositionist as
before. No promise had been made
of a new university to Ireknd ; and
as to the compact with the Pope, the
election riots at Limerick (of which
we shall speak by-and-by) at once
sent that cakmnr into oblivion.
Lastly, as regards the increase of the
billet-money — which Sir James de-
clared had been made by an arbitrary
and uT^ostifiable act of the Govern-
ment, and with a view to influence the
elections, — ^that increase had been re-
commended by a Parliamentary com-
mittee, and had actually been intro-
duced into the Mutiny Act, and voted '
by the House of Ck>mijions, before
there was any ^Epeotation of a disso-
lution at all! Such were the fabri-
cations set afloat by the Kni^c of
Netherby, and which were assiduous-
ly kept up as long as possible by the
liberal journals. No one envied Sir
James Graham's position when Par-
liament reassembled. He had been
called to account by Sir John Paking-
ton and General Peel, and had to
withdraw his calumnies in the news-
papers ; and on the very fir^ night
of the session Lord Derby gave him
an equally flat contradiction, which
he had likewise to swallow with
whatever grace was left him. No
wonder, then, that when at length he
rose in his place, smarting under the
cutting sarcasms of the Ohancellor of
the Exchequer, and complained of his
'•painful position," and of Mr. Dis-
raeli^s remarks as a breach of "the
established rule among gentlemen^^'*
he was met by the scornful laugh of
the House, and was only tolerated to
a close on account of his age and long
service in the councils of the nation.
Lorl Palnerston likewise took up
the cry of corruption against the Min-
istrv,— confining himself, however,
'With due caution, to a vague allega-
tion, and avoiding that " condescend-
ing npon paiticolart " whioh bnmght
the reckless Kniffht of Netherby to so
much . ffrief. m concert with his
party, Uie noble Yiscoiint took his
part in the nian of " organise<l calum-
ny" directea against the Conseryative
Ministry. And when Parliament
met, those who were present on the
night of the 7th June will remember
the grand bow-wow manner in which
the present Premier gave the House
to understand that if he did not ut-
terly overwhelm the Ministry with
proofs of their electoral corruption,
It was only because he was merciful,
and would not do so just yet. " The
dissolution," he said, " was a culpable
proceeding, — it was sacrificing what
might eventually have been great
national interests, in order to scram-
ble for a few votes at diflTerent hus-
tings.* The right hon. gentleman
spoke with great levity of the charges
made against the Government for
irregular practices at the elections in
certain parts of the country. I am
not going to enter into that question
now. But I will venture to tell him
[here the noble Viscount gave a most
meaning and mysterious shake of the
head and right arm] that, before any
great length of ti.ne has passed, there
will be plenty of occasions— many
more, perhaps, than will be agree-
able to hon. gentlemen opposite —
when that subject will be brought
under our notice." 1 1 stands recorded
in the Times thht the only ostensible
eflect which this produced in the
House was "a laugh" — which we
are tree to admit came from the Con-
servatives, who knew that it was all
biank-curtridge work, designed to
make a noise and smoke for the mo-
ment. That stanch Whig official,
Mr. Wilson, followed suit, and in
backing up the inuendoes of Ills chief,
made special allusion to the hardship
whioh the " sinful " Ministry had in-
flicted upon himself. " He main-
tained that the dissolution was a sin-
ful and unworthy act. In his own
case (he said) the whole weight and
strength of the Government were
brought to bear to induce his consti-
tuents to return a verdict in their
favour ; and it might be his duty to
bring before the House the manner
in whioh the whole strength of the
Government had been brought to
bear against him." Mr. Wilson's
opinions of dn^ apparently altered^
856
Tk$ JSleetunh PeHUonM.-^Who d4>e» the Brikeryf
[Sept
for he never favpnred the Home with
any further allasion to the hardships
which he had so patriotically endared
and triainphantly overcome. Bat,
as the best comment on his com-
plaint, we may mention that when
a new election shortly afterwards
took place, the Oonservatives stood
higher on the poll than before ; so
that whereas in April, the Liberals
were ahead by 123, at the election
after the new Ministiy was in power
the minority of the Libera] candidate
was only 49 1
Little as the Derby Administration
and its supporters cared for these
charges, knowing them to be a mere
sham on the part of their opponents,
yet the sham served Lord Palmer-
ston and his Whig friends very well.
It was known that there were a good
many waverers in the Liberal camp ;
and how could they be better secured
than by daring them to vote for a
Ministry which had exercised such
extraordinarily gross corruption, and
whose majority, if they were even to
get one, would soon be turned into a
minority by the damaging exposures
before the Election Committees ? Mr.
Laing honestly confessed that he
voted against the Ministry with the
greatest reluctance, and only because
be thought himself bound by personal
honour to vote with his i>arty ; and
many others voted in a similar frame
of mind — the only issue presented to
them by their leaders being, whether
they would have a Liberal Govern-
ment, or, in the face of the country,
show themselves supporters of a Tory
Ministry which had been bribing
right and left, and debauching the
oonslituencies \ As the result of these
tactics the (ilonservative Ministry was
outvoted by 18, — a narrow majority
at best, but worth nothing as a stable
source of strength, seeing that while
the Oonservatives form a compact
phalanx, the Liberal party is split
into most discordant sections. But
ere the session ended, that mi^'ority,
small as it was, had all but sunk to
zero. It soon became evident that
members had voted against the Min-
istry on the lOth of June who had no
right to vote, or even to be in the
House at alL No sooner did the
Election Committees begin their
work than the ^ deii's dozen," whp
had pUoed Lord Palmerston in
power, were found to be *^men of
straw" — most of them having got
their seats by the roost shameieea
bribery. And on the 11th of August
^-exactly two months after the Libe-
ral journals announced the defeat of
the Conservatives, the same joumaJa
had to confess that eight of the libe-
ral migority had been unseated for
bribery, and that two of the seats thus
rendered vacant had been gained by
Conservatives ; while the elevation of
Mr. Labouchere to the peerage had
given another gain to the Oonserva-
tives at Taunton! In other words,
exactly two months after the Liberals
had replaced themselves in office by
a minority of 18, that migority had
been reduced by the deoisionst of
committees and new elections to <mly
<m6 ; and the Liberals who had been
so boastful of their own virtue, and
so profuse in charges of corruption
against their opponents, were them-
selves found to have been the very
chief of sinners! Well might the
Daily News^ on the twelfth of Au-
gust, thus lament over the havoc that
was then taking place, not on the
moors, but in the committee-rooms I
**It is pretty clear that the present
system of what is called managing
elections, as far as the Liberal party
is concerned, will never do. Seat
after seat has been lost to the Libe-
rals by the decisions of commit-
tees, while the Oonservatives have
hitherto managed to escape. And
what is far worse, of the new elections
that have taken place, two out of
three have resulted in the substitution
of adversaries for friends. In a word,
the old system of management has
broken down." '^ For the first time in
half a century Taunton is now repre-
sented by two opponents. As for
Dartmouth, after a vsun show of
fight, it was unaccountably abandoned
to the enemy. We cannot refrain
from asking plainly, why was this?
The last election for Dartmouth was
declared void on account of bribery:
was it thought inexpedient to risk
another ehotD-ap next session ? "
There was little doing in the House
of Conmions daring the laat foirtnight
of the session, but any one was w^
repaid for his trouble who, during
that period, visited the oommiUee-
rooms. We say trouble, for the
thing had ita diaoomforts as well as
18M.3
Th0 BbOmn IVUl&Mw.— Tf^ doe$ tis Bt%b$ryf
8G7
its amnmemeDt If one of tfae pabllo,
and not of the priTlleged few who
had ftooees within tiie barrier, after
squeezing yourself in at the door,
yon fbond yonrseif in the midst of
a perspiring orowd filling one side
of a spaoioQs chamber orerlooking
the pestiferons Thames. At a table
within the barrier nt the members
of the committee, and facing them the
legal gentlemen, and the nohappy
witness whom for the time they
happen to have npon the rack. The
greater part of the petitions against
the return of the Oonservatires had
been withdrawn. They were got np
merely with a view to direct prejn-
dice against the OonservotiTe Minis-
try at the opening of the session, and,
having served this purpose, were im-
mediately abandoned. Therefore it
was Conservative petitions against
liberal members that formed the balk
of the first cases tried. And foremost
on the list is the Wakefield petition,
charging Mr. Bright^s brother-in-law,
W. H. Leatham, with having nnlaw-
folly obtained the seat by means of
bribery. Here the Oommittee beg
the hon. gentleman to inform them
whether it is the case that £1100
have been spent in seonring his
return, and make inqniries as to
who were the fortunate recipients
of t^is "« liberal^' disbursement. To
which the brother-in-law of the
immaculate Mr. Bright replied that
**he had paid Mr. Wainwright (his
agent) two cheqnes--one fbr £200,
and the other for £500 : in addition,
the expenses acoountea for to the
auditor were upwards of £400 ; and
he believed there were some smaU
accounts still unsettled." As to how
the money had gone, was a very pain-
ful branch of the inquiry; and the
Btauchest dd Tory could hardly have
helped commiserating this ^* advanced
Liberal'^ in his humiliating dilemma.
On the famous 10th of June Mr. W.
H. Leatbam could not constrain him-
self to give a silent vote against the
Ministry. A Reformer so illustri-
ously connected as he, and ^cially
deputed to second his brother-in-law
in his crusade against aristocratic
influence and corruption, he must
tell the House why he condemned
the Ministry. " As a new member,"
he said, " he felt the grave responsi-
bHi^ of the vote he wad called, upon
to give. But he was sent to Parliar
ment on one question — that of poUti-
oal reform ; and on the ground ^
that question he must vote against
the Government They failed in
their measurs of Reform, and he be-
lieved the forty-shilling flreeholdere
would never foiget the insult which
that meamre pat upon them." Here,
tlron, was a speoial champion of Be-
form^^ne whose deputed mission It
was to free the oonstitnencies from
the bribes, and the country from the
rule, of tbe corrupt Oouservatives.
Bat very uncomfortable does he look
now, though seated in the softest of
easy-chairs ; and those who look on
begin to understand why he should
be so eager a champion of the borou^
freemen — ^those being notoriously the
class of all others moet acoeesible'to
bribes, Wakefield is one of the
boronghs created by the Reform Bill
of 1832, and Mr. Leatham is a politi-
cal puritan of ihe moet ^' advanced"
school--^ relative and chosen lien-
tenant of Mr. Bright's; yet what do
we find proved of this Reform
borough and Reform champion ?
The evidence adduced before the
Oommittee clearly established the
prevalence of Hie most disgraceful
corruption on the part of the Liberal
member — the tariff of bribery ranging
from £10 to £80 for a vote, accord-
ing to the hour of th^ day and the
aspect of the poll. And the Oom-
mittee found and dechured, ^^ That
it was proved to them that Thomas
Beaumont has been bribed by the
payment of £10 ; that John Jackson
has been bribed by the payment of
£80 ; that John Oousins &0 been
bribed by the payment of Jfes ; and
that Geoiige Senior has been bribed
by the payment of £80." And their
unanimous decision is, '* That William
Henry Leatham was by his agents
guilty of bribery at the last election
for the borough of Wakefield ;" that
therefore '' he is not duly elected to
serve in the present Parliament ;" and
'^ that the last election for the said
borough is a void election." While
this exposure was overwhelming
the house of Bright, in another room
another committee was pronouncing
a similar sentenoe npon another Li-
beral,— declaring that Mr. 8ohenley
VOL, LTXXVI.
24
868
' l%e BUeUon FHUhni.^Wh0 doei tiU Bribm^f
[a«pt
was not doly eleoted for Dartmootli,
beoaiue be also, by bit agents, bad
been gniltj of bribery. Abont the
same time two of the petitions pre-
sented by the Liberals against Oonser-
vative members faiUd^ — at the same
time involving another Liberal in the
sentenoeofcormptlon: Mr.Astellwas
declared dnly eleoted for Ashbnrton;
and for Aylesbory, Mr. Bernard and
Mr. Smith (Conservatives) were also
found dnly elected; while the Sec-
tion of Wentworth (Liberal) was pro-
nounced void, as bribery had been
practised bv his agent.
The Gloucester case cost the
Liberals two more seats, and more
disgrace. The ditclosures were droll
as w^l as startling. It appears that
liie state of parties in Gloucester is
nearly balanced, and the better chiss
of Liberals had resolved not to at-
tempt to monopolise both seats. But
there is a Reform Olub in Gloucester,
and this resolve did not tally with
their wishes^-whatever their wishes
may have been. A deputation from
the club accordingly proceed to Lon-
don, and under their patronage Mr.
Monk Ifcame down to canvass the
borough. The tactics adopted on his
^de appear to have been veiy simple.
It was openly proclaimed that ^^if
money could do it, Mr. Monk would
win ;*' and the local Journal on tbe
Liberal side significantlv announced
that, in addition to his other pre-
eminent excellences, Mr. Monk had a
father-in-law who was amillionnaire,
and from whom great things might
be expected if Mr. Monk were re-
turned. A great change now took
place on the part of the leading
Liberals^who had hitherto kept aloof
fitmi thl intruder; and Mr. Price,
tiieir candidate-^md who might still
have been one of tbe members fbr
Gloucester but for this suicidal step
«.40w came forward to ^ sail in tiie
same boat" with tbe long-pursed Mr.
Monk. From this time up to tbe
election, threats, bribes, and per-
suasive supplies of drink were em-
ployed on the side of the Liberals,
who talked openly of the necessity of
'' fighting Ibe Tories with their own
weapons !" Their method of doing
this was to hand over large sums to
several trusted individuals, each of
whom was expected to secure a
given number of votes-^tbe residue
of these laiffe suma Of any) appaxoDtly
ootng into the podcets of tbe trostsd
mdividnals. The chief personi who
figured in this process of ^ DanniBg"
bribery, were a grocer, a bookseUsr,
a Mr. Wilton, *' doctor to the Befera
Club," and a Mr. Jacobs ««<tf the
'Little Dustpan.' " These indi^dnsia
seem to have found that it was no
easy matter satiating the love of Incre
<m the part of the free and indepen-
dent Lioerals of GloncestM* ; for we
find in tbe evidence that tbe gieov
soon professed himself runt dry^ thst
the surgeon was bled to exhaoalaoo,
and the '^ Little Dustpan" quite
deaned out In this extremi^ sb
agent, Clark, from London, amved
on the scene, and with him a Mr.
Thompson, who was a very seb-
stantial existence for the time, bat
who has now vanished into a mere
golden myth, — nobody knowing whsi
has become of him, and Mr. Monk
deponing that he never once heard ef
him before? This mythical hm^
however, brouffbt with him f^eeh
supplies of "the needfhl," and re-
vived the exhausted hopes of tbe
local agents bv assuring them that
be can get £1000 more than be
brought with him : and among other
disbursements, Mr. Clai^ depoueB
that after the first hour's pollings
'« Thompson paid Wilton £60 more.*'
We need not go farther into the
curious details of this shamelesa cor^
ruption; but we have shown enoogfa
of it to satisfy anv one that the Gom-
mittee did not judge harshly when
thev decided that the election was
null and void, and that both of the
Liberal sitting members bad been
guilty of bribery through their agents.
Tbe case of Norwich was equally
damaging (coating tbem two votes)
and disgraceful to the Liberal partj.
Here we shall content ourselves with
quoting the decision 6f theComniittee,
which ran as follows : —
*' That Mr. H. W. Schneider is not dnly
elected a citiien to serve in the preeent
Parliament for the oity and the coonty
of the city of Norwich. That the Hon.
W. Contts Keppel, commonly called
Lord Bury, waa not duly elected at the
election held on the 80th of April 1859,
a citixen to serve in the present Parik*
ment for the said city ana the county of
the said city of Norwich. That the md
H. W. 8ehnei<Ur and VucawU Bury
1859.]
lUe BUUi9n PMiwM.'-Wh^ iom Uts Bribery f
, by their ayenU, ff%Ukf i>f bribery at
the Uuft-fntntimud election. 7%st U wot
proved to the eommiUee thai Stoner had
Wen Mbed by the payment •/ £^ and
thai eeeerai other peireoiu hadkeen bribed
mithvarieut amounte; but it was not
proT«d to th« committoA that tho aboye-
mantioned bribery waa oommitted with
the knowledge and oonaent of the said
H. W. Schneider and VisoouDt Bnry.
That it appeart to the oommittee that
Robert French voted for BL W. Sohnej-
der in expectation of receitinff a cootri-
bntioD, by witnessct alleged to hare
been promieed to him by the said H. W. '
Behneider, towards lomes inenrred by
his brother atm fire. Thai H. W. Sehnei*
der did, by a letter dated the 28th of
May, enhseqneni to the eleetion, under-
take to forward through his agents a
eontribution to the said Robert Frenob ;
bat that no eontribution was aetnaUv
|>aid. The committee are not satisfied,
AoweTer, in the above-mentioned evi-
. dence, that the above was intended as
a corrupt agreement on the part of the
said H. W. Schneider."
The BeverUy case also was one in
wlHch the Gonaervative petitioiiarB
were aoooeasfal. In this election the
liberals oondneted their bribery
more caotloasly, and chiefly by pay-
ing freemen of the boroagh exor-
bitant wages for doing nominally
the work of messengera. Also the
polling-derks, who were wt&rs^ were
paid three goineas, while those who
were not voters received only one
guinea. In this omc Mr. Walters,
the Libera], was ^ected, and Mi^or
Edwards, the Conservative, mdn*
tained his seat
Let us now glance at some of the
oases in which bribery was proved
against the Liberals, yet the Members
were allowed to retain their seats.
And first on this list, as on the former
one, comes a brother-in-law of Mr.
Bright— Mr. £. A. Leatham, brother
of the ejected Member for Wakefield,
and ntting himself for Huddersfield.
Bribery here took rather a comical
fi)rm — ^mQch of it being done by
giving overprices for pigs, and
by makhig anti-temperance pre-
sents of barrels of beer I The
decisbn of the oommittee was as
foDowB : ^ That it was proved to your
committee that George Moxon and
John Ohi^man were bribed to vote
for Edwud Aldham Leatham by
Jabez WeHs, by the payment of £10
more than the market valne of some
piss. That Joseph Oroasley had been
bnbed by one Edward Frith to vote
at the last election, under a protnise
that part of his house wculd be used
as a committee-room. That Godfiiey
Hudson, a pubHcan, had been bribed
by Jabez Wells for a like purpose.
Iliat Henry Partridge hiul been
bribedbyJobn Wilson for a like pur-
pose. That Joseph Hobbison bad
Deen bribed for the like purpose.
That Aquila Priesdv had been bribed
with haff a barrel of beer. That there
was no evidence that such acts of
bribery had taken place with the
knowledge of E. A. Leatham," and
therefore that he ^' was duly elected.*'
After the elections, Mr. Bright, in the
fulness of his heart, boasted that he
would now walk into the House of
Commons with a brother-in-law on
each arm. He little thought how
soon one of these relations was to be
walked out of the House in a very
summary and humilialjng way; and
how the other, though escaping Sec-
tion, must ever be ridiculous to the
risible, and offensive to the moral,
faculties of the House, on account of
the barrels of beer and the corrupt
traffic in the '* unclean animal^' to
which he owed his election. The
Maidstone case was another In which
the Liberal Members escaoed in a
manner not very creditable to the
Oommittee, and very discreditable
to them. For the (Committee testi-
fied tiiat it was proved to them
^ that Henry Smith, an elector, was
bribed on his own confession by a
sum of £10 ; and that Richard Rose
and J. Honey, two other electors
who voted for the dtting Members,
were paid 26s. each after voting, for
travelling-expenses; but that none
of the transactions referred to were
done with the knowledge or consent
of the ritting Members or their
agonUP^ How disinterested in their
corrupt expenditure some liberab
must be, when they buy up votes
without having the least connection
with the candidate or bis agents I
The scandal of these cases was
great; but— marvel of marvebl —
who should come forward to vindi-
cate them but the immaculate John
Bright himsel£ And this is the
870
J%e EUetion PeHtion9.^Who .<Zm» the Bribery?
[Sept
way in which he seeks to whitewash
the soiled reputation of his two re-
latives and their fellow-sinners: —
^^A man comes into this House— a
great many men can hardly tell how
ihej get here — and he finds that
some Mends of his, in their zeal and
in the heat of the contest, have done
things which are imprudent. I ad-
mit that many Members who are
presumed to know Yery little do
know a great deal of these matters.
At the same time, a memher may he
returned by means which a Parlia- *
mentary Committee would not sanc-
tion, and yet he ignorant of those
means having been exerted.^' Of
course, as an hypothesis, this is not
altogether impossible. But certainly
it is not often that a man's friends
will draw cheques and spend money
on his behalf widiout giving him
even a hint of their benevolence.
Only fancy a pure and incorruptible
Liberal of the "advanced" type,
who is resolved to light the baUle
on the highest principles, and yet-
in his despite and without his know*
ledge — ^his friends go about spending
their money on his behalf, thrusting
pound- notes into teapots and other
odd places, exhilarating the voters
by presents of barrels of beer, and
making purchases of pigs at treble
their value I To complete the bur-
lesque of all probability, it only need-
ed that John Bright should thus
come forward to champion the cause
of those Members, whom he believes
to have suffered so much from the
obstinate over-benevolence of their
fnends. The case of bis two brothers-
in-law appears to have touched his
heart.
Petitions against Conservative
Members, we have said, were aban-
doned wholesale; and in the cases
which were proceeded with — ^namely,
those of North Leicestershire, Ash-
burton, Aylesbury, and Beverley, the
Conservatives came off in triumph.
The only case in which a Committee
decided against a Conservative Mem-
ber, was that of Hull. Mr. Hoere,
who was returned for that borough at
the General Election, is described by
the matter-of-fact Dod as *^a vary
moderate Conservative;'' but appa-
rently the committees were glad to
get hold of any sort of a Conservative,
in order that it might sot be Mid that
while so many Laberals fell, not a
single Conservative shared their fata.
Mr. Hoare, it seems to us, bad a very
scrimp measure of juslioe dealt oat
to hfm. And in saying this, we do
so deliberately, and with ezpresi
reference to parallel cases in whidi
Liberal members were allbwed to
retain their seats. In Mr. Hoare*8
case no direct acts of bribery were
even alleged; but it was charged
against him that too many '^mes-
sengers, canvassers, booth-clerka, and
check-clerks, were employed by his
party." The canvass and eieo-
tion contest was a pretty long one,
lasting nearly three weekiB, and dop-
ing that time these messengers, ^eol,
were employed, some for two, three,
or four days, others far the whole
time, at the not very exorbitant wage
of from 2s. 6d. to 8s, 6d. a-day. Their
number also was less than that em-
ployed during the same period by the
Liberal side-^tbat is to say, by Mr.
Clay, Mr. Hoare's Liberal colleague,
who was allowed to retain his seat,
and by Mr. Lewis, the defeated Lib-
eral candidate, whoee frienda thus
petitioned against Mr. Hoare's re-
turn. Nevertheless Mr. Hoare kist
his seat, — ^and thia although the
committee declared that the em-
ployment of this undue number of
messengers, &o., was not done ^by
or with the consent of the said
Joseph Hoare, E^q., mAo shewed great
anxiety to ^eck any illegal pro-
ceedings in reepeet to the eaid elec-
tionj*' Now compare this dedsion
with those of the committed on the
Maidstone and Huddersfield election
cases. The Maidstone oommittee
decided that ^^ Henry Smith, *who
voted for the sitting members, was
E roved, on his own admission, to
ave been bribed by the sum of £10."
And the Huddersfield committee
decided that "it was proved tiiat
George /Moxon and John Chapman
were bribed to vote for £. A. Lea^
tbam, by Jabez WeUa, by the pay-
ment of £10 more than the market
value of some pigs; that Joeeph
Crossley had been bribed by one
Edward Frith to vote at the last
election under the promise that part
of his room should be used as a com-
mittee-room; that Godfrey Hadsoo,
1859.]
The EUeti&n FiHtim$,^Who daei the Bribery f
S71
a publican, had been bnbed by Jabez
Wells for a like purpose ; that Henry
Partridge had been bribed by John
Wilson for a like purpose ; that
Joseph Hobbxson had been bribed
for the like parpose ; that Aqnila
Priestly had been bribed with half
a barrel of beer." Bot they held that
Mr. Loatham was "dnly elected,**
on the groapd ^^that there was no
evidence that such acts of bribery
had taken place with his knowledf^.*'
Thus then, at Maidstone and Hnd-
dersfield, three Liberal Members were
held to be duly elected, although
most flagrant cases of bribery were
committed on their behalf ; whereas
at Hull Mr. Hoare was unseated
simply for having had too many hired
messengers, dec, although this was
not done " bv or with ms consent,"
and althoQgh the Committee were
forced to add (what was not said for
the Liberal Members for Maidstone
and Hoddersiield), that Mr. Hoare
** showed great anxiety to check any
illegal proceedings in respect to the
said election." This Hull case was
one of the very last decided ; and it
seems impossible to doubt that the
Committee entered upon its labours
with a predetermination, if possible,
to offer up one Conservative — even
though only " a very moderate '' one
— ^to the manes of the eight advanced
Liberals who had been unseated.
The result of the new election at Hull,
however, has proved how entirely in-
dependent either of bribery or of Gov-
ernment influence was Mr. Hoare*s
success; for not only has a Conser-
vative been again elected, but the
Conservative mtgority, which was 810
in April, has now swelled to 489 !
Let us give one glance more at
these election-cases. Take the Lim-
erick case, in which the Conserva-
tives petition to have the election
declared void on account of the vio-
lent riots which took place, by which
many Conservative voters were pre-
vented from polling. Mr. Spaight
was the Conservative candidate, —
Mi^or Gavin was the Liberal one;
and the proceedings show that, what-
ever Lord Granville chose to say to
the contrary, if any party in Parlia-
ment had bought the support of the
Bomon Catholics, it certainly was
not Lord Derby's Government. At
the very outset of the contest the
spirit of religious bigotry was in-
voked to defeat the Conservative,
and the following placard was posted
all over the town : — " Catholics !
unite, now and for ever. Down with
Protestant ascendancy. Down with
Spaight and the Orange jury-packing
Government of Lord Derby. Hur-
rah for Ghivin I " And the chairman
of Megor Gavin gave vent to bis re-
ligious sentiments by proposing to
deal thus ferociously with the Con-
servative candidate : — " I will have
your Orange liver out of your body,"
he said, "• and have it tnrown into
the Shannon ! " On the election day
there were in Limerick nearly 2000
horse and foot, besides 500 of the
well-trained military police of Ire-
land ; yet the rioting was so serious
that this force, or the authorities
who directed it, were quite unable to
preserve order. The bridges over
the Shannon— especially the one
called after Father Mathew — were
strategetically seized by the mob;
the cars conveying the Conservative
voters were assailed by showers of
stones, and direct violence was em-
ployed to prevent electors voting for
Mr. Spaight. M^or Gavin, riding
on horseback at the head of the
mob, drove the police from Mathew's
Bridge, where Mr. Spaight's voters
had to cross. Captain Burgess, who
was in command of a detachment of
the 9th Regiment, bears witness
thus : — ^** The greatest crowd was
about one o'clock. Saw the mob
pelting stones at cars. M^or Gavin^s
name was on his cars, and Mr. Rus-
seirs on his. Gerrard and witness's
men were struck with the stones
from twelve to one o'clock. Major
Conner was in command of all the
company of infantry. He ordered
witness to take a division of his com-
pany and clear the bridge. Marched
to the bridge. Were pelted all the
way there. Several of witnesses men
were struck and their firelocks in-
jured. Was injured himself and
compelled to get exemption from
duty tor five or six days. Was lame
for a month afterwards. It was a
very violent pelting, and stones very
large. Never saw such violence at
an election before. Had attended
several in Ireland." If r. Warburton,
S72
lU EleUwn FetUioMj^Wh^ d^m ih§ Br^erff
l60St
who commanded the oonstabnlarr,
testified that his meo had to fix
bayonets before they conid force a
passage at Mathew^s bridge; and
several electors deponed that thej
foond tbemselTes in such danger that
they had to retire without voting for
Mr. Spdght Mr. Cramble, a Catholic,
and supporter of Uie Oonserrative
candidate, said:— '^ Went with Mr.
Spaight in his canvass, and a violent
mob immediately collected round
tiiem. Witnesses house was attacked
and broken into by the people, and
all the shop windows smasned. Wit-
ness saw a voter named Ryan in the
hands of the mob on the day of poll-
ing. The people were dragging him
along the street. He once escaped
and was re- captured. The mob eveo-
tually put him In a car and drove
him to the poIHngboth. Ryan had
promised his vote for Spaight After
the polling was over witness shut
up his shop. The mob then came
and broke between sizty and seventy
panes of glass in his house. Thev, in
fact, continued breaking them till the
firing began. The police came to wit-
ness's house after the windows were
broken, and remained there for about
ten (lays.** And all through the eleo-
tiou-day, as was proved by several
witnesses, Major Gavin headed the
rioters at every point, conspicuous on
a white horse. Yet the decision of
the Committee was that there was no
evidence that the cavalier of the
white horse instigated the rioting;
and also that it was not proved that
the riots ^^ were of such a duration or
of such a character as to prevent the
votes of the electors being recorded.**
Duration I Why, the riots lasted not
only till the poll closed and all the
aflernoon—till the soldiers had to
fire on the mob ; but the houses of
some of Mr. Spaigfat's supporters had
to be guarded by the police for ten
days afterwards I And vet the elec-
tion was passed as a valid election ;
and the Liberal Major is still Member
for Limerick !
Such in brief were the disclosures
of bribery and intimidation made
before the election-committees, for
which eight Liberals were unseated,
and for which certainly other four
should have been similarly punished.
The facts speak for themselves. They
need no fine perontMm to Mng
home to the conntry a seme of the
unparalleled shameleiBBeBa and cor-
ruption of the Liberal party. What
men to be the ohampioos of eleetonl
reform! After all their ealanuues
against the Oonservativca, to be so
convicted themselves, while their op-
ponents appear purity itself beside
them I Well mig^t Roebock, him-
self a Liberal, thns indigaaaUy de-
nounce the conduct of his party : —
**Some time ago the public were wan-
ed that great eorroptioa had been prae-
tised by gentlemen sitting on these (the
Opposition) benches; but I am sorry to
say that, by diieoTeries recently mlide,
it has been found that cormptioB has
taken place on that (the Ministerial) side
of the house. And the remarkable hm-
tnre of the case ia^ that noble lords and
right hon. gentlemen are sitting on the
benches opposite in oonseoQenee ; for I
believe that pretty nearly the whole
number of their majority have been dis-
franchised since inquiries have been in-
stituted, and that they have been dis-
franchised because of bribery. Why,
sir, the whole country was startled, ' the
isle was fnghted from its propriety,' by
the statement which was made by the
virtuous gentlemen opposite. It was
said that a noble lord and right boo.
gentleman had subscribed, combined,
and conspired for the purpose of bring-
ing a majority into Parliament. Upon
woieh side does the imputation rest
now f Why, the statements which have
been made within the last ten days be-
foreOommittees of this Hooseare enough
to shock the feelings of the country at
the conduct of a party which calls itself
Liberal, and a great number of whom I
recollect in the year 18S0 raising a gfeat
outcry affainst the corruption of the an-
cient Parliaments. Why,sir, there was no-
thing ever done in the ancient Parlia-
ments worse than has been done in thia
I do say, then, that it behoves this House
to take into its most serious considera-
tion how it can by any possibility atop
this evil, and I entreat hon. gentlemen
who are sitting on our committees to
have the courage to be honest, and not
to add base hypocrisy to the horrible
corruption that now prevails."
What is to come next f WiH the
Liberals now abandon their assumed
monopoly of Purity, and eonfeas that
their professions have been no better
than a ruse to cover their own mal*
practices, and that their clamoar
against the Oonservativea is simply
18M.]
l%e EUUUm BMAoM.-^Who dm the Bribery f
m
a pamllel to the dodce by whioh a
' piokpooket seeki to torow mispioioa
t off himaelf by oamog '' stop thief I''
Nay, will they not attempt to tarn
^ their very sine to acoonot, aod quote
I the electoral oormption of their own
^ raakiiig as a proof in favour of the
Ballot? Are the recent exposures of
' the bribenr practised by the Liberal
party at Gloucester, Nor¥rich, Wake-
field, Aylesbury, Dartmouth, Bever-
ley,— not to speak of Huddersfield'
and Maidstone — ^to be oonverted into
powerful ar^ments for the adoption
of a demoralising and un-£n(^i8h sys-
tem of secret rotlDg? Mr. Oobden,
to whom the oi>inion of an American,
or a paragraph in a New York news-
paper, has become the highest of
all authority, gives as hb newest and
best argument in favour of the ballot,
the opinion of a Phikdelphian, who
says, that he has been *^for fifty
years connected with political move-
ments in Philadelphia, and never
knew a vote bought or sold.'^ Mr
Cobden was so struck with this acci-
dental statement, that he requested
the speaker to put it in black and
white, in order that he might quote
it ss a dencher in England. It did
duty for the first time at the banquet
at Rochdale ; and doubtless we shall
have the whole letter read in exteruo
next spring, in Parliament. ^ Now,^'
sdded Mr Cobden, "the centleman
would not have told me, I am sure,
that elections in America are pure in
every respect, nor that all their elec-
tions are carried on peaceably and
tranquilly; but he mentioueu tiie
£Mt that the ballot presents such an
obstacle to bribery, tnat nobody cares
to buv a vote,'* — ^Uiat is to say, in
Philadelphia, and so far as he knew.
As to we existence of bribery and
corruption in the United States, it is
not nine mouths since the Preadent
himself^ in a published letter, openlv
confessed the existence of these evils
on so great a scale, that in his opinion
they imperil the very existence of
the Union. What is the worth of the
statement of Mr Oobden^s gentleman
compared to this ? Besides, even if
the CMdlot did render bribery imprac-
ticable in the United States, has
there not arisen there in its place a
still worse form of the evil? If voters
are not bribed, are they not attacked
and intimidated by hired ruffians at
the booths ? Do not the rival parties
set themselves to find out the politics
of all and sundry, and then hire
shoulder-hitters, rowdies, and blud-
geon-men to maltreat and obstruct
their opponents as they go to the poll t
Is this any improvement on bribery ?
Bather than see agents slipping a £5
note into a voter^s hand, or doing
other* acts of electoral benevolence,
would Mr Oobden prefer to have
bludgeon-men hired to break people^s
heads t Does he think that it shows
more purity on the part of the candi-
dates, and more fireedom and inde-
pendence in the communitv, that an
election should be gained by break-
ing heads instead of buving votes ?
One word in conclusion. Lord
Ashley, in the debate at the opening
of the session, said that he would
give his vote against ^e Ministry, in
order that they might be replaced by
** a strong and sagacious Aoministra-
tion, that would carry weight in the
councils of Europe, and command
the respect of the people in England.**
And so said many others. Well,
what have they got? Instead of
carrying wttgbt in the councils of
Europe, the British Government is
as nearly isolated as it has ever been
for the last fifty year| ; and instead
of commanding respect at home, the
disclosures before the election-com-
mittees have revealed the shameless
tactics by which the Liberal chiefs
obtained that slender mijoritv which
placed them in office, as well as the
CMselessness of those calumnies with
which they so basely sought to dis-
credit their opponents. And finaUy^
as to the "strong Government"
which Lord Ashley and others reck-
lessly sought to obtain, where is it?
Thirteen was the pitiful minority of
the Ooalition par^ at first — what is
it now ? Not above half that num-
ber. " Six or seven," says Mr Oob-
den ; and Conservatives say three or
four I
874 Jmtf i^ t^ Qm^. (Sipt
^BSET TO THI QUEXST.
Con, throngh seas of sammer calm.
Come, tbrofigh aira of rammer balm.
Greeted with the nation's ps^m,
Victoria 1
TeaiB of lote from eyelids preasingy
Followed bj the people's blessiiigi
Wealth untold in hearta poasesaing^
Viotoria I
Small, thongh ancient of renown.
Eldest heirloom of tby orown,
Offisarea's isle and town-^
Vietorial
Bids thee come and oome again^'
Cheers thee blithely ten times ten^
Queen of islands I Queen of men I
Victoria!
How unlike on yonder coasts,
Fsd&m rise for slaughtered hosts^
Bou^t by fifty thousand ghosts,
"Viotoria!"
Matron, Mother, Monarch good I
Stand thy throne as it hath stood.
Strong by love, not baths oi blood !
Victoria I
Tis because the Crown we count
Honour's jewel, Freedom's fount,
That our yoices sky wiutl mount,
Victoria I
Now we tell that soldier-slaye,
Be he bravest of the brave,
Freedom's shield and God will save,'
Victoria I
Banners ware, and cannon boom,
Lights like glow-worms in each room,
Sockets flash round Fierson's tomb,*
Victoria 1
Beams adieu the fair full moon,
Thunders in the midnight noon
Echo, " Come again right soon,
Victoria!"
G. 0. SWATKK.
Jebset, Avguat 15, 1 859.
* Monoinent to a gallant young soldier, Major Pierson, who fell heading the
BucceMful defence of St Heliers, in Jannary 1781, vben the last attempt vtf
made by the French to obtain poiseesion of the Channel lalanda^
I860.]
Ifvr^ign Aj/lkin-^tke JHmrmammit.
t7S
FOBBIGN AFTAIBS — THT DISARMAMBNT.
PA^ajAimrr bas oloeed its work
iSor the year, and the time is ooxne
when the national Mind, wearied* of
much thinking, usually goes to sleep
for a while npon all matters of pnbllo
importance. The gronse and the red-
deer have been hnnted for a fortnight
on the Scottish moors; and now the
JoyoQB morn has arisen when all the
Btabble-fields of England will be re-
sonant with the whirr of the partridge
and the erack of the fowHng-pieo^
The mental conflict of words and of
ideas is being lolled to rest by the
strong physical exercise of the moors
and the chase. Owing to the reoent-
ness of their accession to office, and
to the adroitness with which they
hare spent two months in doing
nothing, her Mi^esty^s Ministers do
not this year attract public symoathy
as the men most deserving or this
antamnal rest And the events of
the ten weeks which have sneoeeded
their advent to power have been of
such a character that the members of
the (Government will now do well to
spend a portion of their leisure in
reviewing them, and in pondering
the results. The public has more
questions to ask than Parliament
had ; and sooner or later, in one form
or in another, the public will exact
from the Ministry an account of its
stewardship. When getting ready our
rifles and rifle corps, we want to know
more about the management of our
Foreign policy. We want to know
why Lord John Russell should have
been eo elaborately clever in bis
despatches to disgust Prussia. We
want to know how be and the Premier
should have played into the hands of
the French Emperor by a superfluous
irritation of Austria. And what about
this talked-of Disarmament? When
Parliament meets again, are we to
find that the works of national de*
fence have been countermanded, out
of courtesy to the professions of the
French Emperor, or out of deference
to the pacific tastes and financial
difficultiee of Mr. Gladstone? What
is this French disarmament? What
» its extent, and what its motive?
IsMt, on the part of the Emperor, a
definite shutting of the temple of
Janos ; or is it merely a new and
adroit device for the acoonnplishmenft
of the next step in the l^apoleonio
policy?
The Whig IGnisters, in a very un-
justifiable manner, departed from
the strict neutrality of their pre-
decessors. Both the Premier toad
the Foreign Secretary openly ex-
pressed their desire to see the Aus-
trians wholly expelled from Italy.
Such language, had they been in offioe
six months ago, would have been
equivalent to a declaration of war
against Austria. And what is it now
but an actual and official repudiation
of the Treaties of 1816, which form
the sole basis of the territorial settle-
ment of Europe, and which Napo-
leon has commenced to remodel for
the moral and material aggrandise-
ment of France ? . We already have
had a humiliating specimen of the
evil resulting from the abandonment
by her M^iwiy^B Ministers of the
principle of strict neutrality. It
has disgnsted Prussia and alien-
ated Austria; and has made the
British Government appear a di«
plomatic tool in the hands of the
French Emperor. Taking advantage
of their professions, Napoleon III.
has made Lords Palmerston and Rus-
sell dupes and agents for the accom-
plishment of his subtle ends. He
has used them, as he used Kossuth,
simply as a means of frightening
Austria into peace, and then has
tossed them disregardingly aside. In
his address to his subjects, the Empe-
ror of Austria Justified the peace con-
dnded at VillaiVanca by stating that
he found he could get better terms
from bis enemy than from his natu-
ral allies t This appeared a startiing
statement to the uninitiated public;
but soon afterwards more light was
thrown on the subject by a correspon-
dent of the THmU Zeitung^ who gave
a detailed a6count of what took place
prior to the meeting of the Emperors
at Yillafranca. Napoleon III. was
urgent for a personal interview, —
Francis-Joseph was resolutely averse
to it What, then, brought it about ?
976
Iftrmgn Ajfftmm^^ikd JHta/rmameiU.
[SepL
On the lOih, **a long letter was re-
oeived from the Emperor of the
French, in which the military and
political reasons why the Emperor of
Anstria ooght to make peace were
given with eqnal force and Inddity ;''
and in which ^'his Ifi^esty camrnu-
nicated iome turiou$ information re-
lating to the poliey of the neutral
Fotun. The impression produced by
the letter in qnestion was such that
the Emperor Francis^oseph at once
agreed to the proposed mterview.**
From this and other sonroes of in-
formation it is well known that, in in*
dnciDg Austria to make peace, Napo-
leon relied, and relied sncoesBfally,
upon making known to his antagon-
ist some infMtnation which he pos-
sessed relatiTe to the policy of the
neutral Powers. What had he to
tell ? Part, and obvionsly the worst
part of the matter, still lies hid in
those despatches which the Goyem-
ment, through Lord Granville, re-
fused to lay before Parliament. But
independently of what is still kept
a yeiled secret in Downing Street,
let US see how Lords Palmerston
and Russell allowed themselves to
be led by the nose by the French
Emperor, throughout the secret ne-
gotiations. That Lord Palmerston
was duped by Napoleon at the verv
outset of this *^ Italian question,"
during the Yiscount^s visit to Oom-
pi^e, is too ceitain — as, e, g.^ appears
from his dedaradon on the 8th ult.,
**that he had always set his face
against inolently altering the rela-
tions of Europe." He never expected
there would be any war, — ^never
dreamt that the grey redingote was
to be put on, and that another Napo-
leon and Grand Army would be
sweeping across Italy. He looked
forward at most to a Congress, where
England, of course, would magnify
herself by sporting ^^ liberal sympa-
thies" for tbe Italians; and where
the reforms for the Papal States,
which Napoleon made his sole ground
oi quarrel with Austria, would be
easily ac^justed. He little foresaw
that Napoleon had rssolved to draw
the sword, for the special glorifica-
tion of France; and that he would
anub the Italians, and instruct his
penman Oassagnac, to sneer at the
*' liberal symp^es" of England as
soon as he had attained his ends.
One of Palmerston^s own colleagues
— ^now made finance-Minister for
India^-thus writes in his (Mr. Wil-
son's) newspaper, tbe Beonomut: —
** It is now as clear as the day that
the great aim of the Napoleonic
movement has been to mcwre for
France a paramovnt infiuenee in the
politiee of Italy, Anything that will
augment that influence he is likely to
support— anything that curtails it he
wul oppose, even though it seem to
increase the power of Ausbia, since
he well knows that, in the present
state of Italy, the ,^ar of Ausfria is
the advantage of France."
So has ended this French interven-
tion in Italv, which Lord Palmerston
did so much to champion. Duped aft
the outset, he and his Foreign Secre-
tary are now grumbling at the results
of the intervention which they pre-
viously patronized; and they were
eager to take part in the Congress at
Zurich, in the puerile hope that their
verbal vapouring and protests would
have the slightest influence when
weighed against the QnJilic sword.
Napoleon III. has made good use of
Lords Palmerston and Russell, and
can now afford to do without them.
The first illusion which he palmed off
upon them, as to tbe object of tbe
war, was not very creditable to their
discernment; but the manner in
which he made tools of them at the
end (though they be naturally avene
to confess it), they will never for-
get. The recollection must be all the
more galling inasmuch as tbe affair
implies no dishonesty on the part of
the Frenoh Emperor — only folly and
blundering upon theirs. Napoleon
outgeneralled them. He handed them
a copy of terms of peace, which (like
those proposed by Lord Palmerston
in 1848) required that Austria shoidd
wholly abandon her possessions in
Italv, and her interest in Tuscany and
Modena, and begged that ^ey would
communicate these terms to Austria.
They looked at tlra terms, and aoc^it-
ed Uie commission. Indeed, the en-
tire expulsion ni the Austrians teom
Italy ia just what Lord Palmerston
openly expressed his wish to see.
By so doing, they homologated tbe
terms proposed by Franoe. This is
not merely the undentanding of the
1659.]
FoiMigt^ A^ffMn^'the jPJurmaifitfc
•W
mstter in the diplomatic worM^ 1nit|
in troth, there ww no meaning in the
aet at all. nnlees the British GoTem-
ment wiabed to show that it approved
of the conditions of peace thns offered
by France to Austria. France needed
no foreign medinin through which
to open negotiations with Austria.
A staff-officer with a flag of truce
was quite sufficient In point of fact,
Napoleon not only found it perfectly
easy to open communications in this
way with the Austrian headquarters,
bnt did he not even in this way ob«
tain sn interriew with the Austrian
Emperor himself f When he sent his
first terms of peace through tiM Brit*
iah Gabinet, it was with a view to
obtain the rooial weight- of onr Go-
vernment on his side ; and whatever
Lords Palmerston and Russell may
DOW say, by accepting the task of
transmitting these overtures, they
testified a general approval of their
terms. This of itself would have Joe*
tified Francis-Joseph in his declara*
tion that he had obtained better
terms from his foe than fix>m his na«
tnral allies. A pretty spectacle it
was, truly, to see the Himsters of a
oonntiT which professed *^ strict neu-
trality" requiring from Austria far
more than Austria^s foe proved him-
self content to obtain I Lord John
Rnssell was led Into this fiUse posi-
tion by the superior finesse of the
French Emperor : he has nothing to
complain of so much as his own folly.
Napoleon has only to say — ^though
whether he can say so truly is another
qneetion—^^ These were the lowest
terms which I would accept, bnt
now events have induced me to ac*
cept much less.^' It might have so
happened that events would have
taken such a turn as to justifv Napo-
leon in this change of mind. And
hence this great blunder on the part
of the British Oabinet might have
been committed without any attempt
on the part of Napoleon to overreach
them. But that they were over-
reached, purposely led into a snare,
by the French Emperor, no one can
doubt. Oulpably abandoning the
priDciple of neutrality, the British
Premier had avowed his desire to
have Austria expeUed from Italy;
and Napoleon made use of this to
serve his own purpose. The battle
of BoliiBrino had given him another
viotorv ; and neiuer himself, nor his
official penman in the GemHtutitmnel,
can allege any adequate reason for
his sudden change of programme.
Bnt that he never meant to push
Austria to extremities is what we
have all along believed and stated.
And the ibrwarding of these extreme
demands through ^e Britldi Gk)vem-
ment was just designed to render
Austria more ready to accept the
milder terms about to be offered by
himsrif ; and moreover, it was an
excellent means of throwing the ani-
mosity of Austria upon England,
while reaping all the glory of the war
for himself.
The French Emperor has been too
successfbl in his schemes to openly
boaitt of his success. Like every wise
man, it is a maxim with him never to
make a needless enemy. And he
could not at present boast of the
full extent of his success without
making a mortal enemy of England,
whom he has played with and over-
reached. Hence, since the peace, he
affects the air of one who was un-
able to carry out his plans. He
pretends that if he did not adhere to
the programme which he published
to the Italians, and which he got the
British Government to homologate,
it was only because he could not
carry it out. And shortsighted peo-
ple in this country chuckle at the
thought that for once the Emperor
has to confess himself baffled I Vain
conceit Depend upon it, if the Em-
peror had really been baffled, he
would have been the hist to acknow-
ledge it. The ui\joBt suspicions of the
other Powers, and the strength of the
Venetian fortresses, are the two great
obstacles which the Emperor says
caused him to stop. And Oaaaagnac,-
in the Oonitituticnnely with more de*
tail, justifies the peace on the ground
that to have stormed the quadrUa*
ture and driven Austria out of Vene-
tia ^ would have cost long sieges, new
battles, new loans, an immediate war
on the Rhine, disturbances in Central
Italy, insurrections in Hungary and
elsewhere, which it would have been
necessary to tolerate, perhaps to en-
courage: in a word, it woukl have
cost we abandonment of the princi-
pies of order, and the adoption of the
378
Horeign 4^'ri».t^ IHi&rmament
{Sept
iniiieiples of revoiutfon ftnd agitatioiif
for the preidDt, and aa abyss for the
future." Ab if all that was not as
pl^n before the sword was drawn
as it was two months afterwards I
What bad changed in the five weeks
between the pablication of the Milan
manifesto and the signing of peace
at Villafranca? Nothing bnt the
battle of Solferino, and the change of
Ministry in En^and,— nothing bnt
another great victory to the French
arms, and the advent to power in
En^and of a Ministry specially fa-
vourable to the Italian war. lifapo*
leon made peace at Villafranca simply
because he had no desire to carry the
war further, or convert it into a con-
test d Poutranee, His communicat-
ing to the Emperor of Austria the
views of the neutral Powers may
have been — ^as M. de Sohleioitz, the
Prussian Minister, in his sore indig-
nation, says it was^an unjustifiable
violation of the etiquette of diplo-
macy ; bat that was nothing to Napo*
leon : he merely made xu^ of an ad-
vantage which his superior adroitness
had obtained from the shortsighted
blundering of the British MiniBters.
And it most be allowed he turned
that advantage to remarkable ac-
count. It not only enabled him to
close the War while the sti^ngth of
his adversary was still unbroken, but
it also enabled him to ingratiate him-
self with Austria at the expense of
England and Prussia. That he has
done this is beyond question. The
Austrian Emperor himself, in his
manifesto to his subjects, has de-
olared that theEmperor of the French
has acted a more friendly part towards
him than his natural allies; and every
day is revealing more plainly the
schism thus introduced amongst the
Qerman States, and between these
States and Enghmd. Of the soooess
with which Napoleon has driven tbe
wedge into Germany by the peace of
Yillafranca, ^every day's newspaper*
show fresh proof. Unfortunately it is
not a merely ephemeral irritatioii;
on the contrary, it has been growing
stronger every week. The political
letters from Berlin of 35th July, pub-
lidlied in the J<mmal dm JMaUy
speak of the " confusion created every-
where'' by the recent ev«at9. *^ The
Cabinet of Vienna," tiiey say, '* re-
proaches Prussia for its treasonaUe
poliov; and the German States say
openly that Prussia saw with secret
satisfiiotioa the misfortunes of Aus-
tria, and watched the propitious mo-
ment for taking advantage of them,
so as to obtain right and left the ag-
grandisement she covets." As a con-
sequence pf this discord, it is added,
that ^^ throughout all Germany people
are beginning to raise questions which
will be sure to endanger its federal
constitution." And ten days after-
wards (Aug. 4), the TVvMs' Berlin cor-
rospondent shows how serious the
danger is growing, by stating t^iat
there is ^^ almost a rupture" between
Austria and Prussia; and that the
princes of the smaller German States,
seeing the hopelessness of looking for
protection from the most powertnl
members of the Bund, are turning
their thoughts towards Parvt.^ At
Frankfort, too, fighting and blood-
shed have occnri^ between the
Prussian and Austrian troops. We
trust the danger to the eqaiUbnom
of the Oontinent will not go so far as
this ; but those who remember— and
who does nott — the succck with
which the first Napoleon won over
several of the German States, erect-
ing them, under the title of the Rhen-
ish Confederacy, aa a salient bastion
of France against the rest of the
Fatherland, cannot regard this new
* " This rupture — ^for it is almost a rapture— between Austria and Pnutts,
presents great daogers to Germany. The prinoee of the smaller States, seeing
the hopeleasness of looking for proteotioa from the most powerful memben of
the Bund, are turning their thoughts towards Paris. The representatiTes of
some of them are already rubbing their noses on the Imperial threshold, and
applying in very loud whispeFS for pardon. In DarmMtadt the police have
ordered all works offensive to France to be removed from the booksellers* win-
dows. In Wartemberg the prohibition to export horses has been repealed with-
out consulting the other States ef the Zollverein. The King of Wtirtemberg wast
a few weelcs ago, the most eager for war of all the German princes ; he is now,
therefore, the more anxious to make his peace with the conqueror." — Berlin
Oorr99pondmee of ike " Tvmee,'* of date August 4.
186».]
jRmv^ JJffgm^th^ Bkarmammt
m
oririt in Ckmany withooft gmve ap«
prehensioiis.
And how gtaods the case as regards
oar own oonntryt \that is the
mult of Lord Palmerston's open
animosity to Anstria, and of Lord
John Rnaeeirs insnltlng despatches
to Pmaeiaf What is to he thought
of a BritSsh Minister who, when
ProsBia, as spokesman for all Ger-
many, oommnnicated its apprehen*
nons lest this Italian war shonld
prove the beginning of a policy on
the part of France which wonld en-
danger the eqnilibrioni of Europe,
tlaongbt it snlfident reply to ask with
flippant aneer, ^*If Germany wonld
be any safer becanse Parma and
Modeoa were ill*govemed ! " In a
snbaeqoent despatch (that of 7th
July) oor Foreign Secretary con-
tinnes to display that mingled pert-
ness, obtoaeness, and self-sufficiency,
of which be gave so melancholy an
exhibition in his blundering mission
to Vienna in 1855. In a despatch
dated 24th June, Baron Schleinitz
hid informed the British Go vent-
ment that ^^the Prince-Regent of
PniBsia looks with anxiety to the
maintenance of the balance of power
in Europe; and Prussia has con«
Bidered it necessary to place herself
in a position to control a course of
events which may tend to modify
the balance of power, by enfeebling
an empire with which Prussia is con-
federated, and by affecting the bases
of European rights laid down in acts
to which Prussia was a party." What
leply did Lord John make to this?
With characteristic pertness and
platitude he rejoins: — *^Let us ex-
amine this matter. The balance of
power in Euroi^e means, in effect, the
independence of its several States.
The preponderance of any one Power
threatens and destroys this inde-
pendence.'* And having thus en-
lightened the Prussian Minister on
a point which certainly did not re-
quire any elucidation. Lord John
tersely settles the question to his
own satisfaction, by adding— ** .0ut
the Emperor Napoleon, by his Milan
proclamation, haa dedlared that in
this War he seeks neither conquest nor
territorial aggrandisement." This is
all his redargument of Prussia's ap-
prehensions! Lord John Russell
evideBtly regards the Emperor Nap«
oleon as a man who ^ wean his heart
on his sleeve for daws to peck
at;" and in answer to the appre*
hensions of Germany, he thought
It qiute sufficient to make a quot-
ation from the Milan manifesto!
What does his Lordship think of
that noanifeste now? Has it not
been utterly departed from by
its imperial firamer himself? The
Prince-Regent of Prussia and his
Minister moat certainly, on receipt of
that despatch, have wondered what
sort of innocent mountebank had
got into our Foreign Office. It ia to
be remarked that the object of Lord
John Russell in these despatches
was to prevent Prussia taking part
in the war, even after the Mindo had
been crossed by the French. He noti-
fied to Prussia that the British Govern-
ment (re[ieating Lord Palmerston's
policy in 1848), ^in the present state
of afibirs, are averse to any interposi-
tion;" and he eagerly pressed upon
Prussia that she ought to do nothing
too. In this, as in other things, he
and Lord Palmerston were simply
playing the game of the French Em-
peror, and with the greatest impolicy
were interfering with the free action
of the Germanic Ck)nfederaoy. Sup-
pose the apprehensions of the Prus-
sian government prove ultimately
correct, and that Napoleon by-and*
by attack Germany after having
alienated fix>m her the support A
Austria, what answer then will oor
Government be able to make to the
reprouohes of Prussia? '^We fore-
saw the drift of this Napoleonic
policy," Germany may then say,
^ but when we wished to make
common cause with Austria against
it, you, England, prevented us. It ia
you who are responsible for our di-
lemma, and when your own' torn
comes, you will richly deserve it"
There is another paragraph of this
despatch of Lord John RoaMU's
which we cannot pass without com-
ment. '^Her Mf\)esty," he wf^
**used her utmost efforts, consistent
with peace, to maintain the faith of
treaties." This was perfectly true of
the late Ministry, but it is strange
to find the present Government
taking credit for such a poUcy, see-
ing that the Ptemier and Foreign
890
Ii»r$ign 4jfkiin ^ths Ditarmament.
[Sc|C
Secretary have been foramoBt in sup-
porting the vwj oppoeite oourea, and
were ^^averM to any interpontion,"
even at the time that Napoleon was
ngning peace at Y illafranoa ! Prus-
sia, as well as all Europe, knows that
they have eagerly supported the
French intervention in Italy, and are
only aogry that it has not gone
farther; and the Cabinet of Berlin
mnst Uiugh in contempt to see them
taking credit for the snpport to
treaty rights which was given b^
their predecessors. Moreover, as if
to show how mach ignorance, as well
as pertness and inseqnency. oonld be
exhibited in one despatch. Lord John
makes the following gross blander
as to foots. "Aastria,'' he says,
^ began the war and invaded Pied-
mont. Austria overstepped the fron-
tier laid down in the treaties of 1816 ;
and it could no longer be expected
that those treaties would be regarded
as binding by France and Sardinia.*'
Here is a pretty Foreign Secretary 1
So &r from Austria having begun
.the war by invading Sardinia, and
overstepping the frontier laid down
in the treaties of 1815, the overstep*
ping of the frontier and violation of
treaties was all on the other side. The
French troops crossed the frontier
and entered Savoy five day$ before
the Austrians crossed the boundary-
stream of the Tidno; and the van-
guard entered Susa (within an hour's
travel of Turin), and the French
fleet hmded Bazaine's division at
Genoa, more than three days before
the Anstrians made a single step
across their frontier. In fact, as we
pointed out at the time,* there were
70,000 French troops in Sanlinia;
and Parma, Modena, and Tuscany
were all in revolt by Sardinian agency,
before ever the Austrian array cross-
ed the Ticino. Surely, on so grave
and important a point as thi&^ it is
intolerable that the Foreign Minister
of England should commit so gross
an outrage upon the truth. What
will some future historian think of
our statesmen when he sees in our
state-papers so egregious a mistake ?
And how will Austria and the Ger-
manic States relish that a British
Minister should publish so entire a
misrepresentation of the aotiial
mencement of the war? Lord John
aays that Austria and GemiAiiy can-
not expect the treaties of 1816 to be
maintdned, seeing that Anstriawv
the first to break them bj crossing
the Tidno; whereas the aetoal &et
is, that it was France wbicfa flnt
broke the treaties, by overafceppfaig
her frontier tve days before an Aus-
trian soldier set foot in Piedmont.
So much for Lord John and hk
despatches. He made it his spedsl
task to disgust Prusflia; l«t us now
see what he and Lord Paimenton
toge^er have done to incenae Aus-
tria. The Conservative Qovemment
held that the war was " imneoeesary
and niyustafiable,'' and they aawinM^
the attitude of an armed nentrafity
with the avowed intention of pnttiiig
a stop to it as soon aa possible.
The Whig Ministry acted veiy
differently. Instead of protesting
against the violation of treaties
and of the peace of Enropoi tiie)f
gave the fullest encouragement to
the Napoleonic policy, and pro-
claimed their desire to see AosCzia
deprived of her whole Italian territo-
ries. And now they are only angry
at Napoleon for not having carried
on the war so long as they wished I
What a curious position is this!
Here is our Government encouraging
another Government in a war against
a State with which we profess to be
at peace, and angry because the war
against that State was not carried
far enough 1 Is this neutrality! Is
it not actual hostility to Austria;
and although Lords Palmerston and
Russell darad not ask the country to
draw the sword, have not the de-
clarations of those statesmen aspinst
Austria amounted to an nnmistak-
able eamu belli t Well, what is now
found to be the consequence of such
a policy? Just this — ^that England
has drawn upon herself all the odi-
um of Austria and her friends, while
France has got all the glory of the war.
The Emperor of the French has cir-
cled his brows with lanrds, has be-
come the Liberator of Italy, and has
converted Sardinia into a stanch
ally or vassal State; and at the
same time he has, by the folly of
* See the Msgasine for June, p. 740.
ia59.]
Jbrti^ JffiUr$ — ih$ DUarmumMnt.
881
oar Whig Iflnistera, been able to
throw all the odiom of the oontest
€>ff bimaelf upon the Bridah GoV-
emment. He haa shown that he,
the Tiotor, k a better iriend to Aus-
tria than the Britbh GoTernment
represented by I/wda Pahnerston and
RoaseU, who, though sneakinglj
keeping ont of the war, porsoed
Anatiia with a hoatilitj of spirit far
ezoeeding that of her actoal foe. The
late QoremmeBt, aa Lord John
Rossell admits, ^osed their ntmost
tfSSartBy oonnstent with peace, to
maintain the fiiith of treatiee," and
they strongljr protested against the
Italian question being appealed to
the sword. The present GoTem-
ment, however, only protest against
the war being stopped, and oomi^n
that treaties have not been soffi*
oientlj Tidated I Sinoe they demand-
ed that Anstria be driven ont of
Italjy why did they not openly de-
olare war, and try to do it themselves t
Surely that was the only consistent
oonnw ; bat they knew well it was one
whioh they dared not enoonnter. It
'was one, too, which has abeady made
our policy despicable, 4md onr posi-
tion doubly preoariooa^ The French
Emperor has made the Palmenton-
lAn policy a mere engine for the ac-
oomplishment of his own triampfa.
and for the diverting upon Englana
of that hatred from Austria, whioh
in €»ther eiroumstanoes must have
fiiUen upon himself.
The French Emperor hardlv need-
ed the interviews at Oompiegne to
assure him that Lord Palmerston
would fiUl into his snare. It was
Lord Palmerston*s bhmderingin 1848
which paved the way for this French
intervention in Italy; and it was
upon his Lordsbip*e preposterous de-
mands upon Austria at that time that
Kapoleon counted for securing him
aa an ally, and then leaving him a
dnpe, in the recent war. What Pal-
meraton, then at peace with Austria,
refosed to accept in 1848, Napoleon,
victorious over Austria, has accepted
now. The terms of peace wnich
Palmenton rejected as inadmissible
when the Sardinians and Italians
were attacking Austria on the Min-
do in 1848, have been accepted as
sufficient at the same point of the
straggle now, although in addition to
her former foea Austria was attacked
by the whole military and naval forces
of France. This conduct of Lord
Palmerston in 1848 was severely de*
nounoed in Parliament at the time,
and it is admitted on all hands now
that it was a fatal blunder. Even
the present Ministry repudiate it,
and Mr. Gladstone haa been put up to
eznlain it away. Facts which Lord
PalmerBton himself dare not deny,
vaidsh, it would seem, into thin air
before the potent fancy of his Ohan-
ceUor of the Excheooer. In the de-
bate on the 28th of July, Mr. Disraeli
thus stated the charge against the
Ministry :— >
"Her Majesty's Gtovemmeiit hat| in
fut^ eominitted the Mune mistake which
they committed in 1848. At thst time
a proposiUon was made by the Aua»
trian Government similar m terms to
those which have now been, through
the inflncnce of the French Emperor,
accepted. A proposition was miMle to
close the dlstarbances which then ex-
isted by the reUnquishment of Lombar-
dy, precisely identical with the terms
whiw are now made the boais of the
treaty of peace. Her M^esty^s Govern-
ment— I may say the identical Govern-
ment, for these affairs come under the
same two members of the Oabinei 'the
First Minister of the Crown and the
Foreign Secretary of State— the only
difference of responsibility in these
Minsters being that the noble lord the
Foreign Secretary was then the Firat
Minister, and the Fim Miniater was
then the Secretary of State. Let the
House observe, then, if the statements I
have made be true, they have liallen into
exactly the blunder which they made in
1 848. Then they repudiated the propo-
sition of Austria, and said that Venetia
must be a part of the territory rdin-
qniahed by Austria ; in faot^ they made
that a ttne qua non of the settlement In
the present instance the proposition,
whicn waa so slightly touched on and
noticed by the noble lord, was conceived
in preoiBely the same ^irit. He would
not— this neutral power, this natural
ally of the Emperor of Austria — would
not mediate, except on the severe terms
I have noticed. But^ in the mean
time^ the enemy of the Emperor of
Austria made tenns to him, which he
accepted, and the affair was settled with^
out our interference, and without having
obtained the teima which we recom-
mended.**
Whether in hia Homeric <x in hie
8T9
The Elmtion P0Utian$,r-Wbo d^ (h$ Bribery f^
[Sept
who oomxnanded' the oonstabnlanr,
testified that his men had to fix
bayonets before they could foroe a
passage at Mathew^ bridge ; and
several electors deponed that tbey
found tbemseWes in snch danger that
they had to retire without voting for
Mr. Speight Mr. Gamble, a Catholic,
and supporter of the Oonservative
candidate, said : — ^^ Went with Mr.
Spaight in his canvass, and a violent
mob immediately collected round
them. Witnesses house was attacked
and broken into by the people, and
all the shop windows smashed. Wit-
ness saw a voter named Ryan in the
hands of the mob on the &y of poll-
ing. The people were dragging him
along the street. He once escaped
and was re-captured. The mob even-
tually put him in a car and drove
him to the poUing-both. Ryan had
promised his vote for Spaight. After
the poUing was over witness shut
up his shop. The mob then came
and broke between sixty and seventy
panes of glass in his house. Thev, in
fact, continued breaking diem till the
firing began. The police came to wit-
ness's house after the windows were
broken, and remained there for about
ten days.** And all through the eleo-
tioii-day, as was proved by several
witnesses, Major Gavin headed the
rioters at every point, conspicuous on
a white horse. Tet the decision of
the Committee was that there was no
evidence that the cavalier of the
while horse instigated the rioting ;
and also that it was not proved that
the riots " were of such a duration or
of such a character as to prevent the
votes of the electors being recorded.''
Duration I Why, the riots lasted not
only till the poll closed and sJl the
afternoon — till the soldiers had to
fire on the mob ; but the houses of
some of Mr. Spaight^s supporters had
to be guarded by the police for ten
days afterwards I And yet the elec-
tion was passed as a valid election ;
and the Liberal Mi^or is still Member
for Limerick !
Such in brief were the disclosures
of bribeiy and intimidation made
before the election-committees, for
which eight Liberals were unseated,
and for which certfunly other four
should have been similarly punished.
The facts speak for themselves. They
need no fine peroration to bring
home to the country a sense of the
unpimilleled sham^essness and cor-
ruption of the Liberal party. What
men to be the champions of electoral
refbrm t After all their ealumniea
against the Ck)nservative8, to be so
convicted themselves^ while their op-
ponents appear parity itself beside
them I well might Roebuck, him-
self a Liberal, thus indignanUj de-
nounce the conduct of his party : —
**Som6 time ago the public were wsm-
ed that great eormption had been prac-
tised by gentlemen sitting on these (Uie
Opposition) benches; bat I am sorry to
say that, by discoTeriee recentlj^ made,
it has been found that eorruptios has
taken place on that (Uie Ministerial) side
of the house. And the remarkable fea-
ture of the ease ia^ that noble lords and
right hon. gentlemen are sitting on the
benches opposite in consequence ; for I
believe that pretty nearly the whole
number of their majority have been die*
franchised since inquiries have been in-
stituted, and that they have been dis-
franchised because of bribery. Why,
sir, the whole country was sUurtied, ' tibe
isle was frighted from its propriety,* by
the statement which was made by the
virtuous gentlemen opposite. It was
said that a noble lord and right hon.
gentleman had subscribed, combined,
and conspired for the purpose of bring-
ing a minority into Parliament Upon
which Bide does the imputation rest
now f Why, the statements which hare
been made within the last ten days be-
foreCommittees of this Houseare enough
to shock the feelings of the country at
the conduct of a party which calb itself
Liberal, and a great number of whom I
recollect in the year 1830 raisinir a gfeat
outcrv aeainst the corruption of the an*
cieut Parliaments. Why,sir, there was no-
thing ever done in the ancient Parlia-
ments worse than baa been done in this.
I do say, then, that it behoves this House
to take into its most serious considera-
tion how it can by any possibility stop
this evil, and I entreat non. gentlemen
who are sitting on our committees to
have the courage to be honesty and not
to add base hypocrisy to the horrible
corruption that now prevaila'*
What is to come next f Will the
Liberals now abandon their assumed
monopoly of Purity, and confess that
their professions have been no better
than a ruse to cover their own mal-
practices, and that their clamour
against the Conservatives is simply
1869.]
2%6 BlteUon FiiUUani.'^Who i^u th» Bribery f
878
a parellel to the dodce by wliioh a
piokpooket seeks to throw raspiciQn
off himself by oalliag ^ stop thief I'*
Nay, will they not attempt to torn
their very sins to aoconnt, and qaote
the electoral oorraptioB of their own
making as a proof in &yoQr of the
Ballot? Are the recent exposures of
the bribery practised by the Liberal
party at Gloucester, Norwich, Wake-
field, Aylesbury, Dartmouth, Bever-
ley,— not to speak of Hoddersfield'
and Maidstone — ^to be conyerted into
powerful arguments for the adoption
of a demoralising and un-£nglish sys-
tem of secret yoting? Mr. Oobden,
to whom the opinion of an American,
or a paragraph in a New York news-
paper, has become the highest of
all authority, gives as his newest and
best argument in favour of the ballot,
the opinion of a Philadelphian, who
says, that be has been ^for fifty
years connected with political move-
ments in Philadelphia, and never
knew a yote bougnt or sold." Mr
Ck>bden was so struck with this acci-
dental statement, that he requested
the speaker to put it in black and
white, in order that he might quote
it as a clencher in England. It did
dutv for the first time at the banaoet
at Rochdale ; and doubtless we shall
have the whole letter read in extento
next spring, in Parliament '^ Now,''
added Mr Gobden, ^*tbe centleman
would not have told me, I am snre,
that elections in America are pure in
every respect, nor that all their elec-
tions are carried on peaceably and
tranquilly; but he mentiooeu the
£sct that the ballot presents such an
obstacle to bribery, that nobody cares
to buy a yote," — ^that is to say, in
Philadelphia, and so ffir as he knew.
As to the existence of bribery and
corruption in the United States, it is
not nine months nnce the President
himself, in a published letter, openlv
confessed the existence of these eyiis
on so ^eat a scale, that in his opinion
they imperil the very existence of
the Union. What is the worth of the
statement of Mr Oobden^s gentleman
eomoared to this ? Besides, even if
the oallot did render bribery imprac-
ticable in the United States, has
there not arisen there in its place a
still worse form of the evil ? If voters
are not bribed, are they not attacked
and intimidated by hired ruffians at
the booths ? Do not the rival parties
set themselyes to find out the politics
of all and sundry, and then hire
shoulder-hitters, rowdies, and blud^
geon-men to maltreat and obstruct
their opponents as they go to the poll ?
Is this any improvement on bribery?
Rather than see agents slipping a £5
note into a yoter's hand, or doing
other acts of electoral benevolence,
would Mr Oobden prefer to have
bludgeon-men hired to break people's
heads? Does he think that it shows
more purity on the part of the candi-
dates, and more freedom and inde-
pendence in the community, that an
election should be gained by break-
ing heads instead of buying votes ?
One word in conclusion. Lord
Ashley, in the debate at the opening
of the session, said that he would
give his vote against the Minbtry, in
order that they might be replaced by
"^ a strong and sagacious Aaministra-
tion, that would carry weight in the
oonncils of Europe, and command
the respect of the people in England."
And so said many others. Well,
what have they got? Instead of
carrying weight in the councils of
Europe, the British Gk>vemment is
as nearly isolated as it has ever been
for the last fifty year|; and instead
of commanding respect at home, the
disclosures before the election-com-
mittees have revealed the shameless
tactics by which the Liberal chiefs
obtained that slender m^oritv which
C' 9d them in office, as well as the
lessness of those calumnies with
which they so basely sought to dis-
credit their opponents. And finally^
as to the ^* strong Gt>yernment"
which Lord Ashley and others reck-
lessly sought to obtain, where is it?
Thirteen was the pitiful m^ority of
the Ooalition party at first — what is
it now ? Not above half that num-
ber. " Six or seven," says Mr Oob-
den ; and Oonservatives say three or
four!
ST4 /Mey U tk^ Qu$m. [Sept.
/KR6ET TO THE QITSXK.
OoMi, tbrongh seas of snnmier caln^
Come, through furs of sommer balm.
Greeted with the natioo's pBalm^
Victoria I
Tears of lore from eyelids pressing,
Followed by the people's blessiag,
Wealth untold in hearts possessiiigi
Viotorial
Small, thongh andent of renown.
Eldest hetrloom of thy erown,
G69sarea*s isle and town —
Vietoriat
Bids thee oome and oome again^'
Cheers thee blithely ten times ten.
Queen of islands I Queen of men t
Yictorial
How unlike on yonder ooasts,
P»ans rise for slaughtered hosts.
Bought by fifty thousand ghosts,
** Victoria I"
Matron, Mother, Monarch good I
Stand thy throne as it hath stood.
Strong by love, not baths oi blood t
Victoria 1
Tis because the Crown we count
Honour's jewel, Freedom's fount,
That our Toices sky wiurd mount,
Victoria I
Now we tell that soldier-slave,
Be he bravest of the brave,
Freedom's shield and GU>d will save,'
Victoria!
Banners wave, and cannon boom,
Lights like glow-worms in each room,
Bockets flash round Fierson's tomb,"^
Viotorial
Beams adieu the fair full moon,
Thunders in the midnight noon
Echo, *^ Come again right soon,
Viotorial"
«
G. C. SWAYWB.
Jebsst, AvguBt 15, 1 859.
* Monument to a gallant young soldier, Major Pierson, who fell beading the
Bncceesful defence of St HelierB, in Jannary 1781, when the IabI attempt wat
made by the French to obtain possession of the Channel Islanda
ia59.]
HfTdign Ajfinn^-^tke J)i§&nMm$nt
876
FORSIOK AFFAIBa — THF DISARMAMKNT.
PilRKiAMsirr has doeed its work
he the jesr, and the time is oome
when the national Mind, wearied* c^
mnofa thinking, usually goes to sleep
for a while npon all matters of pnbKo
hnportanoe. The groase and the red*
deer have been hnnted for a fortnight
on the Scottish moors; and now the
joyons mom has arisen when all the
stnbble-fields of England will be re-
sonant with the whirr of the partridge
and the eraok of the fowllng-pieod.
The mental oonfllct of words and of
ideas Is bdng Inlled to rettt by the
strong physioEd exercise of the moors
and the ohaae. Owing to the reoent-
ness of their aooession to offioe, and
to the adroitness with which they
hare spent two months in doing
nothing^ her Majesty's Ministers do
not this year attract pablio sympathT
as the men most deserving or this
antnmnal rest And the events of
the ten weeks which have succeeded
their advent to power have been of
8Qch a character that the members of
the Gk>vemnient will now do well to
spend a portion of their leisure in
reviewing them, and in pondering
the results. The pablio has more
questions to ask than Parliament
had ; and sooner or later, in one form
or in another, the public will exact
from the Ministry an acoount of its
stewardship. When getting ready our
rifles and rifle corps, we want to know
more about the management of our
Foreign policy. We want to know
why Lord John Bussell should have
been so elaborately dever in his
despatches to disgust Prussia. We
want to know how ne and the Premier
should have played into the hands of
the French Emperor by a superfluous
imtation of Austria. And what about
this talked-of Disarmament? When
Parliament meets again, are we to
find that the works of national de«
fence have been countermanded, out
of courtesy to the professions of the
French Emperor, or out of deference
to the pacific tastes and financial
difficulties of Mr. Gladstone? What
it this French disarmament? What
is its extent, and what its motive?
Is' it, on the part of the Emperor, a
definite shntHng cf the temple of
Janns ; or is it merely a new and
adroit device for the accomplishment
of the next step in the Napoleonic
policy?
The Whig ^nisters, in a rery un-
justifiable manner, departed Irom
the strict neutrally of their pre-
decessors. Both the Premier and
the Foreign Beoretaiy openly ex-
pressed their desire to see the Aus-
trians wholly expelled from Italy.
Such language, had they been in offioe
six months ago, would haye been
equivalent to a declaration of war
against Austria. And what is it now
but an actual and offida) repudiation
of the Treaties of 1816, which form
the sole basis of the territorial f^ettle-
ment of Europe, and which Napo-
leon has commenced to remodel for
the moral and material aggrandise-
ment of France ? . We already have
had a humiliating specimen of the
evil resulting from the abandonment
by her Mi^esty's Ministers of the
principle of strict neutrality. It
has disgusted Prussia and alien-
ated Austria; and has made the
British Government appear a di-
plomatic tool in the hands of the
French Emperor. Taking advantage
of their professions. Napoleon III.
has made Lords Palmerston and Rus-
sell dupes and agents for the acoom-
elshment of his subtle ends. He
IS used them, as he used Kossuth,
simply as a means of frightening
Austria into peace, and then has
tossed them disregardingly aside. In
his address to his subjects, the Empe-
ror of Austria Justified the peace con-
cluded at Villtfranca by stating that
he found he could get better terms
from his enemy than from his natu-
ral allies I This appeared a startling
statement to the uninitiated public;
but soon afterwards more light was
thrown on the subject by a correspon*
dent of the Tris$ts Zeitung^ who gave
a detailed account of what took place
prior to the meeting of the Emperors
at Yillafranca. Napoleon III. was
urgent for a personal Interview, —
Francis-Joseph was resolutely averse
to it What, then, brought it about ?
88S
Ibrmgn Affndn-^ths DUarmament
[Sept
Pariismentary disMiiationfl) Mr. Glad*
atone has a peculiar way of riewing
things, and lireqaently rears his most
elaborate rhetoric upon the most ab-
smd premises. On the present oocar
sion he replied to Mr. Bisraeli^s charge,
by asserting that the offer which Lord
Palmerston refiised in 1848 was " not
the offer of Aostria at aU, bnt a do-
cument drawn up by Baron Ham-
melaner, expressing only his indiTi-
dual opinion." Eleven years have
elapsed withont so bright an idea as
this occorring to any one, and it has
been reserved for Qladstonian acumen
to make the discovery. And what
is his proof? Baron Hammelaaer
made two alternative and snooessive
proposals to the British Government.
The first of these, on the 28d of May,
proposed that Anstria should retain
Venetia and Lombardy, but under a
popular and entirely separate admin-
istration from the rest of the empire.
Even Mr. Gladstone allows that this
was an official communication made
by the Baron in the name of his Gov-
ernment. On this proposal being
rejected by Lord Palmerston as in-
sufficient, the Baron, after a day's
delay, produced the other proposal,
which was as foUows : —
"That Lombardy foould ee<ue to be*
long to AuHriay and would be free either
to remain independent, or to unite her-
self to any other Italian state she herself
might choose. She would take upon
herself, on the other hand, a proportion-
ate share of the Austrian national debt,
which woald be transferred definitively
and irrevocably to Lombardy. The
Venetian state would remain under the
sovereignty of the Emperor ; it would
have a separate administration, entirely
national, settled by the representatives
of the country themselves, without the
intervention of the ImperialGovemment,
and represented at the Central Govern-
ment of the monarchy by a minister
whom it would maintain there, and who
would conduct the relations between it
and the Central €k>Ternment of the em-
pire. The Venetian administration
would be pfesided over by an Arohduke
Viceroy, who would reside at Venice as
the Emperor's lieutenant**
This is the very arrangement that
has been accepted and settled at Vil-
lafranca, — with this great difference in
favour of the arrangement proposed
in 1848, that no stipiUation was made
for the restoration of the Anstrisn
grand-dukes to Modena and Tna-
oany. It is universally admitted—
it stands upon reeord in the Una-
book — ^that Lord Palmerston rejected
that proposal; bnt, says Mr. Glad-
stone, it was not an offidal proposal
This plea, it is to be observed, does
not lessen Lord Palmerston^s want of
judgment in rejecting the proposal, it
only seeks to lessen his respcmsi-
bility for the consequences wbidi
flowed from the non-adoption of the
proposal The proposal, says Mr.
Gladstone, *^was not the offer of
Austria, bnt only of Baron Hommdr
aoerf^ and therefore, he argoes, we
have no certainty that it would have
been acted npon, even though Lord
Palmerston had not rejected it. Tfais
argument, so poor of it£»lf, rests upon
a premise entirely illusoiV, and op-
posed to the facts. ^^ ifow I wiU
give the proof," said Mr. Gladstone;
but that "proof" consisted in little
else than in asking — " Does the
right honourable gentleman suppose,
or will the House suppose, whai
Baron Hummelauer had made one
proposal on the part of the Austrian
Gk)vemment on the 22d of May, he
was authorised to make a toudly
different one on the 24th ?" What is
incredible in such a suppoaitioDf
Does Mr. Gladstone bold the meeting
of the Emperors at Villafranca to be
a myth, because Napoleon proposed
two widely different projects of peace
(not in two days, but) in the course of
a few minutes? The French Emperor
came to that interview prepared to
propose a second set of terms if his
first ones were r^ected ; and this is
precisely what Baron HummehiQer
was sent to London by his Govern-
ment to do in 1848. So far &om the
Barents second proposal being unoffi-
cial, it is the very one which the Aus-
trian Cabinet through our ambassador
at Vienna most pressed npou the at-
tion of the British Govemnaent.
On the 12th of May^ bi^ore Baron
Hummelauer had set out on his mis-
sion, Lord Ponsonby, our ambassador
at Vienna, wrote as follows to Lord
Palmerston : " Ooant FioqueluMHit
has been with me, and has stated
that the Austrian Government is
ready to grant to the Lombards the
complete enjoyment of their indepen-
1869.]
Fareidfn Affakn^Hu DwurmofnimU.
888
dence, npon oonditions wluch will be
folly comnmnicated to yonr lordship
by Baron Hnmmdaner, who will
leave Vienna to-morrow for London."
And be adds, " There were two pro-
jects meotioaed by Oonnt Fioquel-
mont offleieusement to me by order
of the Imperial Government." And
that there may be no dnbiety as to
the identity of these two projects
with tiiose made by the Austrian
envoy on his arrival in London, we
shall quote Lord PoDSonby's desorip*
tion of them :— '^ The first is (he says)
the abandonment of all the Anstrian
rights in the Lombardo - Venetian
kingdom, npon an agreement be-
tween the two parties. The second,
the total unconditional abandof^
ment hy the Aastriam of the Lanir
JHsrd torritoriM, and the concentra-
tion of their forces in the strong
position of Verona, &c., and the eon-
tinued occupation of the Venetian
territories, making a declaration that
tbey wonld not take any part in the
afEaxTs of the rest of Italy, and woold
limit themselves strictly to defensive
measures." What has Mr. Gladstone
to say to this ? Here we have distinct
proof that, prior to the arrival of the
Austrian Envoy, Lord Palmerston
was apprised that the envoy had two
different projects to propose, both of
which were of&cifd; and he was ap-
prised also. of the precise nature of
both of these projects. If, thos ap-
prised beforehuid, Lord Palmerston
bad r^ected the first project for the
be advantageous, not only to Austria,
but even to the Venetian province
itself. But Her Majesty's Gk>vern-
ment fear that, however reasonable
such a proposal may be in itself,
things have now gone too far to allow
of there being any probability that
such an arrangement would be ac-
cepted by the Venetians. Her Ma-
jesty's Government, therefore, would
be unwilling to enter upnon a negotia-
tion which, in their opinion, offered
no prospect of snccess." This was
on the dd of June. On the 9th the
Austrian Government still pressed
the subject; for a despatch of Lord
Ponsonby's, dated on the night of the
9 th, contains the following remark-
able proof of the desire of Anstria to
make peace on any terms that were
not absolutely preposteroos :
" At a late hour this afternoon I had
the honour of a eonveraation with his
Imperial Highneae Archdake John, and
I hare only time to repeat to yonr lord-
ship very briefly the main points. After
having passed in review the existing
state of the oireumstanees of the Empire,
the question of Lombardy was deter-
mined by the declaration of his Imperial
Highness that peace is to be n&ade ; and
his reply to my inqauries as to its terms,
'that they were not to be considered.'
His Imperial Highness said that the
Lombards might nave the absolute di8->
posal of their own fate ; they might take
Charles Albert for their king, or any
other person, or do what they liked as
to their Government I referred to a
well-known phrase, and said, ' Your hn-
sake of obtaining the second and • i »• u - ^u -n
iDor« liberal one, li would have done ^^^S'i^ wh^h w^S ?^
r. for hia nwn «r«difc And fnr t>,« ?t«tffwim«ne^ to which he rephed.^Yes,
wisely, for his own credit and for the
interests of this country and Italy.
But he rejected the second also, —
doing so in the following terms,
whidi show that he was quite aware
of the official character of both pro-
posals:— ^^It appears from the conb-
nannications which you [Baron Hum-
melauer] have made to me, that the
Austrian Government would be will-
ing to treat for an arrangement by
which Lombardy should be set free
to dispose of itself as it might choose;
but the Austrian Government wikhes
to propose an arrangement by which
the Venetian provinces will still con-
tinue to hold a modified connection
with the Imperial crown. Sach an
■mngement might in many respects
yOL. LXXZVI.
25
so far as Lombardy is concerned ; but
we must keep Verona and the line of
the Adige ; it is necessary in order to
Erotect Trieste, which is a key to our
ilyrian provinces.*
" I presume (adds Lord Ponsonby to
Lord Palmerston) that wbat I have
stated may afford grounds for prelimi-
nary steps, if it ahould be your lorcUhip^t
imsA to forward a paeijieaiioiu I am un-
willing to obtrude my opinion at any
time upon any subject, but I will soy that
I thinic the ArcMuke it right, both in
leaving the Lombards free to take theii:
own measures^ and in thedesnre to retain
the territories within the line of the Adige;
for I believe that a cession of those would
lead to a renewal of the contest in that
part of Italy where it is so desirable to
establish peace on some solid basis.
864
Formgn Affmn^the DUa/nnament
P«pt
TIm liombArdi^ by th« retreat of the
AuafcriAiis from all interferenoe, will be
at liberty to complete the muon of the
dttcbiee of Panna and Modena with the
Milanese. All pretence for jealousy of
Austrian aflMpression will cease, because
AuBtria wifi haTe no interest to cause
it; and there will not be» I am inclined
to think, any strong feeling in the Vene-
tian kingdom against the proposed ar-
rangement"
Lord Ponaonby, with better judg-
ment than his cnief, thought that
tiie terms offered by Aostna ought
to be approved of by the Britisb
Goyermnent, and he considered that
there would be no difficulty in getting
the Italians to accept of them. Again
and again he returns to the subject;
and the Austrian Govemment goes
all lengths to testify its readiness
to treat upon these terms. On the
12th June Lord Ponsonby writes to
Lord Palmerston : " I have the hon*
our to report to your lordship the sub-
stance 01 my oonversation with Baron
Weiaenberg this day. The Baron
told me that the Austrian Gorem-
ment ... is ready to agree to the
absolute independence of the Milan-
ese, and to treat with tbem for ami-
cable arrangements between the two
countries; and in confirmation of
this pacific disposition and intention,
that this evening fall powers should
be sent to Marslud Ra^tsky to make
an armistioe with the Lombards. . . .
Baron Wessenberg assured me in the
most positiye terms that if the Vene-
tian proviiioe should remain con-
nected with Austria, the lomerial
Government would admit of the
eatablisbment there of a constitution
upon the most liberal basis: 'ex-
tremely liberaP were the words be
used, and he repeated them.*' But
all would not do. Lord Palmerston
did not wish to forward a pacifica-
tion. And OIL the 20th June he wrote
to Lord Ponsonby reaffirming his
former rejection of Austria's pro-
posals for (>eaoe: —
'* I have now to say to your ezoellency
that . . . things seem now to hare gone
too fiu* to admit of the praotioabHity of
sueh a plan. Hitherto [he admits] the
military forces of the oontendinff parties
have been nearly balanced, and tiiough
the general result of the war has been
in liftToiir of the Italians^ there has been
no great advantage gained hj them in
anybattie. But the Amtiiaos axe Mine
at a distance from tiieir reaoaroo^M
in a country the p<^nlation of vlii&'s
uniyersally hostile to them. Thelta&ai
are at home, and are backed and tidsd
by all the inhabitants of the comtiT;
large leyies are forming in Lambsrd\,
whtch will soon be ready to tske the
field in conjunction with the troopi
already under the conunand of the Kng
of Sardinia ; and time is in fiaveor of the
Italians and against the Auetrians. ...
If the war continues, the probable rcsoii
will be that the Auatriaoa will be drirn
entirely out of Italy, and that th^ vill
obtain no compensation of any kind for
their loss of territory."
To conclude the story. Four weeb
afterwards (I7th July), aa the An-
trian Government still dung to the
hope that their most reaaoiiaUe and
hberal offers would induce the Brit-
ish Govemment to oome forward as a
mediator. Lord Palmerston cut fltot
their importunities by again refiuiiig
to mediate; and by declaring **that
the fortune of war intMt, to a oertaiii
degree at least, detenmne the mnr
ner in tohieh thi$ question hetnem
AuBtria and the ItaUane ie to U
settled:'
What are we to think of aiidh eoD>
duct on the part of one who is now
Prime Minister of our oonntrvl
What are we to think of his joag-
ment who refhsed these ofifers d
Austria, at a time when, as he him-
self admits, the oppoelte forces weie
** nearly balanced," and the Italians
had gained ^no great advantage in
any battle?" And what are we to
think of his discernment, when he
confidentiy expected the Austrians to
be driven over the Alps; whereas in
a few weeks afterwards Radetakj,
oompelled by Palmerston to draw the
sword, was driving the Italians before
him like chafl^ dictated peace at Turin,
and could have marked with ease ali
over the peninsula? HadPalmentoo
acted with ordinary sense, and as
Lord Ponsonby adyised him to do in
1848, tiie Italians for eleven yean
would have been enjoying all and
more than all that they have now
obtained bv means of this new war
and French intervention, — ^Napdeon
would not have got this fkir oppor-
tunity for the development of his
aubtie policy, — and ^i^and would
pot have found hersdf in tha pre-
1869.]
Foreign Aff9M%-'4kt IH^wrmammU,
885
, -J.
dicament of haying alienaied her
natmal allies, the Qeniumio Powers,
and of haying been made first the
dope and latterly the discarded tool
of the French Emperor. In 1848
"Kngland might haye obtained for the
Itauans all that France has done
now, and wonld haye been thanked
by Austria for her interyention ;
inrhereas by their oondact then and
now, Lords Palmerston and Hnssell
have atonoe transferred the friend-
ship of Anstna from us to Napoleon,
and have also allowed France to be-
come the champion of nationaHty,
and master of the pontion in Italy.
The short and sharp crisis wbidi
has passed oyer Europe has not left
£ngland as it found her. Its first
effect was to reveal a portentous
Boheme of co-operation*-*iQ fact, an
offenaiye and defensive alliance — ^be-
tween France and Russia; its second
effect has been to break up the Anglo-
Germanic alliance by which alone
these two colossal Powers can be held
in check ; and the third has been to
make Austria, in disgust at the deser-
tion of her natural allies, join herself
to France and Russia with the view
to a project for remodelling Europe
in the manner most advantageous to
these tiiree great Powers. In con-
sequence, England is now isolated.
Prussia is the only Power which
stall has a leaning towards us,aad her
Ixird John Ruraell has done every-
thmg possible to disgust. We be-
lieve tiiat it is the intention, as it is
the interest of the French Emperor
to give to Europe a short peace.
PosEdbly circumstances may impel
him to war again sooner than he me-
ditates; but in any case it behoves
this country to look well after its
naval and military defences. Lord
Lyndhurst — ^the venerable statesman
upon whom more than any other has
descended the senatorial influence of
the *'old Duke'^-— has warned the
country of its danger, and called upon
Pariiament and public to do their
duty, if they would notSsee a calamity
overtake this country such as will
neyer be forgotten in the world's his-
tory. In the Lower House Mr. Hors-
man's motion was a well-timed prac-
tical application of the views so, elo-
quently enforced by Lord Lyndhurst
Seeing that the safety of our great
arsenals and doekyaids is isdfapeDB-
able to the maintenance of our inde-
pendence, and that by universal ac-
knowledgment these ports and ar-
senals are not properly defended,
and, according to the present system
of procedure, would not be so fer
twenty yean (!), Mr. Horsman moyed
that the sum required should be
raised by the Gk)yemment^ at once,
so that the necessary works of de-
fence be completed with the least
possible loss of time. The Goyem-
ment, probably out of deference to
the financial ideas of Mr. Gladstone,
excused themselves from following
the course suggested in the motion.
Indeed, it is a great though unavoid-
able diBadvantage of the frequent
changes of Ministry in this oountry,
that each Ohancellor of the Exche-
quer looks only to his single yearns
iBudget, and seeks his own fame
to the detriment of imperial inte-
rests by endeavouring to postpone
any extraordinary expenditure, how-
ever much needed, in order that it
may fall upon his successor in office.
We think it most important that some
such course as that suggested by Mr.
Horsman should be adopted by the
Bridah Government. Sir J. Paking-
ton observed ; —
" A most Btriking illustration of the
necessity for such prec&utionB is afforded
by the narbour ot PortUnd, which, al-
though it is constantly resorted to by
our fleetSjis absolutely without defences,
and, according to the Secretary for War,
it will take twenty years to complete the
defences. I regret that the right hon.
gentleman has not expressed his concur- v
rence in the spirit ana scope of the mo- *
tion. In my opinion, it is not wise to
spend money in driblets, whidi would
extend over twenty years. If the
money must be spent, the sooner the
better. As regards the strengthening of
the navy, I caimot help expressing my
anxious hope that tbe Government
will not be contented with resting
where they are. Notwithstanding his
figures, the hon. member for Ro^dale
is much mistaken if he supposes that
the navy of England is nowwnat it ought
Lord 0. Paget— who promises to
be an active head of the Admiralty,
if his colleagues will let him— thus
deaeribed the relative position of
886
Foreign Affair9-^ths Diiormament
[Sept
tb« Britiih, French, and Boflsian
navieB: —
"The last informatioii which we have
from Brest shows that, although the
Frenoh have such a lai^e force at sea^
th«^ hare no less than 3000 sailors in
their barracks at Brest, perfectly ready
for war if they should be wanted. The
real state of the French navy, if war
should unfortunately arise, is twenty
lineof-battle ships in commission and
twelve in reserve, which latter might
put to sea in a very few days. Therefore
the French have thirty-two iine-of-battle
ships. Turning to lUi^land, it appears
that BO far from her havme what hie hon.
friend (Mr. Cobden) called her fair pro-
portion— ^that is to say, one-third more
ships than any other country — her pro-
portion is certainly not more than tiiat
of France. We have twenty-six sail of
the line in commission and nine block-
ships, which, though not strictly speak-
ing line-of-battle ships, are, I admit,
capable of doing gooa service. Uniting
those two together, the two countries
are pretty nearly equal With respect
to frigates^ however, I will not deceive
the House. The ^ench are stronger
than the English in that respect I
do not wish to create any alarm, but I
wish the House to know me truth of the
matter. But in addition to the French
there is another nation or two making
great progress in preparations for navid
war. Kussia has eight screw line-of-bat-
tle ships, six screw frigates, four paddle
frigates, nine corvettes, one transport,
seventy-five gunboats, and eighteen
smidl steamers. That is a large force,
and one which we must not forget is in
existence."
It is to be borne in mind that this
steam-fleet of Bossia, at least so far
as regards screw vessels, has been
wholly created within the last three
years. It is impossible for this coun-
try to behold with indifiference the
great, continnoos, and systematic
efforts which both France and Bossia
are making to augment their power
at sea. It was the rapid increase of
the French navy which forced ns
to do likewise. These Powers must
have an object in their present extra-
ordinary efforts : And what can that
object be, but to attain a maritime
supremacy, and thereby compel Eng-
land to neutrality while they proceed
with their contemplated revision of
the map of Europe ? It is very well
for Mr. Cobden to say that we onght
not to bmld more ships became im-
provements are going on, and changes
are Ukely to take place in the art of
naval war&re; and it is veiy well
for the Ministry to exonse themselves
from proceeding rapidly witU tiie
fortification of onr ports and araeoals
on the plea that the science of forti-
fication has not yet reached perfec-
tion. These are pleas which do not
surprise us from the month of Mr.
Cobden, and which perhaps are not
inappropriate to a Cabinet whose
finance is presided over by the
Minister who starved the Bossian
Wan Bat we need hardly say, saoh
an argument is entirely oat of place,
as long as onr defences are so
far below what they onght to be.
As soon as we have made oarselves
se^dj let not a single ship more be
built, nor a single sovereign more be
expended on fortifications, until we
are sure that we are working upon
the best possible plans. Bat at pre-
sent we cannot afford to wait for
more light than we have. We know
as much as onr French and Bossian
rivals do, — and that will soffioe. It
is true that powerful corvettes, car-
rying bat one tier of heavy guns,
may by-and-by supplant the present
three-decked Ime-of-battle ships, —
and the sooner we see about this the
better ; and it is true also that new
engines of war may necesatate new
methods of fortification. Bat whilst
we inquire, we must work. We can-
not afford to wait idly upon theories
and specohitions when the safety d
the commonwealth is at stake. Very
likely we shall ere long see electricity
taking the place of gunpowder on
the battle-field, and new projectiles
supplanting the rifled cannon : but
srely ganpowder and Armstiong's
gans will do in the mean time. We
most make the best of what we have
"-«nd that promptly. For the aspect
of the times is threatening; and it
will never do to see oar £»ok8 and
arsenals flill, for want of d^ences,
into the hands of an enemy, and
undergo the destniction which only
three years ago we dealt oat to
8ebastopoj[.
Mr. Cobden, in his speech on Mr.
Horsman's motion, said that he was
ready to vote a hundred milli<m8 if
he saw any Power preparing to attw^
1859.]
Foreiffn Affaiir$-''the ^I>isarmam0nt.
S87
ibis oonntry. v We donbt not Mr.
Oobden ma in earnest when he made
that proftoion. Even Mr. Bright, we
believe, with all his millennial ideals
about peace, would be ready to
shoalder a mnsket if the French were
besieging his fliomel-miUs. The pa^
triodsm of these gentlemen is, we
daresay, sound enough, if one could
only get at it. But unfortunately it
lies stowed away behind blinding
prejudices and bales of crotchets, far
beyond the reach of ordinary use.
We all see things in the light of our
dominant ideas. And a mental tele-
scope that is very good for showing
some things, may be very bad for
showing o&ers. If one is wrapt up
in dreams of millennial peace, and in
theories which maintain that the na-
ttons have grown too wise to go to war
any more, it is very hard to get sudi
a one to see facts, however patent,
which run counter to his ideas. The
Philistines will be upon him before
be will believe that they have laid
aside their ploughs and their pruning
books. He has no ear for the distant
ramble of muffled cannon, nor for the
sound of the enemv working under-
ground; and the chance is that the
masked batteries will open, or the
mine will explode, before it occurs to
him to take steps to meet the danger.
The talked-of disarmament on the
part of France is a thing especially
calculated to attract the thoughts
of such men. It is a disarmament —
it is a step which professes to be a
carrying out of their principles ; and
ttiey will not be unduly anxious to
inquire into its real object or extent.
Paasiog by for the moment the object
of this disarmament, let us see its
extent. And first of all let it be
borne in mind that France and
England are in very different posi-
tions at present as regards warlike
establishments. France has just
emerged from an aggressive war, and
her naval and military establish-
ments are on a war-footing. It is
otherwise with England. So fkr from
being able to engage in an aggressive
war, England is not at present strong
enough even for a war of defence.
Hence there is quite nmr^n enough
for a disarmament on l^be part of
France. Indeed, as his forces are at
present on a war-footing, it would be
equivalent to a declaration by the
Emperor of his intention to continue
a military policy, if he did not issue
orders for a cusarmament of some
kind. In the next place, let it be
noted that a French disarmament is
a very different thing from a dis-
armament with us. When England
disbands her soldiers and sailors, they
are lost to her. She has no ma-
chinery for recalling them t^ her flag.
If she obtains their services again, it
is in the same way as she would ob-
tain the services of ordmary recruits.
And when we lay by our ships, we
Sartially dismantle them. It is very
ifferent in France. There, the dis-
banded soldiers and sailors are liable
to be recalled to their stanjjards at a
week^s notice; and the ships, when
taken out of commission, are carefully
repaired, and are ^^laid in ordinary
all standing." The crew is disbanded
— ^that is all; and the crew can be
had again on a few days' notice.
French soldiers are discharged upon
a renewable furlough — they cannot
mftrxT, nor leave the military district
to which they belong, without perr
mission, and they are inspected by a
General of Division once a-month.
In the naval service it is the same :
the sailors who are dismissed to their
smacks and fishing-boats are always
within hail of some commissary of
the maritime conscription. As re-
gards the present case, the Gaeette de
Ftcmce states that the '^ peace foot-
ing'' of France must be understood '
to comprise the ability to have 560,000
under arms at a month's notice ; and
that, with a view to the extension of
France's colonial possessions, there
must be a constant progress in the
development of her fleet, which, says
the OaeetUj is already *'the finest
naval force in the world." And as
respects the practical application of
this ^^disarmament," the Paris cor-
respondent of the Morning Herald
says: — ^^A portion of the soldiers
and sailors — of the men who fight
the batties and man the ships— -«re
sent home on Jnrlaugh, nothing more.
And those who build and rig the ships,
cast the guns and ammunition, and
raise earthworks alcxig the coast, it
is not cont^nplated to diminish ; in
fact, I have reason to know that their
number has received an increase.
888
I^nwgn Affbin-^-ih^ Dmrmament.
[Sift.
Extra nomberB of mechanios and
riggen bave been engaged at Boohe-
fort and Brest. At Onerbonrg and
Brest coals and ammunition are being
stored to an extent that denotes a
wish to be prepared against any
emergency ; and at the former place
(Oherbonrg) the forts are being armed
with rifled guns. The greatest acti-
vity prevails in the arsenals, where a
lai^ saflply of these rifled cannon has
been and is being prepared ; and the
ships which are being put on{ of com-
mission, in consequence of the (so-
called) reduction of the navy to a
peace-footing, are forthwith to un-
ship their old guns and to take on
hoard the formidable eanom rayti^
and the old spherical shot and sheU
are to be recast, as the new ordnance
only fires conical shot"* Admiral
Fourichon*s squadron at Brest, and
four frigates and some smaller vessels
at Toulon, constitute the portion of
tlie fleet which is to be withdrawn
from commission in order that the
ships may be fitted with the formida-
ble new artillery. In plain Englfsh,
to this, and to notliing more, does
the so-called naval disarmament of
France amount. Both bv land and
sea, this ^* disarmament'' is a wise
step on the part of the French Em-
peror, whatever may be his plans for
the future. By it he saves tlie wages
of a certain number of soldiers, sailors,
and marines, whom notwithstanding
he can recall in a week's time to their
fiag; and as it is only old hands,
trained men who need no fturther
drill, that are being thus dismissed
on furlough (no one being disbanded
who has not served five years), the
army and the crews of the ^eet
are in noways impaired in their effi-
ciency. Moreover, the ships which are
thus temporarily deprived of their
crewB^are when " in ordinary,"to be fit-
ted up with the new artillery, — so that
nothing is lost by their present with-
drawal firom conmusfidon. As regards
the arsenals, foundries, fbrtifioations,
and Mp-bwMing^ the work goes on
brisker than ever. In short, the only
reduction which Napoleon is mak-
ing on the war-fbotlng of France is
one which, without impairing the effi-
ciency of his crews and regiments, will
save some money f which mmMjis
being expended in loorQasing the
fortifications and prodaotiona of war,
in building more ships, and in fitting
up as many as possible with the new
nfled artillery.
Such, and no more, ia Napoleon^
disarmament. It ia a wise and prudent
step, we repeat, even though he meant
to resume warfare before another
year has passed. This must strike
every one who inquires and oonaiden
the matter. But what is not so obvi-
ous is the politioal bearing of the
^V disarmament," especially as regard
the future. The masses are ever im-
pervious to ideas unless soch as are
expressed by substantial &ctB. The
disbanding of soldiers and seameOr
and the laying-by of some ships of
war, constitutes an dbvioua £M!t
which all claasea will note, and whidi
will be appealed to as a patent
proof of the Emperar's deeire and
mtention to return to a regime of
peace. By this Napoleon seeks to
attain a double purpose. In the
first place, sagacioas and provident
of the resources of France, be desires
to reassure the commeiotal and in-
dostrial cUissea, and to engage them
in turning the present period of peace
to full account, so that when war re-
curs the resources of France maybe
in the best possible condition, ffis
second object is to lull England baok
into her old senae of security, and
indnoe us to pause in those military
and naval preparations whi<di are es-
sential to the safety of this oountrr.
It would be a great {raint if he could
make us come to believe that our
present apprehenabns are a mere
Daseless panic, and so produoe a re-
action of public sentiment, of which
he knows the leaders of the Peace
party are ready to take ftiU advant-
age. But if he can but keep ua aa we
are, it will serve his purpoee. Even
Mr. Oobdoi aUowa tiiat Great Britain
ought to have a third more ^ps than
any other power; whereas at preaeat
our fieet is not more than equal to
that of France. I^ then, ^'reassur-
ing" notes and manifestoes in the
MoniteuT should persuade us to re-
main as we are, a union of the fVench
and BuBslan fleeta ooald at any time
* Mufning SenUd, August 2.
1859.]
Foreign Affam — the IHearmament.
S8d
compel US to nentralily, vhoUy- ez-
dnding our intervention from Eu-
rope ; or, in the event of war, coold
molest our shores and cut off our
oommeroe. Instead of this being only
a problematical danger, it is one which
this country has felt already. For all
onr dignified talk about neutrality
and non-intervention during the late
war, the dmple &ct is, that we dared
not inteofere. Our Qovemment knew
that if we had interfered on behalf of
peace, and for the maintenance of
treaties, we should have brought
down upcm ourselves the French and
Bussian fleets: a^id our navy was
qtdte unprepared for such a contest.
Had the naval power of England
been as it was wont to be, there
would have been no war. Our Gov-
ernment would not only have said,
as they did say, ^ the war is unne-
cessary and uDJnstafiable," but they
would have said also— We are quite
against the settlement of such a ques-
tion by force of arms, and we shall
lend the whole weight of our material
power agunst whichever government
throws obstacles in the way of main- '
taining peace. Prussia and Germany
would at once have joined us, and
there would have been no war. But
Napoleon, who knows the state of
onr fleet as well as we do, knew that
we were not sufficiently strong at sea
to be able so to act. And so, while
Central Europe was concussed by
Prince G^rtschakofiTs open threat that
Russia wodd attack Germany if Ger-
many attacked France, England was
equally reduced to inaction by the
known existence of a secret treaty
between France and Bussia — a "writ-
ten agreement," of which our states-
men probably know more than they
care to teU. In assuming an armed
neutrality the British Government
did bS\ that it was in its power to
do. We repeat it — ^however Ministers
might (and very wisely) put a good
fiice upon the matter, and however
the public at large might pride it-
self upon our neutrality, we really
had no choice, neutrality may have
been a virtue, — assuredly it was a
necessity.
Now, the time is evidently ap-
proaching when Bussia and France
will be very happy if they can play
that game over a^oin with equal suc-
cess. The next chapter of the Napo-
leonic policy will open in Turkey.
Long before the Italian war began,
we not only pointed out that it was
coming, but, while showing before-
hand the objects which Napoleon
sought to accomplish by the war, we
stated t^at one of t^ese was^ to secure
the future co-operation of Austria, by
holding out to her the prospect of
compensating her losses in Italy by
gains in Turkey. When this new
chapter^ of Napoleonism openfr>— and
it will not be long delayed — ^France
will then do for Bussia what Bussia,
during the late war, has done for her.
France, if things go smoothly, will
take no direct part in the war. Her
task will simply be to prevent Eng-
land from interfering. And Bussia,
by pushing forward a corps towards
Herat, will be ready (in the event of
our oontumacity) to occasion fi^h
uneasiness in our Indian empire, with
a view to prevent our drawing any
material^ reinforcements from that
quarter. In these circumstances, what
is the choice presented to us ? We
may, if we choose, continue the sys-
tem of passive neutrality, we may
see a Bussian army at Constantinople,
as we have seen, and yet see, a French
army in Italy ; and we may still hug
ourselves in the belief that we are
astonishing the world by an exhibi-
tion of all the utilitarian virtues.
But that will soon haVe had its day.
France and Bussia are both bent
upon becoming great naval powers
in the Mediterranean ; and although
Napoleon III. well knows the useful-
ness of moderation, and ever offers a
salve where he demands a sacrifice,
he certainly has it in view to strip us
of vantage-ground in the Mediterra-
nean, wMch we will never consent to
abandon of our free will.
We are not painting a distant fu-
ture, but one at hand. The present
peace will not last long. And in the
mean time the French Emperor will
do his best to "reassure" Europe,
and to reinstate himself in his old
character as a friend of peace. He
wishes peace for the present ; and he
still more wishes to be thought to
wish it. He occasioned the last war,
but it is Bussia that will occasion tJbe
next one. Therefore Napoleon may
con^ne most fervent in his pacific
890
Fareiffn Affam^the DiMTtnamenU
[Sept 1859.
profefleions to the last, seeing tiiat
all the blame will M on the broad
shoulders of the northern OolossttSy
whom he will nevertheless side with
in dne time. We shall not folly ap-
preciate the oharacter of Napoleon's
present disarmament, if we do not
yiew it in relation to these schemes
for the fhtnre. Napoleon not only
wishes peace for the bonr, bnt he has
no intention to take any direct part
in the next (i, e. Turkish) war. All
that he will have to do theii, is to
keep England irom interfering. Pos-
sibly the Grand-Dake Oonstantine of
Eossia — ^who has visited in sncces-
sion the French Emperor, the King
of Greece, and the Saltan, and who
is now on a visit to onr own ooontiy
— may at this moment be nnfolding, in
confidence to onr Government, some
scheme by which England may be
propitiated into approvid of| <n- at
least passive acqniesoenoe in, the ap-
proaching inroad npon Turkey. Bat
if we revise to be so propitiated, to
the navies of France and Bossia it h
already relegated to tame onr pride,
and chain ns np in onr island home.
No Englishman can derare to see
such a scheme crowned with snooess.
Whatever form the European qoestioa
take, let ns be preparea to bear our
part in it in a manner befitting the
dignity of a great conntry. If we
choose neutrality, let the choice be
volnntary, and not of compnlsion. If
we have to choose war, let ns be read/
to face its dangers, and strong enough
to triamph over them. The preeeot
is onrs, — ^if we neglect it, the fiitoie
will be Napoleon's.
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BLACKWOOD'S '
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No, DsrvnL
OCTOBER, 1809.
You LXXXVI.
CONTHKTa
*m« stTT^FosEB SotrncR of tus No-r. From his JotrmrAt^ —
PAJfct IL,
HaBAi-Oijyjjrc m BtBU, IS54.— Pjutt U.,
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Tux &lL4-fliPf UfT tai pAfM SlATlCF
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TSB LgGtUP OF BAairiT O'CAltltOLt
4 ;%
471
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH llAGAZINE.
tro. Dxxvm.
OCTOBER 1859.
Vol. LXXXYI,
CAPTAIN J. H. fiPEKs's DIBOOVBBT OF tJlB VICTORIA NTAKZA LAK£,
THB SUFPOSBD BOUBCB OF THB NILB* FROM HZB JOURNAL.
PART n.
ArrsR ray return from Kaseng^, we the northern end and western shore
had DO other resource lef| ns but to of the lake, and agreed to take in
proceed with the inTestigation of the there, and also show ns the river in
i^iJce in common canoes ; for we could question. It was settled that we
not wait any longer, ds 6ur supplies should go in two canoes ; Oaptain
were fast on the wane. I was sorry A>r Burton, with Eannina, in a very
ft, 08 ray companion was still suffering hirge one, noddled by forty men,
so severely, ,tnat anybody seeing him at onoe, ana I in another oonsider-
attempt to go would have despaired ably smaller— our party to pav all
of his ever returning. Yet he could expenses ; and, in &ct, to do Elan-
not endure being left behind. Travel- nina^s business in consideration of his
ling in canoes, as I could now testify protection. This we did do, and no
from my late experiences, is, ^vithout more ; for, after arriving at Uvira,
Joke, a very trying business to a sick nothing could induce him to take us
man, even in the best weather ; and to the river at the end of the lid&e, al-
here we were still in the height of the though the remaining distance could
monsoon, a season of rain just as have been accomplished in about six
severe as the great Indian Barsar. hours* paddling. His reason, which
Negotiations for the means of carry- he must have known before, was, «
ing out our object (of proceeding that the savages resident there, the
to the north of the lake, survey- Wamndi tribe, were inimical to his
ing it, and ascertaining whether people, the Wnjijis. This was a sore
Bhaykh Hamed's story about a large disappointment, though not so great
river running out of it was based as it would have been, had we not
upon a true foundation) were then ascertained by other means that
commenced upon, and Kannina was Bhaykh Hamed's story was a raere
applied to. He likewise, it appeared, fabrica^on ; and that a large river,
had a plan in view of cariying on called Rusizi, did run not out of
some ivory transactions with the 8u3- but into the lake.* The Sultan's
tun of Uvira, governing a district at son, who visited tts immediately
. VOL, LXXXVl. 26
892
Captain SpekeU Discovery of the Victoria Nyarua, [Oct
on oar arriyal at XJvira, told tn that
the river drained the high mountains
encircling oar immediate north, and
discharged its waters into the lake.
I should not have been satisOed with
this coanter-statement alone (know-
ing, as everybody mast who travels
amongst onenlightened men, that they
have a proverbial habit of describing
a river's flow to be the opposite of
what it is), had I not ascended some
neighboDring heights, and observed
the moantains increasing in size as
they extended away to the florth-
ward, and efiectnally dosing in this
low lake, which is not quite half the
altitude of the surface-level of the
general interior plateau, and cannot
therefore, under any circumstances,
have an overflow of water. Al-
though wrong in this respect, the
Sbaykh was right about the dis-
tance the lake's northern end lay
from Ujiji ; for, properly divided,
it takes eight days, the time he spe-
cified, exactly. Had he not answered
my question about perceiving the
draw of the water near the river's
escape, I should have imagined
that he told his story in reverse
order, from sheer ignorance and ina-
bility to explain his knowledge about
it. On coming up the lake, we tra-
velled the first half up the east coast,
then crossed over to the end of a
long island called Ubwari, nuide for
the western shore, and coasted up it
to Uvira. I have now mapped the
northern half of the lake, and have
so many evidences about the south-
ern portion, all corroborating one
another so satisfiActorily, that the di-
mensions and position of the lake,
which I gave you in my former letter,
I feel satisfied are very near the
truth. It would have amused any
one very much to have seen our two
canoes racing together up the lake.
These noked savages were never tired
of testing their respective strengths.
They would paddle away like so
many black devils ;— dashing up the
water whenever they succeeded in
coming near each other, and delight-
ing in drenching ns with the spray.
The greatest pleasure to them, it
appeared, was torturing others with
impunity to themselves. Because the
Mzungos had clothes, and they had
none, they cared not how the water
flew about; and the more they were
asked to desist, the more obstinately
they persevered. For fear of misap-
prehension, I must state that though
these negroes go stark naked when
cruising or working daring a shower
of rain, they^all possess a mantle or
goat-skin, 4rnich they sling over
their shoulders, and strut about in
when on*shore, and the weather is fine.
It is a curious sight, when en-
camped on a showery day, to see
every man take off his skin, wrap it
carefully up, and place it in bis mo-
zigo or load, and stand, whilst his gar-
ment is thus comfortably disposed of,
cowering and trembling like a dog
who has just emerged from a cold
pond.
This part of the Jake is almost a
reflection of the other, but the dis-
trict is highly cultivated, and has very
large cattle, bearing horns of stupend-
ous size. They are of a uniform red
colour, like our Devonshire breed,
but attain a very much greater
height and size. As the mountains
run higher on either side the lake
on their extending to the north-
wanl (and as they gradually close to-
gether until they fbnn a barrier to
the lake at its northern end, where
they attain their greatest altitude),
the view is not nearly so extensive
as in the aouthern portions, but still
is very beautiful. On returning to
Ujiji after a rather protracted so-
journ at Uvira, occasioned by Ean-
nina's not completing his work eo
quickly as had been anticipated, we
found onr stock of beads and cloth,
which had been left in charge of the
Ras-cafila, Shaykh Said, and under
the protection of the Belooches and
our Wanyamn^zi porters, reduced
to so low an ebb that everybody felt
anxious about our future move-
ments. The Shaykh, howeyer, I
must add, on a prior occasion, very
generously proposed, in case we felt
dis[:osed to carry on the survey of
the lake, to return to the Arab
dep6t at Kazeh, and fetch some
more African money^ to meet the
necessary expenses. Though adniir*
ing so magnanimous a sacrifice on
the part of this energetic Shajkh, it
was voted, in consequence of my com-
panion's filling health, as well as
from the delay k would occasion,
1859.]
the supposed Source of the Nile, — Part II.
898
that we should all retnrn at onoe to
KaJJeh, where we expected to meet
oor reserve supplies. This once
Agreed upon, I then proposed that,
o^r reaching Kazeh, we should travel
north ward9, in search of a lake, said
by the Arabs to be both broader and
longer than the Tanganyika, and
which they call Ukerew^, after the
island where their caravans go for
ivory. Tills lake has no significant
name. The negroes, in speaking of
it, merely say Nyaoza (or, the Lake).
My companion was, most unfortu-
nately, quite done up, but very gra-
ciously consented to wait with the
Arabs and recruit his health, whilst
I shoull proceed alone, and satisfy
the Royal Geographical Society's de-
sires as far as possible about all the
inland seas, the object for which they
sent us, and which it was, therefore,
our ut^nost desire tu accomplish. Just
as we were preparing to leave XJjiji,
by great good fortune some supplies
were brought to us by an Arab called
Mohinna, an old friend whom we
formerly left at Kazuh, and who had
now followed us here to trade in
ivory. Had this timely supply not
reached us, it is difhcult to conceive
what would have been our fate, left
as we should have been with a large
amount of non-traflScking property,
and having numbers of people to feed,
whilst my companion wa^ unable to
move without the assistance of eight
men to carry him in a hammock,
we being totally without the means
of purchase in the territory of one
of the most inhospitable of all the
tribe* with which we have had
connection. This timely supply was
one of the many strokes of good for-
tune which befell us upon this jour-
ney, and for which we have so
much reason to be grateful Help
had always reached us at the time
when least we expected it, but when
we most required it. My health had
been improving ever since I first
reached the lake, and enjoyed those
invigorating swims upon its surface,
and revelled in the g'ood living af-
forded by the market at Ujiji. The
. fftcilitiefl of *the place giving us such
a choice of fooa,'our powers in the
culiuary art were tried to their full-
est extent. It would be difficult to
tell what dishes we did not make
there. Fish of many sorts done up
in all the fashions of the day — meat
and fowl in every form — vegetable
soups, and dishes of numberless
varieties — ^fruit-preserves, custards,
custard-puddings, and jellies— and
last but not least, buttered crum-
pets and cheese, formed as fine a
spread as was ever set before a
king. But sometimes we came to
fault, when our supply of milk
was, on the most foolish pretexts,
8tOf)ped by Kannina, who was the
only cow- proprietor in the neigh-
bourhood. At one time he took
offence because we turned his im-
portunate wives out of the house, in
mistake for common beggars. On
another occasion, when I showed
him a cheese of our manufacture,
and begged he would allow me
to instruct his people in the art of
making them, he took fright, de-
clared that the cheese was something
supernatural, and that it could never
have been made by any ordinary ar-
tifice; moreover, if his people were
shown the way to do it one hundred
times, they would never be able to
comprehend it. He further showed
his alarm by forbiduing us any more
milk, lest, by (»ur tampering with it,
we should bewitch his cows, and
make them all run dry. A year's ac-
ditnatisatiou had by this time pro-
duced a wonderful effect on all the
party : so that now, with our fresh
supplies, most of us marched away
from Ujiji in better condition than
we had enjoyed since leaving the
coast. The weather was very fine,
the rainy season having ceased on
the 15th May ; we inarched rapidly
across the eastern horn of the
mountains back to the ferry on the
Malagarazi, but by a more north-
erly route than the one by which
we came. We reached this river
in early June, and found its ap-
pearance very different from what
it was on our former visit, at the
beginning of the monsoon. Then its
waters were contained within its
banks, of no considerable width ; but
now, although the rains had ceased
here long ago, the river bad not only
overflowed its banks, but had 8ul>-«
merged nearly all the valley in which
1^ lies, to the extent at least of a mile
or more. As the prevailing winds
894
Captain Bpek^% Diseoeery of the Victoria Nyama^ [Oct
throughout the year are from the
eastward, and as rains nsnally come
op against it, we may infer, as we see
by the state of the river, that its
source being situated to the north-
ward in the greater heights, the axis
of these mountains is later affected
by the discharge of the monsoon
than these more southern regions,
where the hills are less high, and
consequently have less attractive
power on the clouds and rains. This
reasoning is also applicable to the
swelling of the rivers which are be-
yond this mountain group, and which
shed their waters to the northward,
• into the Nile. After crossing the
river, we hurried along by a more
southerly and straighter road than
we formerly came by, and reached
Kazeh towards the latter end of
June. Here Shaykh Snay, the prin-
cipal Arab merchant of the dep6t,
received us with his usual genuine
hospitality, arranged a house espe-
cially for our use, and with him
we again established our headquar-
ters. This man, when we were for-
merly detained here to form our
second caravan on our journey west-
wards, housed us, and carefully at-
tended to our wants. He took charge
of our kit, provided us with porters,
and finally became our agent. Living
with him, surrounded by an Arab
community, felt like living in a civil-
ised land. For the Arab's manners
and society are as pleasant and
respectable as can be found in any
Oriental family. Snav had travelled
OS much as, or more toan, any person
in this land ; and from being a
shrewd and intelligent inquirer,
knew everybody and everything. It
was from his mouth, on our former
visit to Kazeh, that I first heard of
the Nyanza, or, as he called it, the
ITkcrewd Sea ; and then, too, I first
proposed that we should go to it in-
stead of journeying westward to the
smaller waters of Ujiji. He had
travelled up its western flank to Ki-
buga, the capital of the kingdom of
Uganda, which I consider, deducing
my conclusions from a large mass of
information, to be in 2* north lati-
tude and 31° east longitude. How-
*ever, I will give you his own words,
and yon may judge for yourself.
Sbaykh Snay informant: "I was
once three years absent on a viMt to
King Sunna, at his capital, Kibuga, in
the Uganda kingdom, occupied by a
tribe called Waganda. Startine from
UnyanyembS (latitude 6* south and
longitude 88* east), it took me thirty-
five marches to reach Kitangura
(bearing KN.W.), and twenty more
marches going northwards, with the
morning sun a little on my right
face (probably north by east), to ar-
rive at Kibuga. The only people that
gave me any trouble on the way are
the Wasoe, situate at the beginning
of tlie Karagwah district; but that
was only trifling, and lasted but three
or four marches. The Karagwah dis-
trict (a mountainous tract of land,
containing several high spurs of hill,
the eastern buttresses of these Lun®
Montes, and washed on the flanks
by the Ukerew6 Sea) is bounded on
the north bv the Kitangura river,
beyond which the Wanyoros' terri-
tory (crescent shape) lies, with the
horns directed eastwards. Amidst
them, situate in the concave, or lake
side, are the Wagandas, to whose
capital I went. Anybody wishing
to discover the northern boundary (rf
the lake should go to Kibuga, take
good presents, and make friends with
Uie reiguing monarch ; and, with his
assistance, bny or construct boats on
the shore of the lake, which is about
five marches east of his capital.
North, beyond the "W^agandas, the
Wanyoros are again met with ; and
there quarrels and wars were so rife,
from a jealousy existing among them,
that had these people known of a
northern boundary, I still might not
have heard of it. On crossing the
Kitangura river, I found it emanat-
ing from Uruudi (a district in the
Mountains of the Moon), and flowing
north-easterly. My impression is that
it falls into the lake. The breadth
of the river is very great, I should
imagine some five to six hundred
yards, and it contains much water,
overflowing as the Malagarazi does
after rains. There are ^o numer-
ous other little streams on the way
to Kibuga, but none so great as the
Katonga river. This, like the rest,
comes from the west, and flows to-
wards the lake. It has a span of two
thousand yards — is very deep when
full; but sinks and is very sluggish
1859.]
the mppoied Source of the NiU.^-Part IL
395
in the dry season, when water-lilies
and rashes overspread its surface,
and the musqnitoes are very annoy-
ing. The cowrie shell, hrooght from
the Zanzihar coast, is the common
currency amongst those northern
tribes; but they are not worth the
merchant's while to carry, as beads
and brass. (not cloth, for they are
essentially a bead-wearing and naked
people) are eagerly sought for and
taken in exchange. Large sailing
craft, capable of containing forty or
fifty men, and manned and navigated
after the fashion of ocean mariners, are
reported by the natives to frequent
the lake* in a north-easterly direc-
tion. We Arabs believe in this re-
port, as everybody tells the same
story; but don't know how it hap-
pens to be so, unless it is open to the
sea. The Kitangura river is crossed
in good-sized wooden canoes; but
the Katonga river can only be passed
in the dry season, when men walk
over it on the lily leaves ; cattle, too,
are then passed across in certain open
spaces, guided by a long string,
which is attached to the animals'
heads."
Otlier Arab and Sowahili merchants
have corroborated Snay's statement,
as also a Hindi merchant, called Mnsa,
whom I especially mention as I con-
sider him a very valuable informant
— not only from the straightforward
way he had of telling his stoiy, but
also because we could converse with
one another direct, and so obviate
any chance of errors. After describ-
ing his route to the north in minute
detail, stage by stage, with great pre-
cision, and to the same effect as all
the other accounts, he told me of
a third large river to the northward
of the Line, lying northward beyond
Uganda; it is much larger than the Ka-
tonga, and generally called the tJsoga
River, because it waters tliat district.
Although he had recently visited
Kibuga, and bad lived with Sultan
Ht€:Mi, the present reigning monarch
. in place of Sunna, who died since Snay
was there, he had no positive or defi-
nite idea of the physical features of any
of the country beyond the point which
he had reached ; but he produced a
negro slave of the Wanyoro tribe who
had been to Usoga, ana had seen the
river in question. This man called
the river Kivira, and described it as
being much broailer, deeper, and
stronger in its current than either
the Kato.nga or Kitangura river; that
it came from the generally acknow-
ledged direction of the lake, and that
it intersected stony, hilly ground on
its passage to the north-west. This
river Kivira, I now believe (although
I must confess at first I did not), is the
Nile itself. For on a subsequent occa-
sion, when talking to a very respect-
able Sowahili merchant by name
Shaykh Abdullah bin Nasib, about
the Nyanza, he corroborated the
story about the miners, who are
said to keep logs and use sextants,
and mentioned that he had heard of
a tribe called Bari, living on the
Kivira river. Now, the Bari people
mentioned by him are evidently
those which have long since been
known to us as a tribe living on the
Nile in latitude 4" north, and longitude
32° east, and described by the difff rent
Egyptian expeditions sent up the Nile
to discover its source. M. Ferdinand
Werne (says Dr. Beke) has published
an account of the second expedition's
proceedings, in which he took part;
and which, it appears, succeeded in
getting farther up the river than
either of the others. "The author
states that, according to Laoono,
King of Bari, the course of the river
continues thence southwards a dis-
tance of tliirty days' journey." Tliis,
by Dr. Beke^s computation, places the
source of tlie Nile just where I have
since discovered the Nyanza's south-
ern extremity to be, in the second
degree south longitude, lying in tlie
Unyamudzi country.! Here we see
how singularly all the different in-
formers' statements blend together,
in substantiating my opinion that
the Nyanza is the great reservoir or
fountain-head of that mighty stream
that floated Father Moses on his
first adventurous sail — the Nile.
Even Ptolemy, we see, is right in stat-
ing that the Nile is fed by the waters
* Query — ^Tlie Nile, as Bahari, the word they use for lake, ib also used to ex-
press a large river.
f See Dr. Beke*s paper on '*The Sources of the Nile" printed 1849.
396
Captain 3p0Jce^» Dkoovery of the Vietoria Kyanxa^ [Oct
coining from tbe Mountains of thd
Moon : and though he has not placed
those mountains exactly where they
should be on his map— from not un-
derstanding the true disposition of
^the various physical geograpliical
'features which occupy tnat part of
Africa — still it is wonderfully near the
truth for an hypothetical production.
I began the formation of the new
caravan for exploring Northern Unya-
raudzi immediately after our arrival,
bat found it difncult to do things
hurriedly. There was only one man
then at Unyanyemb6, who knew
the Sowahili language, and would
consent to act as my Kirangozi;*
and as lie had come all the way from
Ujiji with us, he required a few days
to arrange things at his home, in a vil-
lage some distance off. Whilst he was
absent nothing could go on ; but the
Arabs paid ua daily visits, and gave
many useful hints about the journey
in prospect. One hint must especially
be regarded, which was, to take care,
on arrival at the lake, that I did not
enter the village of a certain sultan
called Maiiaya, to whose district
Muanza, at the southern extremity
of the lake, they directed me to go.
This precautionary warning was ad-
vancetl in consequence of a trick the
Sultan had played an Arab, who,
after visiting him in a friendly way,
was forcibly detained until he paid a
ransom for himself; an unjust mea-
sure, which the Arabs pointedly ad-
vert to as destructive to commercial
interests. To lose no time whilst the
Kirangozi was away — for I had a long
business to do in a very short space
of time — I intimated to the Shaykh,
our Ras - cafila, and the Belo(Xih
guards, my intention of taking them
with me to the lake, and ordered
them to prepare for the journey by a
certain date. The Shaykh demurred,
saying he would give a definite an-
swer about accompanying me be-
fore the time of starting, but sub-
sequently refused (I hear, as one
reason), because he did not con-
sider me his chief. € urged that
it was as mubh his duty as mine to
go there ; and said, unless he changed
his present resolution, I should cer-
tainly recommend the Government
not to pay the gratuity wbioh the
consul had promised ^hira on condi-
tion that be worked entirely to our
satisfaction, in assisting tbe expedi-
tion to carry out the Government's
plans. Tl»e Jemadar of the Belooch
guard, on seeing tbe Shaykh bold
back, at first raised objection?, and
then began to bargain. He fixed a
pay of one gora, or fifteen cloths per
man, as the only condition on which
I should get their services ; for Uiey
all declared that they had not only
been to Ujiji, the place appointed by
Sultan Mujid find their chief before
leaving Zanzibar, but that they had
overstayed the time agreed upon for
them to be absent on these travels.
Considering the value of time, I ac-
ceded to this exorbitant demand;
moreover, the dry season had now set
in, and the Arabs, at Uiis period cease
travelling, from fear of being caught
by droughts in those deserts which lie
between this place and the eaat-coast
range, where, if the ponde and pud-
dles dry up, there is so little water in
the wells that travelling becomes pre-
carious. Further, I had not only to
go through a much wilder country
than we had travelled in before, two
and a half degrees off, to discover and
bring back full particulars of the
Kyanza, but hod to purchase cattle
sufiicient for presents, and iboil for the
whole journey down to the coast,
within the limited period of six weeks.
The Arab de|>6t now came into play
to satisfy this sadden and unexpected
call upon our store of cloths. There
were ten Belooches fit for service,
and for each of them a gora was
bought at the de{)6t, at a valuatioa
of 10 dollars eadi, or 100 tbe lot.
In addition to this, they received
an advance of 16 maunds of white
beads in lieu of rations— a rate of 1 lb.
per man per diem for six weeks.
The Kirangozi now returned with
many excuses to escape the undertak-
ing, lie declared that all the roads
were rendered impassable by wars;
and that it was impossible for him
to undertake the respon&»ibility of es-
corting me in so dangerous a country.
After a good deal of bothering and
persuading he at length acceded, and
brought fifteen pagozis or porters
* Kirangozi — ^leader of a caravan.
1859.]
ths 8Mpp(md Source qf the JSfUe.—Poirt IL
897
from his own and some neighboaring
. Yillages. To each of these I ga^e five
olothts as hire, and all appeared ready:
bat not so. Bombay^s Seedi natare
oame over him, and he would not
move a yard nnless I gave him a
month^s wages, in cloth upon the spot
I thoaght his demand an imposition,
for he had just been given a cloth.
His wages wereoriginally fixed at five
dollars a month, to aocainulate at
Zanzibar nntil oar retom there ; bat
he was to receive daily rations the
same as all the other men, with an
occasional loin cloth covering when-
ever his shnkka might wear out. AU
these strikes with the Belooches and
slaves, were in consequence of their
baring boaght some slaves, whose
whim:} and tastes they could not sa-
tisfy withoat our aid ; and they knew
th»«e men would very soon desert
them unless they received occasion-
al alluring presents to make them
contented. But finessing is a kind of
itch with all Orientals, as gambling
is with those who are addicted to it,
and they would tell any lie rather
than gain their object easily by the
simple truth, on the old principle that
^^ stolen things are sweetest. '* Had
Bombay only opened his heart, the
matter would have been settled at
once, for his motives were of a supe-
rior order. He had bought, to be his
adopted brother, a slave of the Wah-
ha tribe, a tall, athletic, fine-looking
man, whose figure wos of such excel-
lent proportions that he would have
been remarkable in any society ; and
it was for this youth, and not himself,
he had made so much fuss and use<l so
many devices to obtain the cloths.
Indeed, he is a very singular charsc-
ter, not caring one bit about himself,
how he dressed, or what he ate ; ever
oontented, and doing everybody's
work in preference to his own, and of
such exemplary honesty, he stands a
solitary marvel in the land ; he would
do no wron.; to benefit himself—- to
please anybody else there is nothing he
would stick at. I now gave him five
cloths at his request, to be eventually
deducted from his pay. Half of them
he gave to a slave called Mabrnk, who
had been procured by him for leading
Captain Burton's donkey^ but who
had not, in consequence of bad be-
havionr, reverteil to my service. This
man he also designated ** brother,"
and was very warmly attache'^ to,
though Mabruk bad no qualiOcacions
wor^y of attracting any one^s affec-
tions to hioL He was a sulky, dogged,
pudding-headed brute, very ugly, but
very vain; he always maintained a
respectable appearance, to cloak his
disrespectful manners. The remain-
der was expended in loin-cloths, some
spears and a fez (red Turkish cap),
the wearing of which he shared by
turns with his purchased brother,
and a little slave child whom he had
also purchased and employed in look-
ing after the genersl wardrobe, and
in cooking his porridge dinner, or
fetching water and gathering sticks.
On the line of march he carried
Bombay's sleeping-hide and water-
gourd.
And now I am ready to lead you
over my second voyage of discovery
— the one which, to my mind, is
by far the most satisfactory, and I
trust it will be so to you ; for it takes
you into the richest part of Africa,
and discloses to you the probable, and
I believe true, source of that mighty
stream the Nile; and has almost,
if not entirely, solved a problem
which it has been the first geographi-
cal desideratum of many thousand
years to ascertain, and the ambition
of the first monarchs of the world to
unravel.
DISCOTEBT OF THB VIOTOMiL ITTAKZA.
Kazrh, TTxTAimiiBi, UHTAXinBE, Wh JiOif^ 18S&
The caravan, jjonsisting of^oneKir- who carried one of Captain Burton's
double rifles, an eigbp-bore by W.
Richards. I took with* me for sport-
ing purposes, as well as for the defence
of the expedition, one large five-bore
elephant gun, also kindly lent by
Captain Barton ; and of my own, one
angozi, twenty Pagazis, ten Belooches
as guard, Bombay, Mabruk, and Grae-
tano, escorting a kit sufficient for six
weeks, left Kazeh to form camp at
noon. The Belooches were all armed
with their own guns, save one,
Captain Spsh^t DUe&wry of the ViOaria yfanta, [OeL
two-gxxMYed fonr-gange single rifle,
one polygrooved twenty-gaage doa-
ble, and one double smooth twelve-
bore, all by John Bliaset of High
Holborn. The village they selected to
form up in was three miles distant on
the northern extremity of this, the Un-
yanyemb^ district. I commenced the
journey myself at 6 p.m , as soon as
the two donkeys I took with me to ride
were 'caught and saddled. It was a
dreary beginning. The escort of Be-
looches who accompanied me had
throughout the former journeys been
held in great disgrace, and were in
consequence all snllen in their man-
ner, and walked with heavy gait and
downcast countenances, looking very
much as if they considered they had
sold themselves when striking such
a heavy bargain with us, for they evi-
dently saw nothing before them but
drudgery and a continuance of past
hardships. The nature of the track
increased the general gloom; it lay
throngh fields of jo wan (holcns) across
the plain of UnyrfnyemW. In the sha-
dow of night, the stalks, awkwardly
lying across the path, tripped up
the traveller at every step ; and whilst
Ms hands, extended to the front, were
grasping at darkness to preserve his
equilihrium, the heavy bowing ears,
ripe and ready to drop, would bang
against his eyes. . Farther, the heavy
soil added not a little in ruffling the
temi>er ; but it was soon over, though
all our mortification did not here
cease. The Pagazis sent forward had
deposited their loads and retired home
to indulge, it is suspected, in those
potations deep of the ufiiversal pombe
(African small -beer), that always pre-
cede a journey, hunt, or other adven-
ture—without leaving a word to
explain the reason of their going, or
even the time which they purposed
being absent.
10th July,-— The absence of the
Pagazis caused a halt, for none of
them appear<^d again until after dark.
The bad e»unple set by Shaykh Said
in shirking from this journey, is dis-
tressingly evident in every counte-
nance. The Belooohes, gloomy, de-
i'ected, discontented, and ever gram-
)ling, form as disagreeable a party as
was ever the unfortunate lot of any
man to command.
11«A.— We started on tbe journey
northwards at 7 a.m., and, soon clear-
ing the cultivated plain, bade adien
to Unyanyernb^. The track passed
down a broad valley, with a gentle
declination, which was full of tall but
slender forest trees, and wsa lined
on either side by low hills. We passed
some pools of water, and also two
Wasukamas caravans, one of ivory,
destined for the coast, and the other
conveying cattle to the Unyanyembtf
markets. Though the country through
which we pamd was wild and un-
inhabited, we saw no game but a-
troop of zebras, which were so wild
that I could not get near them. After
walking fifteen miles, we arrived at
the district of Ul^kampori, entered a
village, and I took up my quarters in
a negroes hut. My servants and por-
ters did the best they ooald by pi^
ging with the cattle, or lying in t£e
shade under the e&Tes d £e hnts.
Up to this point the villages, as is the
case in all central Unyamuizi, are bnilt
on the most luxurious prineiples. They
form a large hollow square, the walk
of which are their huts, ranged on all
sides of it in a sort of street consist-
ing of two walls, the breadth of an
ordinary room, which is partitioned
off to a convenient size by interior
walls of the same earth •conatmetion
as the exterior ones, or as our Sepoys*
lines are made in India. The roof is
flat, and serves as a store-place for
keeping sticks to bum, drying grain,
pumpkins, mushrooms, or any vege-
tables they may have. Most of these
compartments oontain the families
of the villagers, together with their
poultry, brewing utensils, cooking ap-
paratas, stores of grain, and any-
thing they possess. The remainder
contain their flocks and herds, prin-
cipally goats and cows, for sheep do
not breed well in the country, and
their flesh is not mneh approved of
by the people. What few sheep there
are appear to be an ofiEshoot from the
Persian stuck. They have a very
scraggy appearance, and show bat
the slightest signs of the fat-rumped
proportions of their ancestors. The
cows, unlike the noble Tanganyika
ones, are small and short-horned, and
are of a variety of colours. Thev
carry a hump like the Brahminy bull,
but give very little milk. In front of
nearly every house you see large slabs
1859.]
the iuppoted Source of the NlUr^Part 11.
899
of granite, the stones on which lihe
lowari is gronnd by women, who,
ImeeKng before them, rnb the grain
down to flonr with a smallor stone,
which they hold with both hands at
once. Thns mbbing .and grinding
away, their bodies sway monoton-
onsly to amd fro, while they clreer
the time by singing and droning in
cadence to the motion of their bodies.
The country to the east and north-east
of this village is said to be thinly
peopled, bnt, as nsual, the clans are
mnch intermixed, the twoprindpal
being Wakimbns and wasagaris.
I here engaged a second gnide or
leader for fire shukkas (small loin-
cloths) Amerikan, as a second war,
different from the one he had heard
of and spoken about at Kazeh, had
broken ont exactly on the road I
was pnrsaing, and rendered my first
leader's experjence of no avail. The
evening was spent by the porters
m dancing, and singing a song which
had been evidently composed for the
occasion, as it embraced everybody's
name connected with the caravan,
bat more especially Mznngu (the
wise or white man), and ended
with the prevailing word amongst
these curly-headed bipeds, "Grub,
Grab, Grub." It is wonderful to see
how long they will, after a long fe-
tiguing march, keep up these festivi-
ties, singing the same song over and
over again, and dancing^ and stamp-
ing, with their legs and arms flying
about like the win^ of a semaphore,
as they move slowly round and round
in the same circle and on the same
ground; their heads and bodies
lolling to and fro in harmony with
the rest of the dance, which is always
kept at more even measure when, as
on this occasion, there were some
village drums beating the measure
they were wont to move by.
12th, — The caravan got under
way by 6 A.if., and we marched
thirteen miles to a village in the
southern extremity of the Unyam-
bfewa district. Fortunately tempers,
like butterflies, soon change state.
The great distractor Time, together
with the advantage of distance, has
produced such a salutary effect on the
Beloodies' minds, that this morning's
start was accomplished to the merry
peaTs of some native homely ditty,
and all moved briskly forward. This
was the more cheering to me because
it was the first ocoasfon of their hav-
ing shown scfch signs of good feeling
by singing in chorus on the line <Kf
march. The first five miles lay over
flattish ground winding amongst low
straggling hills of the same formation
as the whole surface of the Unyam-
n^zi province, which is diversified
with small hills composed of granite
outcrops. As we proceeded, the
country opened into an extensive
Elain, covered, as we found it at
rst, with rich cultivation, and then
suc<ieded bjr a slender tree forest,
amongst which we espied some ante-
lopes, all very wary and difiicult of
approach. At the ninth mile was a
pond of sweet water, the greatest
luxury in the desert. Here I ordered
a halt for half an hour, and made a
hearty breakfast on cold meat, pot-
ted Tanganyika shrimps, ronelle
jelly, with other delicacies, and
coffee. The latter article was bought
from the Kazeh merchants. Towards
the close of the journey a laughable
scene took place between an ivory
caravan of Wasukumas* and my
own. On nearing each other, the
two kirangozis or leaders slowly
advanced, marching in front of the
single-file oriler in which caravans
worm along these twisting narrow
tracks, with heads awry, and eyes
steadfastly fixed on one another, and
with their bodies held motionless and
Btrictly poised, like rams preparing
for a fight, rushed in with their heads
down, and butted continuously till
one gave way. The rest of the cara-
van then broke up their order of march,
and commenced a general niM^e. In
my ignorance — ^for it was the first
time f had seen such a scrimmage —
I hastened to the front with my knob-
bed stick, and began reflecting where
I could make best use of it in divid-
ing the combatants, and should no
doubt have laid to, if I only could
have distinguished friend from foe;
but both parties, being black, were
so alike, that I hesitated until they
* Snkuma means north, and the Wasukumas are consequently northmen, or
northern Wanyamuen.
400
Captain Speke^i Di$c<mrff of the Victoria HTyamOy [Got
stopped to laugh at my excited
state, and assured me that it was
only the enaotnient of a oommon cus-
tom in the country when two strange
caravan • leaders meet, and each
doubts who should take the supremacy*
in choice of side. In two minutes
more the antagonists broke into broad
laughter, an(l each went his way.
The villages about here are numerous,
and the country, after passing the
forest, is highly cultivated, and
affords plenty of provisions ; but un-
fortunately as yet the white beads
which I have brought have no value
with the natives, and I cannot buy
those little luxuries, eggs, butter, and
milk, which have such a powerful
influence in making one^s victuals
good and palatable ; whereas there is
such a rage for coloured beads, that if
I had brought some, I might pur-
chase anything.
lUh, — The caravan started at
6.80 A.M., and after travelling eight
miles over an open, waving, well-cid-
tivated country, stopped at the last
village in Unyanib^wa. The early
morning before starting was wasted
bv the Pdgazis ^^ striking" for more
cloth, and refusing to move unless I
complied with their demand. I per-
emptorily refused, and they then tried
to wheedle me out of beads. In
demanding cloth, they pretended that
they were suffering from the chill-
ing cold of night — ^a pretence too
absurd to merit even a civil reply. I
then explained to my head men
that I would rather anything hap-
pened than listen to such imposture as
this ; for did the men once succeed by
tricks of this sort, there would never
be an end to their trying it on, and
it would ultimately prove highly
injurious to future travellers, espe-
cially to merchants. On the route
we had nothing to divert the atten-
tion, save a single Wasukumas cara-
van proceeding southwards to Un-
yanyembe. A sultana called Ungugu
governs this district. She is the first
and only female that we have seen in
this position, though she succeeded
to it after the custom of the country.
I imagine she must have had a worth-
less husband, since every sultan can
have as many wives as he pleases, and
the whole could never have been bar-
ren. I rallied the porters for pulling
up after so abort a mardi, but oonM
not induce them to go on. They de-
clared that forests of such vast extent
lay on ahead, that it would be quite
impossible to cross them before the
night set in. In the evening I had a
second cause for being vexed at this
loss of time, when every mile and
hour was of so much importance;
for by our halt the sultana got news
of my arrival, and sent a messenger
to request the pleasure of my ootn-
pany at her house on the morrow.
In vain I pleaded for permission to
go and see her that moment, or to do
so on my return from the Nyanza;
her envoy replied that the day
was so far spent, I could not arrive
at her abode till after dark, and she
would not have the pleasure of see-
ing me sufficiently well He there-
fore begged I would attend to the
letter of her request, and not fail to
visit her in the mornings
The lazv Pagazis, smelling flesh,
also aided the deputy in his en-
deavours to detain me, by saying
that they could not oppose her ma-
jesty's will, lest at any future time,
when they might want again to pass
that way, she should take her revenge
upon them. Though this may be
considered a very reasonable excuse,
I doubt much, if their interests had
lain the opposite way, whether they
would have been so cautions. How-
ever, it was not difficult to detect their
motives for bringing forward such an
urgent reason against me, as it is a
custom in this country that everv
wealthy traveller or merchant shJl
pay a passport-fee, according to his
means, to the sultan of the country
he travels through, who, in return,
^ves a cow or goat as a mark of
amity; and this is always shared
amongst the whole caravan.
Hm. — The sultana's house was
reported to be near, so I thought to
expedite the matter by visiting her in
person, and thus perhaps probably
gaining an afternoon's march. Other-
wise to have sent the Jemadar with
a present would have been suffi-
cient, for these creatures are pure
Mammonists. Yain hope, trying to
do anything in a hurry in Negroland I
I sterted early J n the morning, unfor-
tified within, 'and escorted by two
Belooches, the Kirangozi, three por-
1869.]
the »uppoMd Source of the Iftle, — Part IL
m
ten, Bombay, and Mahrnk. The
necessary presents were also taken:
these consisted of one barsati,* one
dhoti Anierikan,t and one ahnkka
kiniki.l This latter article was to be
kept in reserve, to throw in at last and
close with, asfnrther demands beyond
what is given are invariably made.
After walking six miles pver a well-
cultivated plain, I felt anxioas to
know what they meant by "near,"
and was told, as usual, that the bouse
was close at hand. Distrustful, but
anxious to complete the business as
speedily as possible (for to succeed in
Africa one must do everything oneV
self), I followed the envoy across one
of the waves that diversify the face
of the country, descended into a well-
cultivated trough-like depression, and
mounted a second wave six miles fur-
ther on. Here at last, by dint of per-
severance, we had the satisfaction of
seeing the paltsadoed royal abode.
We entered it by an aperture in the
tall slender stakes which surround
the dwellings and constitute the pali-
sading, and after following up a pas-
sage constructed of the same material
as the outer fence, we turned suddenly
into a yartl full of cows — ^a substi-
tute for an anteroom. Arrived there,
the negroes at once commenced beat-
ing a couple of large drums, half as
tall as themselves, made something
like a beer- barrel, covered on the top
with a cow-skin stretched tightly over,
by way of a drum-head. This drum-
ming was an announcement of our
arrival, intended as a mark of regal
respect. For ten minutes we were
kept in suspense, my eyes the while
resting upon the milk-pots which
were being filled at mid*clay, but I
could not get a drop. At the expira-
tion of that time, a body of slaves
came rushing in, and hastily desired
us to fuliow them. They led us down
the passage by which we entered, and
then turned up another one similarly
constructed, which brought us into
the centre of the sultana's establish-
ment— a small court, in which the
common negro nmshroom huts, with
ample eaves, afforded us grateful shel-
ter from the blazing sun. A cow-skin
was now spread, and a wooden stool
set for me, that I might assume a bet-
ter state than my suite, who were
squatted in a circle around me. With
the usual precaution of African nobles,
the lady's maid was first sent to
introduce herself— an ugly halting
creature, very dirtily garbed, but
possessijig a smiling, contented face.
Her kindly mien induced me, starv-
ing and thirsty as I was, after my
twelve miles' walk, to ask for eggs
and milk — great luxuries, considering
bow long I had been deprived of tiiem.
They were soon procured, and de-
voured with a voracity that must
have astonished the bystanders. The
maid, now satisfied there was nothing
to fear, whether from ghost, goblin,
or white face, retired and brought her
mistrera, a [short stumpy old dame,
who had seen at least some sixty
summers. Her nose was short, squat,
and Ifavbby at the end, and her eyes
were bald of brows or lashes; but
still she retained great energy of
manner, and was blessed with an
ever-smiling face. The dress she
wore consisted of an old barsati,
presented by some Arab merchant,
and was if anything dirtier tban her
maid's attire. The large joints of all
her fingers were bound up with small
copper wire, her legs staggered under
an immense accumulation of anklets
made of brass wire wound round ele-
phant's tail or zebra's hair; her arms
were decorated with huge solid brass
rings, and from other thin brass wire
bracelets depended a great assortment
of wooden, brazen, horn, and ivory
ornaments, cut in every-shape of talis-
ma"uic peculiarity. Squatting by my
side, the sultana at onoe shook hands.
Her nimble fingers then first mani-
pulated my shoes (the first point of no-
tice in these bare-footed climes), then
my overalls, then my waistcoat, more
particularly the buttons, and then my
coat — thb latter article being so much
admired, that she wished I would pre-
sent it to her, to wear upon her own
fair person. Then my hands and fin-
gers were mumbled, and declared to
* BarsaU — a coloured oloth.
f One dhoti ■— 2 sbukkas ; 1 shukka *— 4 cubits, or 2 yards Amerikau (Ame«
rican sheeting).
X Kiniki—tk thin indigo-dyed cloth.
403
Captain SpekeU Dieeoverp of the Victoria Nyama^
[Oct.
be as soft as a obild's, and my liair
was likened to a lion's mane. ** Where
is he going!" was the all-important
query. This, without my nnderstand-
ing, was readily answered by a dozen
voices, thns: "He is going to the
Lake, to barter his cloth for large
hippopotami teeth." Satisfied with
this plausible story, she retired into
Eriracy, and my slave, taking the
int, soon followed with the knhon-
go,* duly presented it, and begged
gjrmission in my name to depart,
nt as she had always given a bul-
lock to the Arabs who visited her, I
also mast accept one from her, though
she could not realise the fact that so
scurvv a present as mine could be
intended for her, whose pretensions
were in no way inferior to those of
the ITnyanyemb6 Sultan. An Arab
could not have offered less^ and thid
was a rich Mzengul Misfortunes
here commenced anew: the bullock
she was desirous of giving was out
grazing, and could not be caught
until the evening, when all the cattle
are driven in together. Further, she
could not afford to lose so interesting
a personage as her guest, and volun-
teered to give me a shakedown for
the night. I begged she would con-
sider ray position — the absolute neces-
sity for my hurrying — and not in-
sist on my acceptance of the bullock,
or be offended by my refusing her
kind offer to remain there, but per-
mit our immediate departure. She
replied that the word had gone forth,
BO the animal must be given ; and if I
still persisted in going, at any rate
three porters could remain behind,
and drive it on afterwards. To this
I reluctantly consented, and only on
the Kirangozi's promise to march the
following morning. Then, with the
usual farewell salutation, " Kuaher6,
Mznngu," from my pertinacious host-
ess, I was not sorry to retrace my
steps, a good five hours' walk. We
re-entered camp at 7.20 p.m., which
is long after dark in these regions so
near to the equator. All palaces here
are like all the common villages be-
yond Unyaninfoi proper, and are usu-
ally constructed on the same prin-
ciple as this one. They consist of a
number of rausbroom-shaped grass
hnts, surrounded by a tall slender
palisading, and having streets or pas-
sages of the same wooden construc-
tion, some winding, some straight,
and others' crosswise, with outlets at
certain distances leading into the dif-
ferent courts, each court usually con-
taining five or six huts partitioned off
with poles as the streets are. These
courts serve for dividing the different
families, uncles and cousins occupy-
ing some, whilst slaves and their
relatives Hve in others. Besides this,
they have their cattle-yards. If the
site of the village be on moist or soft
ground, it is usual, in addition to the
palisading, to have it further fortified
by a moat or evergreen fence.
\JSth, — ^We left tJnyamb€wa at
7 A.M., and reached a village in
the Ibanda district, having marched
seven miles over flat ground, growing
fine crops in some places, with the re-
mainder covered by the usual slender
forest trees. The road was very good
and regular. In the afternoon the
three porters arrived with the sul-
tana's bullock, and were attended bv
her nephew and managing man, and
by some of her slaves as drivers.
The nephew asked first for some
more presents in her name; as this
was refused, he requested something
for the drivers. I gave them a cloth,
and be then pleaded for himself, as
he had sacrificed so much time and
trouble for me. I satisfied him with
one fnndo of beads (a bunch of
beads suflBcient to form ten khetes
or necklaces), and we parted ; a full
khete is a string of beads double
the length of the fore-arm, or suffi-
ciently long to encircle the neck
twice. The Belooches, finding that
nothing but the coarsest grains were
obtainable with the white beads they
had received, petitioned for and ob-
tained a shukka, but under the pro-
viso of their always ost^isting me to
urge on the lazy porters. This they
not only agreed to do, but also de-
clared themselves witling to execnte
any orders I might give them ; they
looked upon me as their Ma,
Bap (mother and father, a Hio-
dostani expression, significant of
everything, or entire dependence on
one as a son on his parents), and
* ir«^o«^o— present
1859.]
the wppoted Source qf the Nile, — F<vrt IL
408
oonsidcred my interests their inte-
rests.
16eA.— 'We started at 6 jlm., and
travelled eleven miles to Uk»mba, a
village in the distriot of Msalala,
which is held by a tribe -called Wa-
mancla. The first four miles lay over
the cultivated plain of Ibanda, till we
arrive<l at the foot of a ridge of
hills which, gradually closing from
the right, intersects the road, and
runs into a hilly country extending
round the western side of the afore-
said plain. We now crossed the
range, and descended into a coun-
try more closely studded with the
Bame description of small hills, but
highly cultivated in the valleys and
plains that separate them. About
twelve miles to the eastward of
Ukamha live a tribe called Wasougo,
and to the west, at twenty miles* dis-
tance, are the "Waqnandas. To-day
was fully verified the absolute futility
of endeavouring to march agunst
time in these wild countries. The
lazy Pagazis finding themselves now,
as it were, in clover, a country full
of all the things they love, would
not stir one step after 11 iL.M.
Were time of no consequence, and
coloured beads in store, such travel-
ling as this would indeed be pleasant.
For the country here, so different
fh>m the XJjiji line, affords not only
delightful food for the eyes, but
abounds in flesh, milk, eggs, and
vegetables of every variety. The
son of the Ms^n^ Sultan, who lives
between Unyanyembd and Ujiji, and
became great friends with us when
travelling there, paid me a visit to-
day. He caught me at work with
my diary and instruments, and being
struck with veneration at the sight
of my twirling compass and literary
pursuits, thought me a magician, and
begged that I would cast his horo-
scope, divine the probable extent of
his father^s life, ascertain if there
would be any wars, and describe the
weather, the prospects of harvest,
and what future state the country
would lapse into. The shrewd Bom-
bay replied, to save me trouble, that
so great a matter required more days
of contemplation than I could afford
to give. Provisions were very dear
when purchased with white beads,
for they were not the fashion, and the
people were indifferent U> them. I
pua him one loin-cloth for four fowls
and nine eggs, though had I had
coloured beads I mi^ht have pur-
chased one hen per khete (or neck-
lace). Had this been a cloth-wear-
ing instead of bead-decoratiog na-
tion^ I should have obtained forty
fowls for one shukka (or loin-clothl
that being the equivalent value with
beads, and, according to Zanzibar
money, would be one dollar. It is
always foolish to travel without an
ossortnient of beads, in consequence
of the tastes of the different tribes
varying so much, and it is more
economical in the long-run to pur-
chase high-priced than low-priced
beads when making up the caravan
at Zanzibar, for every little trader
buys the cheaper sorts, stocks the
country with them, and thus makes
them common.
17<A.— This day, like all the pre-
ceding ones, is delightful, and worthy
of drawing forth an exclamation, like
the Indian Griff's, of "what a fine
day this is again!" We started at
7 Aj£., and travelled thirteen miles,
with fine bracing air, so cold in the
morning that my fingers tingled with
it. We were obliged here to diverge
from the proper road vtd Sareng^ to
avoid a civil war — the one before
alluded to, and to escape which I
had engaged the second guide — ^be-
tween two young chiefe, brothers of
the Wamanda tribe, who were con-
tending for the reins of government on
the principle that might ought to give
the stronger right. Our new course
led us out of the MsalaJa into the
Uyombo district, which is governed
by a sultan called Mihambo. He
paid me a visit and presented a sheep
— a small present, for he was a small
chief, and could not demand a ku-
bongo. I gave in return one shukka
Amerikan and one shukka kiniki.
Here all the people were very busily
engaged in their harvest, cutting
their jowari, and thrashing it out
with long sticks. The whole country
lies in long waves crested with crop-
ping little hills, thickly dad with
small trees and brushwood. In the
hollows of these waves the cultiva-
tion is very luxuriant. Here I un-
fortunately had occasion to give ray
miserable Goanese cook-boy a sound
404
Captain Spele'i Discovery of the Victoria Nyama,
[Oct
dressing, as the only means left of
checking his lying, obstinate, de-
Btractive, wasteful, and injurious
habit of intermeddling. This raised
tlie creature's oholer, and he vowed
vengeance to the death, seconding
his words with such a fiendish,
murderous look, his eyes glistening
like an infuriated tiger's, that I felt
obliged to damp his temerity and
fi^edom of tongue by further chas-
tisement, which luckily brought him
to a proper sense of his duty:
18eA.— We left at 7 a.m., and
travelled ten miles to Ukuni. The
country still continues of the same
rich and picturesque character, and
retains daily the same unvarying tetn-
J)eratnre. On the rood we met a
party of Wayombos, who, taking ad-
vantage of the Wamandas disturb-
ances, had lifted some forty or fifty
head of their cattle in perfect se-
curity. I saw two albinos in this
village, one an old woman with grey-
ish eyes, and the other young, who
ran away from fright, and concealed
herself in a hut, and would not show
again although beads were offered
as an inducement for one moment's
peep. The old lady's t^kin was of
an unwholesome fles{iy-pink hue, and
her hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes
were a light yellowish white. This
march was shortened by two Pagazis
falling sick. I surmised tliis illness
to be in consequence of their having
gorged too much beef, to which they
replied that everybody is sure to
suffer pains in the stomach after eat-
ing meat, if the slayer of the animal
happens to protrude his tongue and
clench it with his teeth during the
process of slaughtering. At last the
white beads have been taken, but at
the extravagant rate of two khetes
for four e^s, the dearest I ever paid.
19«A.-— The caravan proceeded at
6 A.M., and after going eight miles
re-entered the Msalala district's fron-
tier, where we pat up in a village
three miles beyond the border. The
country throughout this march may
be classed in two divisions, one of
large and extensively cultivated plains,
wiSi some fine trees about ; and the
other of small irregularly disposed
hills, the prevailing granitic outcrops
of this region. There is no direct line
northwards here, so we had to track
about, and hit upon the lines be-
tween the different villages, which
enhanced our trouble and caused
much delay. At this place I wit-
nessed the odd operation of brother-
making. It consists in the two men
desirous of a blood- tie being seated
face to face on a cow's hide with
their legs stretched out as wide to the
ft*ont as their length will permit, one
pair overlapping the other. They
then place their bows and arrows
across their thighs, and each holds a
leaf; at the same time a third person,
holding a pot of oil or butter, makes
an incision above their knees, and re-
quires each to put his blood on the
other's leaf, and mix a little oil with
it, when each anoints himself with the
brother-salve. This operation over,
the two brothers bawl forth the names
and extent of their relatives, and
swear by the lt)lood to protect the
other till death. Ugogo, on the high-
way between the coast and Ujiji, is a
place so full of inhabitants compared
with the other places on that line,
that the coast pieople quote it as a
wonderful instance of high population;
but this district astonished all my re-
tinue. The road to-day was liteniUy
thronged with a legion of black hu-
manity so exasperatingly bold, that
nothing short of the stick could keep
them from jostling me. Poor crea-
tures I they said they had come a
lung way to see, and now must have
a good long stare; for when was
there ever a Mzungu here before ?
20th. — We broke ground at 6 ajc,
and after travelling through high
cultivatioii six miles, were suddenly
stopped by a guard of Wamandas,
sent by Kurua, a sultan of that
tribe, and chief of the division we
were marching in. Their business
was to inform us that if we wished
to travel to the Lake, the sultan
would give directions to have us
escorted by another route, as bis
eldest brother was disputing the
rights of government with him along
the line we were now pursuing ; and
added, that our intentions would
be only known to him by the part
we might choose to take. These
constant interruptions were becom-
ing very troublesome; so as we
were close to the confines of these
two malcontents, I was anxious to
force our way on, and agreed to
do so with the Belooches. But the
1859.]
the supposed Source of the Nile,'-PaTt IL
405
tiresome, lazy, flesh-seeking Pagazis
saw a feast in prospect by the sul-
tan's arrangement, and would not
move an inch. Farther, the Kiran-
gozi requested his discharge if I was
otherwise than peacefally inclined.
The guard then led us to Mgogwa,
the sultanas Tillage a little oft' the
road. Earua is a youn? man, not
very handsome himself, but has two
beautiful young wives. They secured
me a comfortable honse, showed many
attentions, and sent me a bowl of
fresh sweetmilk, the very extreme of
savage hospitality. In the evening
be presented me with a bullock. This
I tried to refuse, observing that flesh
was the prime canse of all my hin-
drances; but nothing would satisfy
liira ; I must accept it, or he would
be til e laughing-stock of everybody for
inhospitality. If I gave nothing in re-
turn, he should be happy as long as
his part of host was properly fulfilled.
Salt, according to the sultan, is only
to be found here in the same efElo-
rescent state in which I saw it yester-
day— a thin coating overspreading
the ground, as though flour had been
sprinkled tliere.
27<A.— Halt. I gave the sultan, as a
return present,, one dhoti Amerikan
and six cubits kiniki, what I thought
to be just the value of his bullock.
His kindness was undoubtedly wor-
thy of a higher reward, but I feared to
excite these men's cupidity, as there
is no end to their tricks and finesse,
whenever they find a new chance
of gain, and I now despaired of ac-
complishing my task in time. How-
ever, Kunia seemed quite happy un-
der the circumstances, and considered
the exchange of kuhongos a bond of
alliance, and proclaimed that we were
henceforth to be brothers. He then
said he would accompany me bock to
Unyanyemb^, on my return from the
Lake, and would exchange any of his
cows that I might take a fancy to for
powder, which I said I had there. The
quantity of cattle in M«alala surpasses
anything I have seen in Africa. Large
droves, tended by a few men each,
are to be seen in every direction over
the extensive plains, and everv vil-
lage is filled with them at night." The
cultivation also is as abundant, as the
cattle are numerous, and the climate
is delightful. To walk till breakfast,
9 A..M., every morning, I find a luxury,
and thence till noon I ride with plea-
sure ; but the next three hours,
though pleasant in a hut, are too
warm to be agreeable under hard ex-
ertion. The evenings and the morn-
ings, again, are particularly serene,
and the night after 10 p.m., so cold
as to render a blanket necessary. But
then you must remember that all the
country about these latitudes, on
this meridian, 88* east, is at an alti-
tude of 8500 to 4000 feet. My dinner
to-day was improved by the addition
of tomatoes and the birdVeye chili
— luxuries to us, but which the ne-
groes, so different from Indians, never
care about, and seldom srow. The
cotton-plant is as fine here as at
Unyanyembd or Ujiji, and anything
would grow with only the trouble (rf
throwing down the seed. It is a great
pity that the country is not in better
hands. From all I can gather, there
is no fixed revenue paid to these
sultans ; all their perquisites are oc-
casional kuhongos received from tra-
vellers; a per-centage on all ibreign
seizures whether by battle or plun-
der; and a certain part of all wind-
falls, such as a share of the sports-
man's gamebag, in the shape of ele-
phant's tusks or flesh or the skins of
any wild animals ; otherwise they live
by* the sweat of the brow of their
slaves, in tilling their ground, tending
their cattle, or traflScking for them in
slaves and ivory. It seems destined
that I should never reach the goal of
my ambition. To-day the Jemadar
finds himself too unwell to march, and
two other Belooches say the same.
This is an effectual obstacle ; for the
guard declares itself too weak to
divide, and the sultan blows on the
fire of my mortification by saying
that these are troubled times, and
advises our keeping all together. He
says that his differences have been
going on these five years with his
eldest brother, and now he wishes
to bring them to a crisis, which he
proposes doing after my return, when
he will obtain powder from me, and
will have the preponderating influ-
ence of Arab opinion brought to bear
in his favour by the aid of their guns
— an impr^ive dodge which Africa
has of proving right in its own way.
22d, — After much groaning and
406
Captain Spehe^i JDiwnery qf the Victoria Nya-nta^ [Oct
grnmbliog. I got the sick men on
tibeir legs by Tam^ aod wo marched
eight miles U> Senagongo, the boma*
(palisade) of Sultan Eanoni, Kurua's
second brother. These two younger
brothers side together against the
eldest Thev are all by different
mothers, and think the fathered pro-
perty should fairly come to all alike.
It is a glaring instance of the bad
effects of a plurality of wives ; and
being contrary to oar constitutional
laws of marriage, I declined giving
them an opinion as to who was right
or wrong.
To avoid the seat of war my track
was rather tortuous. On the east or
right side the country was open, and
afforded a spacious view; but on
the west this was limited by ad ir-
regularly-disposed series of low hills.
Cultivation and sorubjungle alter-
nated the whole way. The miserable
Gk)anese, like a dog slinking off to
die, slipped away behind the caravan,
and hid himself in the jangle to suffer
the pangs of fever in solitude. I sent
men ip look for him in vain ; partv
sncceeded party in the search, till
at last night set in without his ap-
pearing. It is singular in this country
to find how few men escape some fever
or other sickness, who make a sudden
march after living a quiet stationary
life. It appears as if tlie bile got stir-
red, suffused the body, and, exciting
the blood, produced this effect X
had to admonish a silly Belooch,
who, foolishly thinking that powder
alone could not hurt a man, fired his
gun off into la mass of naked human
legs, in order, as he said, to clear the
court. The consequence was, that at
least fifty pairs got covered with nu-
merous small bleeding wounds, aU
dreadfully painful from the saltpetre
contained in the powder. It was for-
tunate that the saltan was a good
man, and was present at the time it
occurred, else a seriou;^ row might
have been the consequence of this
mischievous trick.
2Bd, — Ualt We fired alarm-guns
all night to no purpose ; so at day-
break three different parties, after re-
ceiving particular orders how to scour
the country, were sent off at the same
time to search for Gaetauo. Fortu-
nateljthe Belooehes obeyed my in-
junctions, and at 10 A.if. returned
with the man, who loolf;ed for all the
world exactly like a dog who,
guilty of an indiscretion, is being
brought in disgrace before his master
to receive a flogging ; for he knew I
had a spare donkey for the sick, and
had constantly warned the men from
stopping behind alone in these law-
less countries. The other two parties
adopting, like true Easterns, a better
plan of their own, spent the whole
day ranging wildly over the country,
fruitlessly exerting themselves, and
frustrating any chance of my getting
even an aftemoon^s march. JB^anoni
very kindly sent messengers all over
his territory to assist in the search:
he, like Kurua, has taken every
opportunity to show me those little
pleasing attentions which always
render travelling agreeable. These
Wamandos are certainly the moet
noisy set of beings tliat I ever met
with : commeuciuff their fetes in the
middle of the village every day at
8 P.M., with screaming, yelling, rush-
ing, jumping, sham-lghting, druoo-
ming, and singing in one collective in-
harmonious noise, tliey seldom cease
till midnight. Their villages, too, are
everywhere mnch better protected by
bomas (palisading) than is usual in
Africa, arguing that they are a
rougher and more warlike people
than the generalit3% If shoved aside,
or pushed with a stick, they show their
savage nature by turning fiercely like
a fatted pig upon whoever tries to
poke it up.
2Uh. — The march commenced at
7 A.M., and here we again left the
direct road to avoid a third party
of belligei*ent Wamandas, situated
in the northern extremity of the
Hsalala district, on the highway
between Unyanyemb^ and the Lake.
On bidding the sultan adieu, he
was very urgent in his wishes
that I should take a bullock from
him. This I told him I should
willingly have accepted, only that it
would delay my progress; and he,
more kindly than the other chief,
excused me. Finding that none of
our party knew the road, he advanced
a short way with us, and generously
*Boma — a palisade. A village or collection of huts so fortified is oalled so also.
1859.]
the tuppo^ed Source of the IftU.-^Part IL
ior
offered to famish ns with a gaide to
the Lake and back, saying that he
would send one of his own men after
us to a place he appointed with my
Zirangozi. I expressed mj gratitude
for his thoQ^tful consideration, anc^
we parted with warm regard for
one another. Unfortunately, Bom-
hay, who is not the clearest man
in the world in expressing himself,
stupidly bungled the suHan^s ar-
rangement, and we missed the man.
To keep the Pagazis going was a
matter of no little difficalty: after
the fifth mile they persisted in enter*-
ing every village that they came
across, and throwing down their
loads, were bent upon making an
easy day's work of it I, on the
contrary, was equally perastent in
going on, and' neither would allow
the Belooches to follow them nor
entered the villages myaelf, until
tliej, finding their game of no avail,
qnietly shouldered their loads, and
submitted to my orders. This day's
journey was twelve miles over a
highly-cultivated, waving country,
at the end of which we took up oar
abode in a deserted vUlage called
Kahama.
25tA.— We got under way at 7 a jc.,
and marched seven and a half hours,
when we entered ,a village in the
district of Nindo, nineteen miles
distant. After passing throagh a
belt v£ jangle three miles broad, we
came upon some villages amidst a
large range of cultivation. This
pa^ed, we penetrated a large wilder-
ness of thorn and bush Jungle, having
sundry broad grassy iiats lying at
right angles to the roa(l. Here I
saw a herd of hartebeests, giraffes,
and other animals, giving to the
scene a truly African character. The
tracks of eleplmnts and different large
beasts prove that this place is well
tenanted in the season. The close-
ness of the jungle and evenness of
the hmd prevented my taking any
direct observations with the compass ;
but the mean oscillations of its card
showed a course with northing again.
This being a long stage, I lent my
ass to a sick Belooch, and we accom-
plished the journey, notwithstanding
the great distance, in a pleasant and
spirited manner. This despatch may
in part be attributable to tnere being
80 much desert, and the beloved
<* grub " and the vUlage lying ahead
of us luring tlie men on.
26tA. — We broke ground at 7 A-ic,
and after passing the village cultiva-
tion, entered a waterless wilderness
of thorn and tree forest, with some
long and broad plains of tall grass
intersecting the line of march. These
flats Yery much resemble some we
crossed when travelling dose to and
parallel with the Halagarazi river;
for by the cracked and flawy nature
of the ground, now parched up by^a
contant drought, it shows that this
port gets inundhted in tlie wet season.
Indeed, this peculiar grassy flat for-
mation suggests the proximity of a
river everywhere in Africa; and I
felt sure, as afterwards proved true,
tbat a river was not far from us. The
existence of animal life is another
warranty of water being near; ele-
phants and buffaloes cannot live a
day without it. Fortunately for my
mapping, a small cunloal hill over*
topped tlie trees in advance of our
track, at twelve miles from the start-
ing-point. We eventually passed
alongside of it, and travelled on
six miles fai-ther to a village in the
cultivated plain of Solaw^, a total
distance of eighteen miles. The whole
country about here was covere<l with
harvest-workers, who, on seeing my
approach, left off work and followed
me into the viUage. As nothing
proves better the real feelings and
natural propensities of a nation than
the Impulsive actions of the children,
I will give a striking instance, as it
occurred to me to-day. On seeing a
child approach me, I offered him a
handful of beads, upon which the
greedy little urchin snatched them
&om my hand with all the excited
eagerness of a monkey. He clenched
tight hold of them in his little fists,
and, without the slightest show of
any emotions of gratitude, retired,
carrying his well-earned prize away
with a self- satisfied and perfectly
contented air, not even showing
the beads to his parents or play-
mates. I called Bombay's atten-
tion to this transaction, and con-
trasted it with the joyful, grateftd
manner in which an English child
;would involantarily act if suddenly
become possessed of so much wealth.
VOL. LXXXVI.
27
408
Captain Bpelei I>i$eovery cf the Victoria Syanm^ [Oct.
by btirrying off to his mamtna, and
showiDg what fine things the kind
gentleman had given him. Bombay
pasised on my remark with a twelve-
month^s grin upon his face, to his in-
quiring brother, Mabrak, and then ex-
plained the matter to his sooty friends
aronnd, declaring that snch tnmma
(avarioioQs) propensities were purely
typical of the Seedi's natnre. At
the usual hour of departure this
morning, the Kirangozi diecovered
that the Pagazis* feet were sore from
the late long marchee, and declared
that they oould not walk. To this
the Jemadar replied that the best
asylum for such complaints was on
ahead, where the sahib proposed to
kill some goats, and rest a day. The
Kirangozi replied, ^But the direct
road is blocked up by wars; if a
march must be made, I will show
another route three inarches longer
round." ** That," answered the Jema-
dar, ^ 18 not your business ; if any
troubles arise from marauders, we,
the Belooohes, are the fighting men —
leave that to us." At last the Kiran-
gozi, getdnff quite disconcerted, de-
clared that there was no water on the
way. " Then," quoth the energetic
Jemadar, " were your gourds made for
nothing? if you don't pack up at
once, you and my stick shall make
acquaintance." The party was then
off in a moment. On the way we
met some herdsmen driving their
cattle to Unyanyemb6, and inquired
from them the state of the road.
They said that the country beyond
a certain distance was safe and
quiet, but corroborated the Kiran-
gozi's statement as to warriors being
in the immediate neighbourhood, who
came and visited this place from the
west, where is the northern extremity
of the Msalala district Several va-
rieties of antelopes were seen, and
the Belooohes fired at an ostrich.
As in the last place, no milk could
be obtained, for the people, fearing
the Wamandas, had driven off their
cattle to the northward. It is evident,
from the general nakedness of the
people^ that doth or beads do not find
their way much here, which is ac-
counted tor by so few merchants ever
coming this way. Hardly a neck
here is decorated, and they seldona
wear anything but the common goat-
skin covering, hung over the shoulder
by a strap or string like s game-bag,
which covers only one hip at a time,
and might as well be dispensed with
as fiir as decency is concerned ; but
at night they tale It off^ and spread
it on the ground to protect them*
selves from the^cold and moisture of
the earth. This district is occupied
by a tribe called Waumba ; to the
east of it, thirty miles distant, are the
Wanatiya, and thirty miles westward,
the Wazinza tribes.
27fA. — At t A.H. we crawled
through the opening in the palisading
which forms the entrances of these
villages, and at once perceived a tall,
narrow pillar of granite, higher than
Pompey's at Alexandria, or Kelson's
Monument in Charing Croes^ tower-
ing above us, and having sundry hage
boulders of the same composition
standing around its base, much in
the same peculiar way as we see at
Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain, This
scene strikes one with wonderment
at the oddities of nature, and taxes
one's faculties to inragine how on
earth the stones ever became tilted np
in this extraordinary position; bat
farther on, about five miles distant,
we encountered another and even
higher pillar, that quite overtop-
ped the trees and everything about
it. This and the former one served
as good station- marks for the whole
Journey, the latter being visible at
eight miles* distance. After the first
eight miles, which tenni nates the cul-
tivated district of Salaw^, the track
penetrated a wateriess desert of thorn
and small tree forest, lying in a broad
valley between low hills. As the sick
Belooch still occupied my steadier
donkey Ted, I was compelled to
mount the half-broken Jenny— so
playful with her head and heels, that
neither the Shaykh nor any other
man dared sit upon her. The man^s
sickness appears to be one of those
eccentric complaints, the after-^ects
of African fevers : it was attended
with severe pain, and swelling ex-
tending over the stomach, the ri^t
side, the right arm, and the right half
of the neck, depriving him of sleep
and repose. In every position, wh^
ther sitting, lying, standing, risinc
up, or sitting down, he complained
of aching muscles. I purchased a
1859.]
the iuppoted Source ^ ike Nile. — Fwt II.
409
goat and sheep for the men for one
dhoti Amerikao.
28^A. — Halt. This stoppage was
for the restoration of wonnded feet,
the Pagazis^ heing all blistered by
the last four long marchee. I now
slaaglitered and gave the two pur-
chased animals to the men, as no one
grnmbled at my refusing the last
bullock, a recognised present for the
whole party, though nominally given
to the Sahib. These people, like the
Arabs, and all those who have many
wives, seem to find little enjoyment
in that domestic bliss so interesting
and beauciful in our English homes.
Except on rare occasions, the hns«
band never dines with bis wife and
family, always preferring the excla-
aive society of his own sex ; even the
boys, disdaining to dine with their
mothers, mess with the men ; 'whilst
the girls and women, having no other
o})tion, eat a separate meal by them-
selves.
29M. — We started at 6 A.M,and
marched thirteen miles to a village
at the northern extremity of the dis-
trict. The face of the country is still
very irregnlar, sometimes rising into
hiUs, at other times dropping into
dells, bat very well cultivated in the
lower portion; whilst the brown
granite rocks, with trees and brush-
wood covering the upper regions,
diversify the colouring, and form a
pleasing contrast to the scene ; added
to thiii, large and frequent herds
graze about the fields and amongst the
villages^ and give animation to the
whole. Amongst the trees, palms here
take a prominent part Indeed, for
tropical scenery, there are few places
that could eoual this; and if the
traveller, as ne moves along, sur-
rounded by the screeching, howling,
inquisitive savages, running rudely
about, and boisterously jostling him,
could only divest himself of the idea
that he is a bear baited by a yelping
pack of hounds, the journey would
be replete with enjoyment. Crossing
Bome bills, the caravan sprang a covey
of guinea-fowls, and at some springs
in a valley I snot several couple of
sand -grouse, darker in plumage than
any I ever saw in Africa or India, and
not quite so big as the Thibet bird.
The chief of the village offered me a
bollock, but as die beast did not ap-
pear undl the time of starting, I de-
clined it. Neither did I give him
any cloth, being convinced in my
mind that these and other animab
have always been brought to me by
the smaller chiefs at the instigation
of the Kirangozi, and probably aided
by the rest of the flesh loving party
in general. The Jemadar must hare
be«i particularly mortified at my way
of disposing of the business, for he
talked of nothing else but flesh and
the animal from the moment it was
fent for, his love for butcher-meat
amounting almost to a frenzy. The
sandstone in this region is highly im-
pregnated with iron, and smelters do
a good business; indeed, the iron
for nearly all the tools and cutlery
that are nsed in this division of
Eastern Africa is found and manu-
factured here. It is the Brum-
magem of the land, and has not
only rich but very extensive iron-
fields stretching many miles north,
east, and west. I brought some spe-
cimens away. Cloth is little prized
in this especially bead couutry, and
I had ' to pay the ridiculopjs sum of
one dhoti kiniki for one pot of honey
and one pi»t of ghee (clarified butter).
80^A. — The caravan started at 6
A.]C., and travelled four miles north-
wards, amidst villages and cultiva-
tion. From this point, on facing to
the left, I could discern a sheet of
water about four xniles from me,
which ultimately proved to be a
creek, and the most southern point
of the Great Nyanza, which, as I haye
said before, tlie Arabs described to
us as the Ukerew6 Sea. We soon
afterwards descended into a grassy
and jungly depression, and arriveia
at a deep, dirty, viscid nullah (a wa-
ter course that only runs in wet
weather), draining the eastern coun-
try into the southern end of the creek.
To cross this (which I will name Jor-
dan for future reference), was a matter
of no small difficulty, especially for the
donkeys, whose fording seemed quite
hopeless, until the Jemadar, assisted
by two other Belooches, with blows
and threats made the lazy Pagazis
work, and dragged them through the
mud by sheer force. This operation
lasted so long that, after crossing,
we made for the nearest village in
the Uvira district, and completed a
410
Captain Speke^i Diseowry qf ih» Vietaria NyoMa^
[Oct
journey of eight milea. The countir
to the eastward appeared open and
waving, hut to the north and far
west very hilly. The ground is fer-
tile, and the flocks and herds very
ahundant. Hippopotami frequent
the nullah at night, and reside there
during the rainy season ; but at this,
the dry half of the year, they retreat
to the larger waters of the creek.
Bhinoceroses are said to pay nightly
visits to f elds around the villages,
and commit sad havoc on the crops.
The nuUali, running from the south-
east, drains the land in that direc-
tion ; but a river, I hear, rising in
the Msalala district, draws off the
water from the lays we have recently
been crossing, to the westward of our
track, where its course lies, and emp-
ties it into the creek on the opposite
side to where tlie nullah debouches.
81*^. — On hearing that a shorter
trad^ than the Sukuma one usually
frequented by the Arabs led to Mu-
anzsj the place Shaykh Snay ad-
vised my going to, I started by it
at 8 A.M. ; and wler following it west-
w^ard down the nullah*s right 'bank
a few miles, turned up northwards,
and continued along the creek to a
village, eight miles distantfiit the fur-
ther end of the Urima district, where
we took up our quarters. The country
has a mixed and large populatioti
of smiths, agriculturists, ana herds-
men, residing in the fiats and de-
pressions which lie between the
scattered little hills. During the
rainy season, when the lake swells,
and the country becomes super-sa-
turated, the inundations are so great
that all travelling becomes suspended.
The early morning was wasted by
the unreasonable ragazis in the M-
lowing absurd manner. It will be
remembered that, on starting from
Unyanyemb^, these cunning rascals
begged for cloth as a necessary pro-
tection against the cold. This seemed
reasonable enough, if they had not
just before that received their hire in
cloth; for the nights w*ere so cold
that I should have been sorry to be
as naked as they were; but their
real taotive for asking was only to
increase tlieir stock for this present
occasion, as we now shall see. Two
days ago, they broke ground with
great difficulty, and only on my as-
suring them that I would wait at
the place a day or two on my re-
turn from the lake, as they express-
ed their desire to make a few haltB
there, and barter their hire of doth
for jembes (iron hoes), to exchange
again ^t Unyanyemb^, where those
things feteh double the price they
do in these especially iron regions.
Now to-day, these dissembMng
creatures, distrusting my word as
they would their own brethren's,
stoutly refused to proceed until their
business was completed, — suspecting
I should break my word on retom-
Ing, and would not then wait for
them. They had come all this way
especially for their own benefit| and
now meant to profit by their trouble.
Fortunately, the Jemadar and some
other Belooches, who of late had
showQ great energy and zeal in pro-
moting my views, pointed out to them
that they were really more bound to
do my business than their own, as
they had engaged to do so, and mnoe
they could never have come there at
all excepting through my influence
and by my cloths; further, if they
bought their hoes then, they would
have to carry them all the way to
the Lake and back. The Kirangozi
acknowledged the faimees of this
harangue, and soon gave way; but
it was not until much more arguing,
and the adoption of other persuasive
means, that the rest were induced to
relinquish their determination.
'Sit August, — This day's mardi,
commenced at 6 ^.m., differs but
little from the last. Following down
the creek which, gradually increaang
in breadth as it extended north-
wards, was here of very consider-
able dimensions, we saw many little
islands, well - wooded elevations,
standing boldly out of its waters,
which, together with the hill-dotted
country around, afforded a most agree-
able prospect. 'Would that my eyes
had been strong enough to dwell, un-
shaded, upon such scenery I but my
French gray spectacles so excited the
cix)wds of sable gentry who followed
the caravan, and they were so bois-
terously rude, stopping and peering
underneath my wide-awake to giun
a better sight of my double eyes,
as they cliose to term them, that
it became impossible iof me to
1869.]
the mppaud Source of ^ NUe.—PaH IL
411
wear tbem. I tberefbre pocketed
the iQstrament, closed my eyes, and
allowed the donkey I was riding to
be quietly ptrlled along. The evil
effects of granting an mdnlgence to
those who cannot appreciate it, was
more obvious every day. To secure
speed and contentment, I had Indulged
the Pagazis by hiring double numbers,
and giving each only half a recognised
burden ; but what has been the re-
turn ? Yesterday the Pagazis stopped
at the eighth mile, because they said
that so large a jungle was in our
front that we could not cross it dur-
ing daylight. I disbelieved their
story, and pve them to understand,
on submitting to their request, that
I was sure their trick for stopping
me would turn to their own disad-
vantage; for if my surmise proved
true, as the morrow would show,
I should give them no more indul-
frence, and especially no more meat.
On our arrival to-day there was a
f*eat hubbub amongst them, because
ordered the Jemadar and Kirangozi^
with many of their principal men, to
sit in state before me ; when I gave
a cloth to the soldiers to buy a goat
with, and, turning to the Kirangozi,
told him I was sorrv I was obliged
to keep my word of yesterday, and,
their story having proved false, I
must depart from the principle I
had commenced upon, of feeding both
parties alike, and now they mi^ht
feel assured that T would do nothing
further for their comfort until I could
see in them some desire to please me.
The screw was on the tenderest part :
a black man^s belly is his god ; and
they no sooner found themselves de-
prived of their wonted feast, than
they clamorously declared tliey would
be my devoted servants; that they
had come expressly to serve me, and
were willing to do anything I wished.
The village chief offered me a goat ;
but as it came at the last moment be-
fore starting, I declined it. To-day's
track lay for the first half of the way
over a Jungly depression, where we
saw ostriches, flonikans, and the small
Saltiana antelopes ; but as their shy-
ness did not allow of an open ap-
proach, I amused myself by shooting
partridges. During the remainder
of the way, the caravan threaded be-
tween villj^^ and cultivation lying-
in small valleys, or ch)s8ed over low
hills, accomplishing a total distance
of twelve miles. Here we put up at
a village called TTkumbi, occupied
by the Walaswanda tribe.
2d. — ^We set out at 6 a.m., and
travelled thirteen miles by a tortuous
route, sometimes close by the creek,
at other times winding between small
hills, the valleys of which were
thickly inhabited by both agricultu-
ral and pastoral people. Here some
small perennial streams, exuding
fh)m springs by the base of these hills,
meander throngh the valleys, and
keep all vegetable life in a constant
state of verdant freshness. The creek
still increases in width as it extends
northwacd, and is studded with
numerous small rocky island hills,
covered with brushwood, which,
standing out from the bosom of the
deep-blue waters, reminded me of a
voyage I once had in the Grecian
Archipelago. The route also beine
so diversified with hills, afforded
fresh objects of attraction at every
turn, and to-dav, by good fortune,
the usually troublesome people have
attended more to their harvest-mak-
ing, and left me to the enjoyment of
the scenery. My trusty Blissett made
a flonikan^' pay the penalty of death
for his temerity !n attempting a
flight across the track. The day's
journey lasted thirteen miles, and
brought us into a village called Isa-
miro.
8^.— The caravan, after quitting
Isamiro, began winding up a long
but gradually inclined hill — ^which.
as it bears no native name, I will
call Somerset — ^until it reached its
summit, when the vast expanse
of the pale-blue waters of the
Nyanza burst suddenly upon my
gaze. It was early morning. The
distant sea-line of the north horizon
was defined in the cahn atmosphere
between the north and west points
of the compass ; but even this did not
afford me any idea of the breadth of
the lake, as an archipelago of islands
(tide map, Bengal Archipelago), each
consisting of a single hill, rising
to a height of $00 or 800 feet above
the water, intersected the line of
vision to the left; while ott the right
the western horn of the Ukerew^
Island cut off any further view of
413
CapUdn Speke^ Diteovery of the ViUoria Ififonea,
[Oct.
its distant waters to the eastward
of north. A sheet of water — an
elbow of the sea, however, at the
base of the low range on which
I stood — extended far away to the
eastward, to where, in the dim dis-
tance, a huminook»like elevation of
the mainland marked what I under-
stood to be the sonth and east angle
of the lake. Tiie large and import-
ant islands of Ukerew^ and Mzita,
distant about twenty or thirty miles,
fonned the visible north shore of this
firth. The name of the fonner of
these islands was familiar to us as
that by which this long-desired lake
was usually known, ft is reported
by the natives to be of no great ex-
tent; and though of no considerable
elevation, I could discover several
spurs stretching down to the water^s
edge from its central ridge of hills.
The other island, Mzita, is of greater
elevation, of a hog-backed shape,
but being more distant, its physical
features were not so distinctly visi-
ble. In consequence of the North-
em islands of the Bengal Archipel-
ago before mentioned obstructing
the view, the western shore of the
lake could not be defined ; a series
of low hill-tops extended in this
direction as far as the eye could reach;
while below me, at no great distance,
was the debouchure of the creek,
which enters the lake from the sonth,
and along the banks of which my last
three days^ journey had led me. This
view was one which, even in a well-
known and explored country, would
have arrested the traveller by its
peaceful beauty. The islands, each
swelling in a gentle slope to a rounded
summit, clothed with wood between
the rugged angular closely-cropping
rocks of granite, seemed mirrored, in
the calm surface of the lake ; on which
I here and there detected a small black
speck, the tiny canoe of some Muanza
fisherman. On the gently shelving
plain below me, blue smoke curled
above the trees, which here and there
partially cimcealed villages and ham-
lets, their brown thatched roofs con-
trasting with the emerald green of
the b^utifnl milk- bush, the coral
brandies of which cluster in such pro-
fusion round the cottages, and form
alleys and hedgerows about the vil-
lages as ornamental as anv garden
shrub inEngknd. But the pleasure af
the mere view vanished in the presence
of those more intense and exciting
emotions which are called up by tb«
consideration of the commercial and
geographical importance of the pros-
pect before me. I no longer felt any
doubt that the lake at my feet gave
birth to that interesting river, the
source of which has been the subject
of so mnch speculation, and the ob-
ject of so many explorers. The
Arabia tale was proved to the letter.
This is a far more extensive lake
than the Tanganyika; ^* so broad yon
could not see across it, and so long
that nobod V knew its length." * I
had now the pleasure of perceiving
that a map I had constructed on Arab
testimony, and sent home to the Royal
Geographical Society before leaving
XJnyanyemb^ was so substantially cor-
rect that in its general outlines I had
nothing whatever to alter. Further,
as I drew that map after proving their
first statements about the Tangan-
yika, which were made before my
going there, I have every reason to
feel confident of their veracity rela-
tive to their travels north through
Karagwah, and to Kibuga in Uganda.
When Shaykh Snav told us of the
Ukerewe, as he called the Nyanza,
on our first arrival at Kazeh, pro-
ceeding westward from Zanzibar, he
said, ^^ If yon have come only to see
a large bit of water, you had better
go northwards and see the XJkerew^ ;
for it is much greater in every respect
than the Tanganyika ;*^ and so, as far
as I can ascertain, it is. Muanza,
our journey's end, ijow lay at our
feet. It is an open, well-cultivated
plain on the southern end, and lies
almost flnsh with the lake ; a happy,
secluded-looking corner, containing
every natural facility to make life
pleasant. After descending the hill,
we followed along the borders of the
lake, and at first entered the settle-
ment, when the absence of boats
arousing my suspicions, made me
inquire where the Arabs, on coming
to Muanza, and wishing to visit
Ukerew^, usually resided. This, I
heard, was some way f urtlier on ; so
• This magnifioeot sheet of water I have ventured to name Yiovobia, after our
gracious Sovereign. — J. H. Sw
18&9,]
th€ m^^pmd Source of iks IRle.'^Fart II.
418
with great difBonlty I peraoBded the
porters to come away and proceed at
onoe to where the/ said ao Arab
was actaally living. It was a sioga-
lar coiacidence mat, after Shavkli
Snay^s «aation as to my aToiding
Scdtan Muhaya^s village, t^y ioquir'
ing diligently about him yesterday,
and finding no one who knew his
name, the first person I ahpold
have encountered was himself and
that, too, an his own village. The
reason of this was, that big men
in this country, to keep up their
dignity, have several names, and thoa
mystify the traveller. I tiiea pro-
ceeded along the shore of the lake in
an easterly direction, and on the way
shot a number of red Egyptian geese,
which were very nQmeroas4 they are
the same sort here as I once saw in
the Somali country. Another goose,
which unfortunately I coold not kill,
is very dlffereot from any I ever saw
or heard of; it stands as high as
the Canadian bird, or higher, and
is black all over, saviiiff one little
white fiateh beneath the lower man-
dible. It was fortunate that I came on
here, for the Arab in question, called
Mansnr bin Salim, treated me very
kindly, and he had retainers belong-
ing to the country, who knew as mnch
about the lake as anybody, and were
of very great as^iiatance. I also found
a good station for making observa-
tions on tlie lake. It was Maosur
who first informed me of my mistake
of the morning, but said that the evil
reports spread at Unyanyembd about
Mahaya had no funndation; on the
contrary, he had found him a very
excellent aud obliging person.
To-day we marched eight miles,
and have concluded our journey
northwards, a total distance of 226
miles from Kazeh, which, occupying
twenty -five days, is at the rate of
nine miles per diem, halts inclusive.
4th, — Early in the morning I took
a walk of three miles easterly along
the shore of the lake, and ascending
a small hill (which, to distinguish it,
I have called Observatory Hill), took
compass-bearings of all the principal
features of the lake. Mansnr and a
native, the greatest traveller of the
place, kindly accompanied and gave
me every obtainable information.
This man had traversed the island,
as he called it, of Ukerew^ from north
to tooth. Bnt by hia rongh mode of
describing it, I am rather inclined to
think that instead of its being an
actoal island, it is a connected tongue
of land, stretching southwards from
a promontory lying at right angles
to the eastern shore of the lake, which,
being a wash, affords a passage to the
mainland during the fine season, bat
during the wet becomes submerged,
and thus makes Ukerew^ tempo-
rarily an island. If this conjecture
be true, Mzita must be similarly
circumstanced. Oattle, he says, can
cross over from the mainland at
all seasons of the year, by swim-
ming from one elevation of the
promontory to another; but the
Warudi, who live upon the eastern
shore of the lake, and bring their
ivory for sale to Ukerew^, usually em-
ploy boats for the transit. A sultan
called Machunda lives at the south-
ern extremity of the Ukerew^, and has
dealings in ivory with all the Arabs
who go tliere.One Arab at this time was
stopping there, and had sent his men
coasting along this said promontory
to deal with &e natives on the main-
land, as he could not obtmn enough
ivory on the island itself. Considering
how near the eastern shore of the lake
is to Zanzibar, it appears surprising
that it can pay men to carry ivory all
the way round by Unyaiiyembd. But
the Masai, and especially those tribes
who live near to the lake, are so hos-
tile to travellers, that the risk of
going there is considered too great to
be profitable, though all Arabs con-
cur in stating that a surprising quan-
tity <if ivory is to be obtained there
at a very cheap rate. The little hill
alluded to as marking the south-east
anj^le of the lake, I again saw ; but
so mdistinctly, though the atmosphere
was very clear, that I imagined it to
be at least forty miles distant It
is due east of my station on Ob-
servatory Hill. I further draw my
conclusions from the fact, that all the
hills in the country are much about
the same height — two or three hun-
dred fe.t above the basial surface of
the land; and I could only see the
top of the hill like a hazy brown spot,
contrasted in relief against the clear
blue sky. Indeed, had my attention
not been drawn to it, I probably
should have overlooked it, and have
thought there was only a sea hoHzon
414
Captfjnn Spele*$ Dhebtery of ths Yietofia Nyanta^
[Oct.
before me. On fnclng to the W.K.'W.,
I could only see a eea horizon ; and on
fnqniring how far back the land lay,
was assured that, bey(Jnd the island
of Ukerew6, there was an eqnal ex-
panse of it east and west, and that it
wonld be more than double the dis-
tance of the little hill before allnded
to, or from eighty to one hnndred
miles in breadUi, On my inqnirinc
about the lakers length, the man faced
to the north, and began nodding his
head to it ; at the same time he kept
throwing forward his right hand, and,
making repeated snaps of his fingers,
endeavonred to indicate something
immeasnrable ; and added, that no-
body knew, but he thought it proba-
bly extended to the end of the world.
To the east of the Obserratory, a six
honrs' journey, probably fburteen or
fifteen miles, the village of Siiku-
ma is situated, and there canoes are
Obtainabie for crossing to Ukerew6,
which island being six hours pad-
dling, and lying due north of it, must
give the firth a breadth of about
fifteen miles. "Whilst walking back
to camp, I shot two red geese and
a fiorikan, like those I once shot
in the Somali country. This must
have been a dainty dish for my
half-starved Arab companion, who
had lost all his property on first
arriving here, and was now living on
Mahaya's generosity. It appears that
nine months ago he was enabled, by
the assistance of Mabaya, to hire
some boats and men at Sukuma, and
had sent bis property, consisting of
fifteen loads of cloth and 260 jembis
or hoes by them to Ukerew^, to ex-
change for ivory. But by the advice
of Mahaya, and fearing to trust him-
self as a stranger amongst the island-
ers, he did not accompany his merch-
andise. Sultnn Machuncfa, a man of
the highest character by Unyanyem-
b^ report, on seeing such a prize enter
bis port, gave orders for its seizure,
and will now give no redress to the
unfortunate Mansnr. All Mahaya^s
exertions to recover it have proved
abortive: and Mansur has therefore
been desirous of taking his revenge
bv making an attack in person on
TJkerew6, but the "generous" Mahaya
said, " No, your life is yet safe, do not
risk it ; but let my men do what they
can, and in the meanwhile, as I have
been a party to your losses, I will
feed you and your people ; and if I
do not succeed in the end, you shall
be my guest until I can amass suffi-
cient property to reimburse your
lotees.^^ Mansur has all this time
been living-, like the slaves of the
country, on jowari porridge, which is
made by grinding tlie seed into flour
and boiling it in water until it forms
a good thick paste, when master and
man sit round the earthen pot it is
boiled in, pick out lumps, and suck
It off their fingers. It was a delicious
sight yesterday, on coming through
Muanza, to see the great deference
paid to Sich Belooch, Shadad, mis-
taken for the great Arab merchant
(or Mundewa), my humble self, in
consequence of his riding the donkey,
and to perceive the stoical manner
in which he treated their attentions ;
but, more fortunate than I usually
have been, he escaped the rude i)eep-
ing and peering of the crowd, for he
did not, like Ws employer, wear
" double eyes." During the last five
or six marches, the word Marabu,
for Arab, instead of Mzungu, Euro-
pean, has usually been applied to me ;
and no one. I am sure, would have
discovered tne difference, were it not
that the tiresome Pagazis, to increase
their own dignity and importance
generally, gave the clue by »nging
the song of "the White Man." The
Arabs at Unyanyemb6 had advised
my donning their habit for the trip,
in order to attract less attention: a
vain precaution, which I believe they
suggested more to gratify their own
vanity in seeing an Englishman lower
himself to their position, than for any
benefit that I might receive by dofing
so. At any rate, I was more comfort-
able and better off in my flannel shirt,
long togs, and wide-awake, than I
should have been, both mentally and
physically, had I degraded myself,
and adopted their hot, long, and par-
ticularly uncomfortable gown.
Sultan Mahaya sent a messenger
to say that he was hurt at the cava-
lier manner in which I treated him
yesterday, and, to show his wounded
fbelings, gave an order to his sub-
jects that no man should supply me
with provisions, or render me any
assistance during my sojourn at
Muanza. Luckily my larder was
1859.]
the w^^pned Shures of ike MU^-^Part IL
415
-well ftnpplled with game, or I slioiild
Lave had to go fitipperless to bed,
for no indttcement woQld prevafl on
the people to sell anything to me
iifter the mandate had been pro-
claimed. This morning, however, we
settled the difference in the moat
amicable manner, thns : previonshr
to my departure Ibr Observatory Hill,
I sent the Jemadar, the Kirango23,
and a large deputation of the Beloo-
chea and Pagazts, to explain away the
reason of my having left his house
80 rudely, and to lender apologies,
"Which were accompanied, as an
earnest of good-will, with a large
kahongo, consisting of one barsati,
^ne dhoti Amerikan, and one gora
kiniki, as also an intimation that I
would pay him a visit the next day.
This pleased him excessively ; Jt was
considered a visit of itself ; and he
returned the usual bullock, with a
notification that I must remain where
I was, to enable him to return the
compliment I had paid him, for he
intended walking out to see me on
the morrow.
^th, — As m V time was getting short,
I forestalled Mahaya in his intentions,
and changed ground to the Sultanat, a
rural-looking little place, perched on a
small rocky promontory, shrouded by
green trees, feeing the N.W. side of the
lake. Mahaya received me with great
courtesy, arranged a hut comfortably,
and presented a number of eggs and
fresh milk, as he had heard that I
was partial to such fare. He is a
man of more tlian ordinary stature,
a giant in miniature, with massive
and muscular but well-proportioned
limbs : he mnst number fifty years
or more. His dress was the ordi-
nary barsati ; his anns were set off
by heavy brass and copper ornaments
encircling the wrists, and by num-
berless sambo, or thin circles made
fi-om the twisted fibres of an aloetio
plant, on each of which a single infi,
or white porcelain bead resembling
a little piece of tobacco-pipe, was
strung ; these ranged in massive rows
down the whole of his upper arm.
Just above his elbow-joints sat a pair
of large ivory rings. On his forehead
two small goat or deer horns were
fastened by thin talismanlc ornaments
of thong for keeping off the evil eye ;
and, finally, his neck was adorned
with two strings of very coarse
blue beads. Mahaya has the fame
of being the best and most Just
BuHan in these qnarters, and his
benign souare countenance, lit up
with a pleasing expression when in
conversation, confirms this opinion,
though a casual observer passing
by tiiat dark, broad, massive face,
still more darkened by a matting of
short, close, and tightly-curled-up
ringlets, would be apt to carry away
a contrary impression. Before leav-
ing Ka2en, I notified my intention of
visiting TTkerew^, supposing I could
do so in three or four days, and ex-
plained to my men my wishes on this
point. Hearing this, they told both
Mahaya and Mansur, in direct terms,
that I was goin^, and so needlessly
set them to work finessing to show
how much they were in earnest in their
consideration of me. However, they
have both been very warm in dis-
suading me from visiting Ukerewd,
apparently quite in a parental way,
for each seems to think himself in a
measure my gu ardiau . Mahaya thinks
it his duty to caution those who visit
him from running into danger, which
a journey to Ukerew^, he considers,
wotild be. Mansur, on the other hand,
says, as I have come from his Saltan
Majid, he also is bound to render
me any assistance in his power ; but
strongly advises my giving up the
notion of going across the water. I
could get boats from Usukuma, he
said, but there would be great delay
in the business, as I should have
first to send over and ask permis^on
from Macbunda to land, and then
the collecting men and boats would
occupy a long time. As regards the
collection of boats taking a long
time, these arguments are very fair,
as I know from experience; but
the only danger would consist in the
circumstance of the two stdtans
being at enmity with each other,
as in this land any one coming
direct from an enemy's country is
suspected and treated as an ene-
my. This difliculty I should have
avoidiBd by going straight to Sukuma
(where the boats, I am inclined to
think, usually do start from, though
all concur in stating that this is
their point of departure), and there
obtaining boats direct. However,
41«
Captain Spehe'i DisMwry of ths VidQria Nfonta^ [OoL
I told them that I fihould have
gone if I bad found boata ready at
onoe to take me across; bnt now I
saw the probability of so much
delay, that I ooald not afford to waste
time in trying to obtain boats, which,
had I succeeded in getting, I shonld
have employed my time not in going
to Ukerew^, but to the more elevated
and friendly island of Mzita, this being
a more suitable observatory than the
former. These negroes' manoeuvres are
quite incomprehensible. If Mahaya
had desired to fleece me— and one can
hardly give a despotic negro credit
for anything short of that — he surely
would have tried to detain me under
false hopes, and have thus necessitated
mv spending cloths in his village,
while, on the contrary, he lost all
chance of gaining anything by giving
advice, which induced me to leave
him at once, never to return again
to see him.
At my request, Mahaya assembled
all his principal men, and we went
into a discasaion about the lake, but
not a soul knew anything about its
northern extremity, altuoogh people
had sometimes travelled in canoes,
coasting along its shores by. the Kar-
agwah district to as far, I believe, as
the Line. His wife, a pretty, crummy
little creature of the Wanyoro tribe,
came farther from the north than
anybody present, and gave me the
names of many districts in the Ug-
anda oountiy, which, she says, lies
aloQg the sea-shore. She had never
heanl of there being any end to the
Lake, and supposed^ if any way of
going round it did exist, she would
certainlv have known it. It is re-
markable that the Arabs should not
be better acquainted with the ground
that lies to the eastward of iTibuga,
which evidently shows us that there
must be some insurmountable diffi-
culties between that place and Kiku-
yu, whither the Arabs go trading via
Kombas from Zanzibar ; for if a pas-
sage were open by which they could
get to Kikuyu, exactly one-third of
the distance which they now travel
via Unyamu^zi to Zanzibar would
be saved. This suggests a proba-
bility that the Lake expands consi-
derably as it continues north to the
northward of the Line, and is so broad
that canoes cannot cross it there, as
they can to the southward of the equa-
tor. It is well known that there U no
communication between the east and
west shores of the lake, excepting by
a few occasional canoe-parties coast-
ing along the southern end, bectonae
the waters are so very broad they
dare not venture. That there can be
no hiffh mountain-range intersecting
the Nyanza from the water- courses
which we hear of north of the equa-
tor, as some people have suppc^d,
is evident from the numerous ao-
counts given of the kingdom of Ug*
anda being so flat and marshy from
the equator to 2^ or 8** north latitude;
whilst I must have seen any, did. they
exist, on the south side of the equatoc,
being only 150 miles from it when
standi ng on its southern shore. . N ow,
judging from all the information given
us by tlie several Egyptian expedi-
tions and missionaries sent up the
Nile, who came across hilla of no
great elevation in 4i° north latitude
and 81° or 32° east longitude, which
are intersected by the i^ile in the same
way that the east coast-range is inter-
sected by the interior plateau rivers,
as we saw on our passage inwards
from Zanzibar ; and further, by the
Arabs telling us that all the country
on the same meridian, from the Liae
up to the second parallel north lati-
tude, is flat and full of water-ooursea;
and then again, by knowing the re-
spective heights of the Nyanza on
the one side being nearly 4000 feet,
and the Nile's bed in latitude 4° N.,
or beyond the small hills alluded to,
being under 2000 feet, — it would in-
deed be a marvel if this lake is not
the fountain of the Nile. The reason
why those expeditions sent up the
Nile have failed in discovering the
Nyanza, is clearly attributable to the
important rapids which must exist in
consequence of this great variation of
altitude between the north end of the
Nyanza (which, let us .suppose, is on
the equator), and the position, in 4° 44'
north latitude, at which the expedi-
tions and missions arrived, their fur-
ther progress being stopped by these
rapids.
Indeed, by all accounts of the
country lying between the Nyanza,
as seen by the Arabs in Uganua and
let us aay Gondokoro, a mission sta-
tion on the Nile, in north latitude
1859.]
the 9uppo9$d Source of the NiU.—Part 11.
417
4® 4A\ wliioh was oooupied by two
Anstriaa missionaries, Knoblecher
and Doojak, we find it is analogoas
in every respect to what we observed
between the low Mriiiia or maritime
Eloin in front of Zanzibar, and the
igh interior plateau, divided from
one another by the east coast range,
which is of granitic formation, tne
same in its nature exactly as those
which they describe, and intersected
by rivers so rapid and boisterous
that no canoes can live upon them ; as,
for instance, we found the Kinjani
and LuHJi rivers were when passing
over the east coast range. There
the land dropped from 2000 or more
feet to less than 800 in the short dis-
tance of lynety miles.
I will now proceed to give, first,
tlie missionary account in 4*^ 44' N.,
and then the Arab one in 2° N.^
a debatable bit of ground, extend-
ing over 2** 44', or 160 English miles.
Taking of the midsionaries, ^' these
two men," says Dr. Petermann, " kept
an annual h^^grometrical and meteor-
ological register with great precision
and scientific regularity. They had
various instruments with them ; they
fixed their station, Gondokoro, at
4"* 44' north latitude by astron-
omical observations, and determined
the altitude of the Nile^s bed to
be only 1605 feet above the sea,
by numerous good barometrical ob-
servations. . . . Gondokoro is
surrounded on three sides by small
•granitic hills, ranging from 2000 to
4000 feet, which are intersected by
the Nile coming from the south, as
the king of the Bari country says,
from 200 to 800 miles;" which is
equivalent to saying from the Nvanza,
as it lies exactly on the place he di-
rects us to. *^ The mean annual tem-
perature there is 83M Fabr. The wet-
test months in the year are February,
Harch, April, May, and August. Thun-
der accompanies nearly all the sturrns,
and earthquakes are prevalent. The
Nile begins to rise at Gondokoro in
Hay, and keeps increasing till Septem-
ber. The country from Gondokoro
southwards entirely changes from the
swampy nature which exists north-
wards of it, and the people there
begin to talk a different language to
those in the north, and are very fond
of eating mice. The winds prevail
from the east, rarely ooming frofn the
west."
As the Arabs do not keep thermo-
meters, scientific instruments, or pro*
perly distributed months and seasons,
I nmst say for them that from 2° to
e"* sonth latitude we found the mean
temperature in the hottest month,
August, to be only 80*" ; that Uganda
must be quite 4000 feet, to be higher
than the lake which it borders ; that
the height of the rainy season is dur-
ing the months of February, March,
April, and May ; and that the rivers,
as we see by the Malagarazi, increase
more after than before that date.
Though it appears that the preces-
sion of the rain tends from the south-
ward to the northward, the same in-
fluence that swells the Malugarazl
would also afifect the Uganda rivers,
as they rise merely on opposite sides
of the axis of the same mountains.
The Arabs say, as we al^io hare found
it, *^ that thunder accompanies nearly
all the storms, and the lightning there
is excessive, and so destructive that
the King of Uganda expresses the
greatest dread of it — inceed his pa-
lace alone has been often destroyed
by lightning. The Kitangura and
Katonga rivers are affected by the
rainy season in the same proportion as
the Malagarazi, and flow north-east-
erly towards the lake. There the Ki-
vira river (see maps), in north latitude
8"*, of which they bring information,
flows somewhere to the northward,
and is not a slow sluggish stream like
the other two, but is rapid and boister-
ous, showing that the country drops
to the norUiward." Now here, in
8° north latitude, where this river is
said to flow, I think will be found
the southern base-line of those small
hills, from 2000 to 4000 feet high,
lyinff to the south of Gondokoro,
as tne missionaries describe them;
though these hills, to any one looking
at them from the northern side,
where the land is low, miglit appear
a barrier to the waters of the lake
lying beyond them. This idea
would not oQCur to any one stand-
ing on the southern side, where'
the land is nearly, if not quite as
high as these hills themselves. In-
deed, from the levels given, the two
countries about Kibuga and Gondo-
koro may be described as two land*
418 Captain Spehe'i Dueotery of the Victoria Nyanza^ &c. [Oct
ings, with the fall between tbem re-
presenting a staircase formed by the
mils \n question. The country in
latitudes 2* and 6* is therefore ter-
raced like a hanging garden.
The Nyanza, as we now see, is a
large expansive sheet of water, flush
with the basial surface of the country,
and lies between the Mountains of
the Moon (on its western side), hav-
ing, according to Dr. Krapff, snowy
Kffinia on its eastern flank. Krapff
tells us Of a large river flowing down
from the western side of this snowy
peak, and trending away to the north-
west, in a direction, as will be seen by
the map, leading right into my lake.
Kow, returning again to the western
side, we find that the Nyanza is
plentifully supplied by those streams
coming from the Lun» Montes^ of
which the Arabs, one and all, give
such consistent and concise accounts;
and the flowings of which, being north-
easterly, must, in course of time and
distance, commingle with those north*
westerly off-flowings, before mention-
ed, of Muns Kfflnia. My impression
is, after hearing everybody's story on
the matter, that these streams enter
at opposite ddes of the lake, on the
northern side of the equator, and are
consequently very considerable feeders
to it. To help at once in the argu-
ment that the Nyanza exists as a large
sheet of water to the north of the
Equator, I will anticipate a story in
toy diary, by adverting to it before its
order or succession. On the return to
Unyanyemb^, a native of Msalala told
me that he had once travelled up the
western shore of the Nyanza to the
district of Kitara, where, he says, it
is a corroboration of the Arabs' stories
that coffee grows, and which place,
bjr fair computation of the distances
given as their travelling rates, I be-
lieve to be in about l"" north lat. (see
map). To the east of this land, at no
. great distance from the shore, he de-
scribed the it^Iand of Kitiri as occupied
by a tribe called Watiri, who also
grow coffee; and there the sea was of
such great extent^ and when winds
blew was so boisterous, that the
canoes, although as large as the Tan-
ganyika ones (which he had also seen),
aid not trust themselves upon it.
Kow supposing, for instance, that
there is no overflow of water at the
north end of the Nyanza, still, from
its altitude beins so great in com-
parison with the 15'ile at Gondokoro,
it must be a considerable contributor
to that river's volume, If only by the
ordinary process of percolation. If
further proof is required about the ex-
tent of the Nyanza, all the Arabs say
that, on passing through the Karag-
wah district, in latitude 1' south, they
can see from the summit of a high
mountain its expansive and boundless
waters extending away to the east^
ward as far as the eye can reach.
The lake has the credit of being very
deep, which I cannot believe. It cer-
tainly bears the appearance of the
temporary deposit of a vast flood
overspreading a large flat surface,
father than the usual characteristics
of a lake or inland sea, lying in deep
hollows, or shut In, like the Tan-
ganyika^ by mountains. The islands
about it are low hill tops, standing
out like paps on the soft placid
bosom of the waters, and are precisely
similar to those amongst which I have
been travelling; indeed, any part of
the country inundated to the same ex-
tent would wear the same aspect. Its
water appears, perhaps owing to the
disturbing influence of the wind, of a
dirty- white colour, but it is very good
and sweet, though not so jpleaf^nt to
my taste as the very clear Tanganyika
water. The natives, however, who
have wonderfully keen palates for
detecting the relative distinctions In
such matters, differ from me, and
aflirm that all the inhabitants prefer
it to any other, and consequently
never dig wells oh the margin of the
lake ; whereas the Tanganyika water
is invariably shunned, nobody ever
drinkinff it unless from necessity ; not
so much because they consider it
to be unwholesome, as because it
does not quench or satisfy the thirst
so Well as spring-water. Whether
this peculiarity in the qualities of the
waters is to be attributed to the Ny-
anza lying on a foundation chiefly
composed of iron, or whether the one
lake is drained by a river, whilst the
other is stagnant, I must leave for
other and superior talents to de-
cide. Fish and crocodiles are said to
be very abundant in the lake; but with
all my endeavours to obtain some
specimens, I have succeeded in seeing
1850.]
Sone-Dsaling in Sjfria^ 1854.— Par^ //.
419
only two sorts--one similar to those
taken at Ujyi, of a perch-like form,
and another, rery small, resembling
onr common minnow, but not found
in the Ujgi market. The quantity of
mnsquitos on the borders of the lake
is perfectly marTellous ; the gross,
bushes, and everything growing there-
are literally covered with them. As I
walked along its shores, disturbing
the vegetation, they rose in clouds,
and kept tapping in dozens at a time,
against my nands and face, in the
most disagreeable manner. Unlike
the Indian musquito, they are of a
light dun-brown colour. The Huanza
dogs are the largest that I have yet
seen in Africa, and still are not more
than twenty inches high ; but Mahaya
says the Ilkerew^ dog is a fine animal,
and quite different from any on the
mainland. There are "but very few
canoes about here, and those are of
miserable construction, and only fitted
for the purpose they turo them to —
catching fish close to the shore. The
paddle the fishermen use is a sort of
mongrel breed between a spade and
a shovel. The fact of there being no
boats of any size here, must be attri-
buted to tne want of material for
constructing them. On the route
from Kazeh there are no trees of
any girth, save the calabash, whose
wood is too soft for the purpose
of boat-building. I hear that the
island of Ukerew6 has two sultans
besides Machunda, and that it is very
fertile and populous. Mahaya saysi
'* All the tribes from the Wasukumas
(or Northern Wanyamu^zis, Sukuma
meaning the north), along the south
and east of the lake, are so savage
and inhospitable to travellers, that it
would be impossible to go amongst
them unless accompanied by a large
and expensive escort"
(To he continued.)
BORSB-DEALINO IK SYRIA, 1854. — PART 11.
Bbsides the Arabs, there was ano-
ther race whose tents might be found
in our neighbourhood; the Wander-
ing Turcomans, a nomadic people
very simOar, both in manner of life
and in dress, to the sedentary Arabs.
Their history, as it was related to me,
19 this. They belong to the great Tur-
coman race from which the Osmanlis
sprang, and which still exists towards
the north of Persia. Their fore-
fathers came into Syria to help to re-
sist the Crusaders, and have re-
mained there ever since; and the
language which they to this day
speak is not, as with the other people
of Syria) Arabic, but Tqrkish.
They possess camek, goats, cattle,
and horses. The latter are very poor.
They are not, I think, superior in
height to the Arab, and in every
other point are so inferior that, seen
by his side, they seem fit for little
else than pack-horses. They ore
heavy and clumsy, with coarse heads,
staring coats, very drooping hind-
quarters, legs long in the shank, and
coarse, qraggling, ill-carried tails. In
temper they are very shy, and al-
though almost all geldings, are com-
monly obstinate and vicious when
mounted. The mares, by reason of
finer coats and greater age (for bot^
Arabs and Turcomans sell their horses
very young), are better looking, but
are still coarse and Flemish.
Before we had been long at Meij
Kotrani, the news of our arrival
spread m all quarters, and brought
such numbers of both Anazeh and
Turcomans, that our encampment
assumed the aspect of a horse fair.
The groups that presented them-
selves at every turn, and indeed the
whole scene, were moat picturesque.
In the background were the snow-
streaked mountains of the Druses ;
to our front a wide grassy plain,
dotted with flocks and herds. Oom-
ing over some distant ridge might be
seen a party of monkey -like Anazeh,
their long spears over their shoulders,
and their hi^-bred horses coming on
at a quiet easy walk. Near at hand,
by the black tents of the encampment,
a party of their kinsmen sat squattiqg
in a circle, with their horses tethered
and their lances stuck in the ground
beside them by the sharp point which
terminates the butt; or a group of
420
Eone-Dedling in Syria, 1854, — Part IT.
[Oct.
Taroomans, diBtfngaished by greater
size and more complete and cleaner
(or it might be better to say, less
dirty) elothing, held ngly mares and
uglier geldings aooontred with large
rugs or eaddle-cloths covering the
croup, gaadily-coloured worsted
headstalls with Mameluke bits, and
saddles with high pommel and can-
tle and heavy shovel stirrnp-irons.
Arabs at speed showed off the slash-
ing stride of their horses; Tarco-
mans, ambitions of doing the like,
urged theirs into a comparatively
stiff and lumbering gallop, or, less
saccessfal, contended against the pig-
gish obstinacy of their cross-grained
brutes, who, sidling and backing iu
every direction but the right, or
standing stock-still with most obsti-
uate-looking shakes and tosses of the
head, showed a detenui nation to
kick if driven to extremity, which
the riders generallv seemed to hold
in some respect. All around, tethered
to pegs, stones, or tent-ropes, stood
horses, mares, and colts of every
imaginable kind, from the handsome
Arab to the wretched undersized
sore-backed brute that had evidently
served as a pack-horse and was
clearly never destined to do anything
better; some already bought by us,
some still for sale; some standing
motionless ; some stretching their
necks to get a snort and a scream
with their .neighbours; some, per-
haps, broken loose and throwing the
whole camp into confusion.
All the horses offered to us for sale
by the Bedouins were stallions, I do
not at this moment remember having
ever seen a gelding in their posses-
sion; and although they frequently
rode mares into our camp, they never
offered them to us. The last circum-
stance, I believe, is owing to the es-
timation in which they hold their
mares as a source of national wealth,
ana to the fact of " public opinion "
having set itself so strongly against
letting the breed fall into other hands
by selling them, that no individual
ventures to do so. Sentimental or
affectionate feeling, I should imagine,
is very little concerned in the matter.
I never saw the slightest trace of any
feeling of dislike on the part of the
Arab to parting with his horse, pro-
vided the price was good. Once let
him see a satisfactory heap of gold,
and he tnrns his beast over to you,
and his whole faculties' to seeing that
you do not cheat him of the tenth
part of a piastre on the bargain ; and
never, in all probability, casts a look
on his horse again, unless with the
object of instituting a squabble as to
whether or not he is to carry off the
halter.
None of the people of these parts
are easy to deal with ; but the Ana-
zeh are the most difficult of all. Sup-
pose that you ask the price of a horse.
If the owner condescends to put a
price upon him, it is about three times
what he means to take; frequently
he refuses to do it at all, but tells
vou to make an offer. You do so :
he receives it with contempt, and
the word "Beid"— "Far off*'— pro-
nounced with a lengthened emphasis,
** Be-i . . . d," that sets strongly before
you the enormous inadequacy of your
proposal. You raise your price, and
a contention of bargaining ensues,
which is terminated by the owner
riding off with his horse as if he never
meant to come back any more. After
a time greater or less — in an hour or
two, to-morrow, or the day after —
yon find that he has come back. A
fresh battle ensues, which (if it is not
interrupted by a second riding off)
ends in the price being fixed. All is
settled ; the owner seems quite con-
tent; you proceed to mark the horse,
when, lol his late master, suddenly
stung by the intolerable thought that
he has' perhaps got less than he pos-
sibly might, seizes and drags off his
beast in a fury, mounts and goes off
again. Again he returns, and again,
finding you inexorable, agrees for the
same sum. Again you want to mark
the horse ; and now he raises a dread-
ful outcry to be paid first. You con-
sent and call him into the tent In
he comes, attended by one or two
friends and counsellors, sages sup-
posed to be learned in Frank ooins,
and wide awake to the ring of a bad
piece. All solemnly squat on the
ground, and you proceed to count out
the gold. An awful difficulty now
arises. The price has been agreed
on in Ghazis (pieces of 21i piastres
each), and has to be paid in Engfish
money. The Anazeh is not strong in
arithmetic, and cannot be satisfied
1869.]
Bon^Dioling in Syria, 1854.— Par^ //
421
that tlie gold amoants exactly to the
stipulated sum ; and it is not till he
has bad the pieces oonnted a dozen
times into Lis hand, and till he and his
friends have looked Iii:e owld over it
for three«qaarters of an hoar, that his
doubts on this head can be at all
assuaged. At length he departs;
evidentFy with misgivings. In a few
minntes he is bad: agaio. One of
the gold pieces given him is an old-
fashioned sovereign, bearing the de-
vice of the George and the Dragon,
and thereby differing from the more
modern ones which he commonly
sees ; and this he declares of inferior
▼alne, and wishes to return. This
brings on a fresh dispute of extreme
bitterness ; and when you have finally
quieted bim and sent him off half-
satisfied on this score, he very likely
goes off privately to your companion,
who is perhaps standing somewhere
outside, and begs to be informed
whether you have not embezzled a
little of his due.
The •* huffiness " exhibited by the
Bedouins in their horse-dealing tran-
sactions, though perhaps not alto-
gether aff«fcted, but in great measure
the honest ebullition of an insolent
and overbearing nature, is yet unable,
in the minority of instances, to stand
its ground permanently against the
greater strength of their pttssion for
money. Of a hundred men that ride
off in a fury, as if they were resolved
never again to set eyes on such a snob
as yourself, ninety-nine will come
back again. The hundredth perhaps
will not. I remember a Bedouin
bringing a grey horse of extraordinary
si2e (for an Arab) into our cump. 1
did not myself see very much to ad-
mire in the animal, and thought him
far inferior to many I had seen of
less height; however that may be,
a sum equivalent to £100 was offered
for him. The owner — a breechless
savage, in a garment like a dirty
night-shirt — turned away in wrath,
and we never saw him again.
As a general rule, it may be said
that those who have the best horses
are the touchiest to deal with.
During our stay at Meij Eotrani,
and still more when we afterwards
got into the camp of the Anazeh, our
great perplexity was to get the money
required for our purchasea The
authorities who sent us out, ordered
OS, in the fulness of their wisdom,
on no account to pay for horses
otherwise than by bills on divers
consuls and bankers ; opining, no
doubt, that Mutlak or Harzouk the
Anazeh would, in the first instance,
with a fine feeling of commercial con-
fidence, accept our bills, and that, in
the second, they would trust them- ^
selves within the clutches of the
Turkish Government in the process
of going to claim the money. Now
Mutlak and Marzouk, feeling pretty
strongly what would be the result if
they could get hold of anybody's
horse tiy the giving of a promissory
note, valued bills as so much waste
paper ; and even if they could have
been convinced of their value, would
have seen the whole British Govern-
ment in everlasting infelicity before
they would have trusted themselves
within hail of anything like a Turkish
ofilcial. We soon saw that dealing
on the terms prescribed to as was
pretty much like going fishing with
your hook baited with a bill on
your banker for a worm, and found
ourselves compelled to resort to cash
payments; and the keeping of the
large sums of money rcn^uired, and
when they were spent, sending for
more, was a source of endless trouble
and anxietv to as in that land of
thieves. We should never have got
on at all but for a strong guard of
armed Druses which, soon after our
arrival in the desert, we substitated
for our original escort of horsemen,
and whose chief was' of great service
in bringing the money from Da-
mascus.
On one occasion we were on the
verge of a row which might have
terminated seriously. We were stand-
ing looking on at the group of Arabs
and others surrounding the tents,
when we became aware of a scnfiSe
in process of performance, and pre-
sently, in the thick of the little crowd
which it instantly collected, perceived
the second chief of the Druses vigor-
ously cuffing an Anazeh, who. borne
back by the greater force of nis an-
tagonist, was yet kicking and holla-
ing in return with great energy. In
a moment all the camp was in con-
fusion. The Anazeh rushed together;
42a
ffane-Jkdling in Syria^ 185i.— i'tfr^ //.
[Oist
th(»6 who bad horses sprang on their
backs, while the Druses cocked their
guns and ran to the support of their
chief; and the prospect of a general
scrimmage seemed to be of the
fairest. It appeared, however, that
some of the cooler on each side felt
an interest in keeping the peace, for
the belligerents were separated, and
the Anazeh, crowding round their
irate friend, seemed to be forcing
him back and restraining him ; and
the two hostile parties drew back
from each other. The Arabs, how-
ever, were desperately angry, and
moved about like a cluster of angry
wasps, brandishing their big- knobbed
sticks and clubs, and striking them
against their lances, and jabbering
furiously; while the Druses, on the
other hand, stood their ground re-
solutely. How the quarrel arose was
• a thing which I never precisely
understood. Three "ghazis," claimed
from us by the Anazeh, lay somehow
at the bottom of it^ and by the pay-
ment of the same we fortunately suc<
ceeded in quieting the dispute; but
the Anazeh immediately after left the
camp, and for some time kept so
clear of us that I began to fear that
they had taken huff and cut us for
good.
About this time the supply of
horses began to fail at Meij l^otrani,
so we returned to Damascus. Here
we arranged plans for an expedition
to the camp of a tribe of the "Wulad
Ali ; and having communicated with
their chief, Mohammed Doukhy, and
received his permission to visit him,
we set out after five days' stay in
Damascus, for his camp, in the
desert.
AVe again passed through MerJ
Kotrani ; and then bore straight away
for the centre of the wide plain which
I have before described as lying to
the front of that camp. After this
our journey lay pretty much in a
straight line. The plain, at first
grassy but stone-sprinkled, as we ad-
vanced graduallv lost in the former
and gained in the latter qualitv, till
at last the slight ridges which inter-
sected it were seen densely covered
with stones, while the intervening
fiats, stony too, bore little herbage
but a half-dried yellowish-green
grass. Sometimes for a spaos thti
v^etation would give place to a
tufted herbage spotting the dried
ground; and this again would be
varied by what at uie first glance
looked like a small pool of hazy blue,
really a luxuriant plot of a bloe-
fiowered fragrant plant of the wild-
thyme nature. Far ofi^ a small
winding streak of a brighter green,
dotted with the forms of distant
animals, showed us where some com-
paratively moist bottom -gave pastur-
age to sheep and camels. Very soon
a^r leaving Meij Kotrani, we had
fallen in with scattered tents of the
Anazeh; and here their habitations,
in clumps of four, five, up to as many
as seven together, were scattered over
the whole face of the country, whilst
their flocks of ugly flat-tailed sheq)
grazed all around, tended by little
brown dirty savages of Anazeh boys,
or perhaps by a bigger but equally
dirty herdsman with a pistol in his
belt Small ponds, or chains of little
pools imbedded in black rocks, were
not uncommon; and once we came
upon a small rocky dell with a narrow
stream, foaming and rapid, but vet
block, dirty, cumbered by tangled
trails of weed, and more like stagnant
than running water, rushing over the
stones which obstructed it, and fer-
tilising its immediate b^nks into a
crop of long green grass. This was
the desert.
That the whole of this country has
once been comparatively well popu-
latedj and that by a people not
utterly savage, is proved by the
ruins of stone-built villages found in
all directions. In one instance we
met with a still stronger evidence of
former civilisation, in the shape of a
well-built though dilapidated old
stone bridge of three arches, spanning
a rocky stream still deeper in the
desert. Now, not a populated village
existi}, and not a human being is to
be seen but the Bedouins.
Our march hitherto had been
monotonous enough. The snow-
speckled mountains of the Druses
had always risen on our rear, while
our onward progress had done little
to vary the view ahead, beyond ex-
changing the contracted horizon pre-
sented by one swell of stony ground
for that presented by another. Bat
1859.]
Horat^Jkaling tn Sipria, 1854— P«ff IL
423
DOW tbe floene chittiged BligbUy. At
a level lomewhat lower than oar owDi
a wide plain lay before nt; Btooy
iodeed, bat less so than what we had
been traversing; in color yellow-
green, streaked with lines of a richer
tint where the ichiss grew better;
dotted in the middle distance with a
few isolated hills of moIe-hill shape,
and then sweeping away to a &r
horizon. Far and near the whole
face of the land was covered with
camels, of all coloars, from smoky
black to pare white, and of all sizes,
down to the little woolly foal of a
few months old. They appeared to
be casting their winter coats, for the
long woolly hair still adhered to
them ; sometimes disclosing through
its rags the finer coat beneath, and
sometimes completely covering the
npper part of the animal, bot stop-
ping abrnptly on the flanks in a well-
defined line, below which the only
covering wss a short smooth hair.
Flocks of sheep and black goats were
plentifal ; and cattle too were there,
thont^h in smaller numbers.
Here stood the camp of the Anazeh ;
a widespread village of black low
tents, dostered by seven or the dozen
together, with large intervals between
the groaps. A tent bigger bot no
handsomer than the rest was the
dwelling of the chief, and there we
dismounted and saluted the great
sheikh, Mohammed Doukhy. He
was a not ilMooking, but at the same
time not ove^bright*Iooking man,
with his right arm, which had been
disabled by a lance-wound some
years before, hidden in his cloak. He
seated us on the best carpets of his
tent, and ^ave us cofiee ; civilly
enough, quietly, and without em-
prmement or much show of interest
in us or in our object. He had never
heard of the English, he paid — an as-
sertion which was probably a mere
piece of brag, intended to impress
upon us that the great Mohammed
Doukhy was far too much occupied
with tbe weighty affairs of his own
vast realm to have time to know of
small and far-off nations. B««ide8
this, he made only one remarkable
communication. First asking us
whether we knew the secretary of
Sheikh F^sel (chief of a rival tribe,
bdonging to the BowaUas, another
VOL. LXZXTL
section of the Anazeh), and being
told that we did not, he volunteered
the statement that he was a hdh, t. e.
a dog.
The sheikh was rich, and among
other sources of wealth had that of
being contractor to the Turkish
Government for the large supply of
camels (five or six thousand, they
say) required each year for the HadJ
or Pilgrimage between Damascus
and Mecca. This circumstance gave
him a certain security amongst the
Turks, and he occasionally went on
bosioess into Damascus ; a proceeding
that other Bedouin chiefs, I am told,
are very shy of.
We were several tioaes honored by
his visits in our own tent. When he
came in the daytime, we could offer
him nothing in the way of refresh-
ment, as it was Ramazan ; but after
sunset he would take pipes and coffee.
If we happened to be aware of bis
coming, we used to make for him a
kind of divaiv on the floor with a
mattress and cushions; otherwise he
sat on one of the beds. He was
always attended by one or two dirty
magnates of his tribe: our Druse
chief and one or two of the head
men of the escort used, by virtue of
their rank, to assist at the ceremony ;
and a circle of Arab spectators, not
of dignity sufficient to entitle them
to a nlaoe in the tent, used to squat
outside and peer in through the
door. It was romantic to sit at
night in a tent on a wide Syrian
plain with a real Bedouin sheikh ;
but it was not to be denied that it
was also a bore.
Suppose us to be sitting after din-
ner ; hot and lazy, wishing only to be
let alone. It is announ(^ that the
sheikh is coming; and presently he
and his train come noiselessly and
soknonly. We rise, and, in accordance
with Eastern etiquette, remain stand-
ing till the sheikh is seated on his
mattress. Then all seat themselves;
we on our chairs, the others on the
ground. We give coffee and as many
pipes as the establishment affords;
the sheikh talks slowly and without
animation, with frequent and long
pausea He behaves quietly, and
without the awkwardness which an
uneducated European thrown into un-
accustomed society would show;
28
424
Horse-Dealing in Syria, 1854.-rP«ft il
[Oct.
bat the conversation is eTidentty
made by effort, and not flowing
t spoDtaneonsly. All — ^at an^ rate, afi
of our party — got awfnlly tired. The
only one of os who knows Arabic is
tired by the constant mannfactore of
small talk required of him; the rest
of OS b^ oar inability to talk at all
Oar Tisitors are perhaps assisted by
Oriental laziness and love of doing
nothing, and the visit is nsaally
pretty long; at last, however, the
sheikh saddenly rises, salaams, shaf-
fles into bis red boots, which are
standing outside the door, and van-
ishes as silently as he came. Sundry
fleas, not to sav bugs, and even a few
lice, remain behind.
We gathered in the course of con-
versation with the sheikh that the
following was the annual roond of
migration of his tribe. About the
middle of September they leave
Syria ; and by a circuit which leads
them successively into the neighbour-
hood of BoBSora, Bagdad, Aleppo,
Horns, and Hama, return to Syria
early in Jaly. In the year of our
visit, as the reader has seen, they
were found there in May ; but this,
the sheikh said, was an unusual oc-
currence. He described their rate of
travelling as very irregular, and vary-
ing from two up to twentv-l'our hours
in the day — ^the latter only under cir-
cumstances of emergency ; and told
us that on the march they fed their
horses with barley, which they carried
with them.
Every morning, at sunrise, the
herds of camels belonging to the
camp marched out to graze in dense
bodies, which at a little distance
looked like regulated squadrons.
Shortly before sunset they might be
seen, far and near, returning from
all quarters ; on far-off ridgei, show-
ing like small pyramids against the
evening sky ; or close at hand, with
head up, neck curved, and hump
shown in fine profile, solemn and
very like the camel in the picture-book.
This, at least, is the demeanour of
the more aged and respectable ones ;
the younger, und especially the half-
grown camels, execute curious gam-
bols as they come home at ni ght. Some
-one of them, taking a sudden fancy,
tarts off as bard as he can go, fling-
ing his leoB out violently at eadi
stride as if to make a caricature of
an animal at speed, and atretcbing
along at a pace yon could hardly
expect of faim. This inflames an-
other, who, wishing to indulge in a
still more frolicsome caper, adopts
a yet abfurder gait; executing a
series of jumps in which he exhibits
all the motions of the moat extreme
speed, throwing his legs out with
desperate exertion, but in reality
spending all his efforts in jumping
off the ground rather than in getting
over it ; his tail curled upwards like
a terrier dogV, and his long recurved
neck working up and down in unisoo
with the spasms of his legs and the
rocking motion of his body, till he
looks like nothing but a jointf-d toy-
beast cut out in card-board and
twitched by strings. Another and
then another takes up the gambd,
till the whole train, catching the fire,
burst out into capers, all but the
very big and reverend camels *ko
stalk in groaning lamentably.
I will try to place before the
reader the evening scene I used to
watch from one of the camping-
grounds of the tribe. It is just sun-
set I am sitting perched on the
ruined gray wall of a deserted village
close in rear of our tents. A few
small light clouds hang low down in
the sky, but the whole zenith is of
the clearest light-blue, touched, near
the setting sun, with a gleam against
which Etand out, clearly cut, a few
isolated round hills, their shouldtts
fringed with an edging of small trees.
Behmd these I catch a glimpse of the
snow-streaked range of the Druse
Mountains, pearly grey and distant.
Turning in . the opposite direction—
to the east, to the heart of the desert
— I see the yellow-brown ]Jain
streaked with strata of black stone,
its nearer edges catching a gleam of
bright yellow and its farther a tinge
of purple in the setting sunshine,
stretching away, lN*oken only by a
small hill or two till it fddes in the
fjBir distance. Close at hand, the
centre of the panorama, lie the low
black tents of the Anaxeh, overtopped
by a line of high white ooe-poled
tents belonging to a party of Daoss-
cns traders who have come and set
up a sort of temporary bazaar; and
1869.]
Hane-Dealifig in Syria^ 1864.— -Pore U.
4S6
oeftrer still are oar own tents, with tk
line of thirty and more horaee pick-
eted in front of them. From all
qnartera cameb are flocking io, with
a slow solemn stalk ; those already
arrived standing patient and motion-
lees. All afoond rises their strange
cry— a sonnd resembling, in qaality,
a grant, bat with a prolongation that
gives it the character of a bellow ;
mingled with the cries of the dark
herdsmen, who» sometimes on foot
and sometimes perched on the top of
a big camel, admonish their flocks
with frequent hollas. ^Whoa-hnp!
whoa-hnp ! wboa-hnp ! — Yah l" —
cries the herdsman ; and, wiUi a
cnrions variety of woe-b^one and
despairing tones, the camels answer
in strange chorus. First camel, very
gattnraliy, ** 0-o-o-o.o-o ;" second
camel, wrathfally, *' Wa-ow*ow-oagh ;''
third camel, moet pitifnlly, aa if it
uras really too bad, ** Oo-o-l Ea
gh,^' winding np with an accent of dis«
gnst
Mohammed Donkhy bad, or pro-
icssed to have, a right to a monopoly
of trade with the Damascus mer-
chants ; and an infringement of this
privilege by another triftw, who had
inveigled off some of the Damascenes
and thereby deprived him of the tax
which he levied on all goods sold in
his camp, stbred him up to seek
summary redress. One evening we
were shown fonr camels in our camp,
with their bales of merchandise pack-
ed on the ground by them. It ap-
peared that the Wulad Ali had been
reading a lesson to the sioful traders.
That morning they had sallied forth,
and nabbed a party of the delinquents
on their way to the camp of the
enemy, Sheikh Feysel of the Bowal-
las, and had thought fit to ohasten
them by walking off with their goods
and camels. This, as it was repre*
aented to us, was not precisely a
robbery, but was only a vigorous line
of action in support of a prindple ;
for it was declared that the owners
might have their goods again by pay-
ing a small ransom, and consenting to
sell their stock in the camp of the
Wulad All. In &ot, it was a laudable
and patriotic movement for the pro-
tection of Wulad- Allan commerce;
but we did not feel quite easy in our
minds about it all the same. Sheikh
Feysel, no matter what his right may
have been, was supposed to have
might ; and we were not without
fears that he and his long- lanced
free-traders might involve the pa-
triotic protectionists in a ** difficulty*'
which, to tell the truth, would have
been nowise dittigreeable to us, except
from the certainty that we should be
involved in it too.
Burring the chance of a lance- point
in my own viscera, there is nothing
I should better like to see than a Be^
douin skirmish.
Every reader who has followed me
thus far knows pretty accurately how
long I was in the desert, and what op-
portanities I had of observing its
mhabitants. I shall therefore leave
it to him to form his own judgment
as to how far my experiences ipay
be considered competent data from
which to draw inferences as to the
character of a nation. AIL that I
mean to do, is to give the impression
produced on me by my experiences,
such as they were ; and that impres-
sion distinctly is, that the Anazeh are
a disgusting race of beings, and that
apart from their fine horses, they have
no more claim to our interest or admi-
ration than Hottentots. In person
they are filthy. I never saw the
slightest sign of a change of raiment
being poss^sed by any of them, and I
certainly do not believe that the
practice of washing is known, even by
tradition. Their moral peculiarities
are not more agreeable than their
personal. They are as destitute of
any feeling of discretion or decency
in regard of intruding upon the tra-
veller, as the traveller might be in
point of disturbing the privacy of the
orang-outang at the Zoological Gar-
dens ; and, once inside his tent, un-
less told in very plain terms to get
out, will squat there from morning to
nighty amusing themselves with the
contemplation of his habits. As for
keeping them from staring in, we
found that utterly impossible. It
was the commonest thing in the
world to have a couple of them lying
on their chests on the grass, just in
front of the door, with their chins
resting on their elbows, oalmlv sur-
veying us and all our proceedings ;
426
Hone'Dsaling in Syria, 1854.— Par^ 11.
[Oct
ftDd if any one of them was admitted
OD basinefls, a whole troop flocked in
with him, squattiog themselves down
all rouod till the tent would hold do
more, and the rest were obliged to
sitouUidei peepiogover each other's
shonMers throogh the door. They
need to steal horses* nose-bags oat
of the servants* tent, and head stalls
from oar horses as they stood at their
pickets ; and if a saddle or other
piece of faroitare was given in with
a horse, used to sco£Qie for it with
sach vigoar as to put all chance of
our getting it qaite oat of the qaes-
tion. One Hamdan, the second great
man of the tribe, and the sheik's
locum-Unens^ was an especial repro-
bate. He used to be very officious
in bidding for horses, professedly to
assist us, but, as we felt certain,
really to run np the price and go
shares with the seller in the profits.
One day we found him claiming in
our name, from the late owner of a
horse we had just bought, a grand
red saddle and saddle-cloth that had
been nowise included in the bargain,
with the intention of appropriating
them. He was always begging for a
little tobacco or a little sugar to re-
fresh himself after the laborious
fast be was then keeping for Bama-
zan ; and always hanging about us
accompanied by a little child of his,
whom he was constantly privily in-
stigating to come up and kiss our
hands ; the child afterwards bashfully
hiding its face in its father's gown,
and the father looking affectionately
amused at the child's simplicity, as
if the whole manoeuvre had not been
got up with a view to further tobacco.
To sum upi the Anazeh are bores,
thieves, beggars, swindlers, and ex-
tortioners of the most shameless
nature, and if they possess, in any
but their relations to their horses,
any good quality whatever, certainly
never showed it to me. So much
for the results of my own observa-
tion. Backed as we were by thirty
stout Druses, and further protect^
by the ioteres^t which the sheikh had
in keeping well with the Turkish
Goveriiment, it was not likely that
the tribe would give us the chance
of having anything much worse to
urge against them. But I never yet
met with a man who knew anything
of the Bedonios who had a Mogle
good word to say for them, exoept
on this one head. They are not, it
is said, bloodthirsty, unless pit^-
voked. A limited virtue ; for wbeo
you come to investigate, you find
that '* provocation," as they interpret
it, means pretty nearly every difference
of opinion which an honest man may
entertain with a ruffian, and that
their merit amounts to about this,
that provided joa eat with 8ali^faO'
tory resignation all the dirt they oiay
please to offer you, they had rather
strip you and turn you loose to live or
die as Heaven pleases, than settle you
with a lance-point at once. A limit-
ed virtue indeed, but one for which —
remembering the pleasure that much
of mankind has in cruelty for its own
sake — let us give them every credit,
and see that at our hands, at least,
the devil does not come short of his
due.
Before we left the Wulad Ali, we
had an opportunitv of seeing the
tribe on the march. It was an-
nounced one evening that, for the
sake of better grass and water, they
were going to shift their ground on
the following day. Early next morn-
ing the camp was filled with camels
receiving their loads ; and in a short
time ali the tents were struck and
packed, and the whole mass in mo-
tion. They filed off without any po^
ceptible attempt at order or regular-
ity, each family starting apparently
at its own convenience ; and were
soon seen trailing over the plain ia
several irregular streams or columns
separated by considerable intervals.
I stood by our tents as the servaott
struck them and prepared for the
march, and watched each cdumn as
it passed in procession. The most re-
markable objects were camels bearing
saddles of the following curious con-
struction. A kind of cup-like nest
or seat, scarcely capable, I should
think, of holding more than one pe^
son, was perched on the very top-
most peak of the cameFs back, wh^
it was retained by a ^^euiea of frame*
work encirclmg the hump, and hj
divers girths. From the front of this
nest, and at right angles to the line of
the camel's back, there projected on
each side a horizontal outrigger of
1859.] Hors€'Dia!ing in Syria, 1854.— Paf< IL 427
great .length ; the united two forming', arms, were to all appearance asleep,
as it were, one cross- bar. From each Others were staring aboot them, or,
extreme end of this cross-bar a Id the arrangement of their baggage,
shorter piece was bronglit into the climbing about their camels as upon
lower part i)f the seat ; and the frame the rigging of a ship. Here and
thus formed, covered with leather, there a woman, in long, straight,
presented an appearance mach like coarse garments of dark bine, with
what might have resulted if yon had a dark-coloared handkerchief hang-
cat out an enormous triangle, ex* log over her bead, and confined bj
cessively wide- baaed and low, and a turn or two of rope, and with bloe
fixed it, ba% uppermost, to the seat, tattooed spots covering her brown
with the two wings or acute angles, hands, trudged along by the side of
balancing each other on the two the train, or, getting tired, proceeded
sides. Another precisely similar ap- to swarm up a camel's side, planting
paratus was attached to the corre- one foot on his knee as he walked,
spondiog point of the seat behind, and by like steps reaching the sum-
and ran parallel to the former; and mit, much as a coachman mounts to
IVom one to the other of the opposite a coach-top. Sometimes two men
extremities of this strange scaffold- rode on one camel; sometimes a
Ing a loose long girth, apparently in- single man, carrying a lance of vast
tended for show rather than use, length, might be seen in a saddle
was passed under the camers belly, planted on the very peak of the
"What the use of the machine can be hump and with a pommel and can-
it H difficult to imagine. The Arabs tie denoted each by a long carved peg,
themselves failed to give any better towing behind him a colt by a fonfg
explanation than that it was fan- rope, the whole concern lookins^ like
tasia ; bat added that it was an ob- a brig towing a oock>boat. Horse-
ject of great ambition with the wo« men with long lances rode along-
men ; that she whose husband could side the column, and their Syrian
afiford her such an equipage was greyhounds — flight fiiwn-coloured ani-
looked upon as a great lady, while mals, much resembling small poor
sbe who rofle in a less elaborate nest English greyhounds with fringed ears
was a mere nobody. In fact, it and tail^-strayed around the line of
would appear that, to an Anazeh march.
lady, the possession of one of these The country traversed was the
things is pretty much what keeping wide -stretching stony plain that I
a carriage is to an English woman. have before described ; and across
Besides these there were ruder sad- this, at the rate of, I suppose, scarcely
dies, apparently formed of carpels two and a- half miles an hour, trailed
twisted up as you might twist a the long straggling columns of the
tar ban, with a woman or a couple of Anaaieh, far apart one from the other,
cfaiMren squatting in the hollow ; the but all tending in the same direction,
camel that bore them being addition- and reminding one strongly, as they
ally burdened with all kinds of boxes, showed in the distance, of the pio-
sacks, and bundles, roped to its tures of Noah's beasts issuing from
sides. Some of the camels were the ark. Far away on the forward
laden with a mass of baggage pre- horizon appeared a distant train, the
senting a platform-like summit that huge swaving cross-beam saddles
served as a resting-place for a wo- giving to the oeasts that bore them,
Hian or a child. In this case the ap- when they happened to show against
proved position for the rider seemed the sky end-on, the aspect of a T in a
to be something between kneeling vignette ; equally far on the rear-
and lying, with the knees drawn ward horizon another troop came
«nder the body, and the weight on, while similar processions moved
brown forward on the chest and on the right and lefL We passed in
elbows, much after the fashion of a our march numerous herds, chiefly
Mussulman prostrating himself at of camels, belonging to the camp,
prajers or a frog going to jump ; which were suffered to graze in peace,
and in this curious position some, $a, the march being but a short one,
with their faces down between their they conld be brought in at night to
428
Hone-Dealing in Syrian 1854— Part IL
[Oct
the oew gpronnd at the nanal time.
After perhaps a couple of hodra'
traTelling, the leading camels were
seen halting at a spot more dear
of stones, and covered with a grass
rather taller than common, watered
by a small stow ditch-like stream
whose coarse was made evident by
the greener vegetation that fringed
its sides. In a few moments the
men, planting the bntt-ende of their
tall spears in the gronnd, raised what
looked like a crop of gigantic reeds,
and in a very short time . the tents
rose all around, and the Walad Ali
were as if they had never moved at
all.
Indeed, their movements are little
hampered by the amount of goods
they have to carry. A quantity of
pack-saddles heaped together; a few
pots and pans tnat the women are
oooking with ; a few carpets, if the
owner is rich, otherwise a li amber
of fouMookiog sheepskins amongst
which cor dogs and little nasty black
children pig together in a style which
suggests fleas wad every other creep-
ing plagae most painfully: this is
all that meets the eye as yoa ride
rst a tent and glance in ; and these
fancy are, exclusive of live stock,
about the sole impedimeTila of the
Anazeh.
The Arab and Turcoman women
go anveiled. Though made slaves
of by the men in point of work,
they at all events are free from the
restrictions which prevent other
Mussulman women from exhibiting
themselves to public gaze. It would
be pleasanter if it were otherwise.
As you approach a camp it is com-
mon for a party of girls and women
to rush out to catch your horse's
rein and extract bakhshish. And
they are not pretty either. I wish
they would mind their Korans and
stop at home conformably.
On the 16th June we took leave of
the Wulad Ali.
That interesting people was be-
trayed on the morning of our de-
parture into a little burst of feeling
that showed strongly the natural
bent of its inclinations. I did not
myself see what I am going to re-
late, as I was engaged in counting
oar horses^ and in vainly searching
for one which the Anazeh had ab-
stracted, that they might bring him
in next day with a tremendous daim
for ''salvage;'^ bat the particulars
were given me by one of my com-
panions. Our tents were stro(^
and our baggage in process of being
packed on the mules, when a pile ^
half-a-dozen dresses which we had
intended on leaving to present to the
big-wigs of the camp, was thereby
exposed to view. The Anazeh conld
hold themselves no longf'r. They
charged headlong ; ^' culbuterent" the
cook and Paolo the Ecrvant, who
offered a vain defence, and carried
off the dresses in triumph, seizing
at the same time upon onr long pipes,
which happened to lie by. Then
they took a quantity of horse-ropes
and hobbles, and finished by picking
my companion's pocket During the
latter process — ^as indeed during the
whole of the preceding ones as well
— he was perfectly aware of what
was going on ; but at the same time
he knew that almost every Druse in
our escort was oocapied in holding a
horse (for we had a large batch to
take away with us), and that if a
fight broke oat, the natural impnlae
of the men would be to let go the
horses in order to close together.
So he plunged into a profound medi-
tation, and remained thertin absorbed
till his pocket had been happily
picked, and the picker had retired
content I am bappy to say that
the thief made no great haul of it
A pair of gloves and a pocket-hand-
kerchief, articles quite uokoown to
the Anazeh, were all he got ; and
finding them perfectly useless, he
came running ap with an ostenta-
tions air of honesty, just as we were
riding off, to return them and claim
a reward, pretending that he had
found them somewhere.
On the following morning oar ca-
ravan, not yet clear of the ground
exposed to the incursions of the Be-
douins, was trailing after a somewhat
disorderly fashion over a wide atony
?lain surrounded by distant hillsi
be Druses, in a long and broken
Indian file, led each man his horse;
the baggage was crawling along any-
where or nowhere; little dirty tipey
Paolo sat perched on a gorgeona yd[-
1859-]
Horse-Ihaling in Syria, 1854— Porf IL
429
low nig on the top of a scraggy
tattoo/ with a broad*brimmed hat
BurmoQDtizig a long handkerchief
which fell adown his head, and gave
him the air of a dilapidated cardi-
nal ; and oarselves jogged on as
patiently as might be by the side of
the train. At this juncture an ani-
nal| prononnced to be a hyena, was
Been traversing the plain and making
for the bills. Several of us gave
obase ; bot the ground was fearfully
stony, our horses were in no condi-
tion, and the game had got a long
start; and the result was that
the Druse sheikh, myself, and one
other Englishman, pulled up with
blown horses at a considerable dis-
tance from our convoy, and then,
taming back, proceeded slowly to
retrace our way. We had not rid-
den far when the Druse began to
press his horse forward and to
beckon to us to come on, with an
earnestness that led me to suspect
that something strange was in the
wind ; and before long, the recurrence
of the word Arab in his otherwise
unintelligible discourse, combined
with his gestures, gave us to under-
stand that he apprehended an attack
from the Bedouins. At this pleasing
intelligence we hastened on, the Druse
brandishing his huge spear the while
in a most sanguinary way, and were
presently met by a horseman sent
from the convoy to give us warning
that we were surrounded by Arabs.
In a few moments we reached our
Btripg of horses, and exchanged with
the ,men who led them a few hurried
words. which, passed through flurried
interpreters, gave us to understand
that the Bedouins had actually at-
tacked and seized a pa^rt of our bag-
fage, and that a knot of Bedouin
orsemen, at no great distance in the
rear, were the spoilers in the act of
securing their plunder. So with pis-
tols and swords we rushed up frantic,
and — Heaven be praised, did not
shoot our friend Mohammed Doukhy ;
for it was he, dismounted and sur-
rounded by a cluster of his escort,
who was now holding in polite and
affectionate oonverse the only one of
our party who had remained by the
baggage.
I think writing one's travels is a
very demoralising occupation. No-
body who has not tried it knows the
temptation one labours under to put
in a good fib at a fitting crisis. Things
so close upon being something strik-
ini;; 60 naturally leading up to an
effective point; and so very piquant
when so pointed, are so perpetually
happening, that — ^that, in short, man-
kind sometimes give way to the temp*
tation, and write books like M. Alex-
andre Dumas' Impressums de Voyage.
But this veracious history shall per-
mit itself no such licenses. I did not
rush npon the spoilers, receive and
parry a lance-thrust, and return the
same by blowing ray antagonist out of
his saddle. I declare that I meant it
all as I rode up, and that it was not
my fault that it did not come off.
But, as I said before, it was Moham-
med, and there was an end of every-
thing. Mohammed, who some time
before had gone to -Damascus, and
now returning with a large escort,
had encountered us ; and, in his first
ignorance as to our identity, had,
according to the custom of that land
of insecurity, thrown out skirmisbersi
and made a reconnaissance, which our
people took, not unjustly perhaps,
for manoeuvres of attack. If, as the
celebrated old woman said, '< I hadn't
been I," I wouldn't answer for Mo-
hammed's behaviour to the party
who might have occupied the place
of Me.
We had an Italian horse dealer
with us, whom I have mentioned
before; a great black-bearded man,
one Angelo Peterlini. He was a good
and useful man in his way; well
acquainted with the dodges and
mys'teries of Bedouin hors^ealing;
cunning in guessing the price tbtit an
Arab would take for his horse, and
careful to offer him only the half,
that he might work up the other half
in process of bargaining ; sharp-sight-
ed in detecting the two or three " un-
lucky'* hairs which in Bedouin enti-
mation might lower the value of a
horse, and as pertinacious in making
* The Indian name for a pony ; so intimately associated in the minds of all ol^
Indians with the idea of a certain scraggy stamp of baggag<H>, that to express the
same all other words are weak.
430
Hort&'DealvRg in Syria, 1854.— Par< II
• [Oct.
' them tell upon the prioe as if he be-
lieved in them; in fact, altogether
well acqaalDted with the Bedouins,
aod moDBtrously polite to them be-
fore their faces, bat with, at heart,
a. horror of them uDspeakable (by
anybody of less gifts of eloqneooe
than himself), and with the intensest
aversion to anything of t^e natare
of what he called a " Barufifa" with
them. Dogs, thieves, bogs, canaille,
people of the devil — I wish I ooald
convey the magnificent and sonoroos
emphasis with which he rolled oat
these and other epithets upon them
behind their backs, or the mgenaity
with which he framed speeches set-
ting forth their precise relationship
with the Fiend, and the exact natare
of a most carious connection with
hogs which he attributed to them.
A quarrel, which I have before re-
lated, between the Anazeh and our
Druses (at the possible termination of
which be seemed to shudder), had
found him food for many a harangue ;
but it was eclipsed by the recent pass
of peril, which was evidently destined
to figure in his recollection as a great
feat of arms and a baruffa of the
deadliest By the time he had done
giving OS his impressions of the late
gallant action, we had overtaken our
oonvoy, and found that the Druses,
animated by the recent events, had
mounted each man upon the horse he
had been leading, and, gun in hand
were marching along in order of bat-
tle. The whole troop (thirty or forty
men) ranged themselves in a column
of about three great irregnhir ranks,
.and thus, in a dense mass of broad
front, rode forward obantiog their
war-song in grand chorus; two or
three of them forming a kind of ca-
pering vanguard, rushing to and fro,
whirling their ^nm and pirouetting
their horses, while the others steadily
advanced, tramp, tramp, raising their
wild song. In fact, between Peter-
lini and the Druses, never was a bat-
tle which had failed of being fought
oelebrated with such solemnity before.
I must say for the Druses that,
though their valour was great after
the battle, we had no reason to sus-
pect that it would not have been as
conspicuous in the fight if there had
been one. In the little misunder-
standings which are not unfrequent
amongst Turks, Drases, MarooiteB,
and Bedouins, the Druses are said to
hold their own as well as anybody.
The sum total of horses bought hy
ns in the desert was one hundred. Of
these, seventy-two were Anszeh, from
the Wulad Ali and the Bowalhia ; the
remainder from the tribes of Serhan
and Beni Sakhr, and from men of
doubtful tribe. The following stat»-
ments refer to the Anaxeh alone. The
highest price paid was £71, 17b. This
was given for each of two hones
bought by private hand, of which one
was the finest that I saw in the de-
sert Putting these aside, the highest
price was a little more than £50, and
the average price about £34. The
average height was 14 hands 1^ inch,
and the commonest age four and five
years; but this would be an over-
estimate both of the height and age
of the mass of Anazeh horses ofoed
for sale, as we selected the biggest
and the oldest Many of the horses
brought were two and three yean old,
and might have been bought at much
lower price'. Of the dif^rent breeds
the Kahailan seemed to be the most
numerous; the Soklawye the most
esteemed.
The Anazeh' inflict a temporaiy dis-
figurement upon their young horses
by cropping the hair of the tail quite
short, after the cadgerly fashioB
creeping in amongst English hunters;
but leave the taUs of the full-grown
animals to attain their natural length.
They denied being in the habit of
making (as they are commonly be-
lieved to do) fi:re marks on tbdr
horses for purposes of distioctioo;
and denied also all knowledge of
grounds for a report which I have
seen brought forward very lately, vis.
that English horses had been osed to
improve the breed. The foals, they
said, though dropped most freqaenUy
in spring, were yet (produced all the
year round, in consequence of which
the age of their horses dated from the
actual day of birth, and not from aoy
particular season of the year.
With the exception of one Anazdi,
yicious at his pickets, I remember no
instance of an Arab horse showiqg
vice towards mankind.
As I have before statedi our stay in
1859.J
Horte-BtdUng in Syria, 1854.— Pare IL
431
the desert was broken by a Tisit to
Damaecock The road we chose on
that occasion crossed the Drose
monntains. From Merj Kotrani one
day's march carries you into their
very heart, and offtfrs in its conrse a
cnrioQS change of scene. Quitting
the open plain for rocky tracks inter-
sected by ontlyiog moaotain-spors
and studded with a beaatifal yellow
broom, yon Fcramble np and down
by stony paths, till, standing in a
rocky dell, yon see a long descent
bear down before yon. Close by is a
Tillage whose flat-roofed lionses look
each one like a great square brown
peat'turf with a little door and win-
dow cot in the side. A stream of
irater spla;»hes by, and then drops
foaming over broken steps of rock
into a deep ravioe, which windd away
through interlacing projections of the
rocky bush- clothed hill, and gives to
Tiew, at its distant debouchyre^ a
glimpse of far-olf plain with a line of
blue mountains beyond. As vou de-
scend into this plain, the path, bor-
dered by honeysuckle in full nower,
winds steeply down amongst grey
crags topped with bushes and min-
gled with patches of eultivatioo.
Glancing np the steep of the rugged
mountains that rise on your right
hand, you may see a line of shattered
old furt-like ruios on a projecting
crag ; to the left, perhaps, lies a lit-
tle vineyard with the broad-leaved
plants trained along the ground, or,
in a small patch of arable ground,
yon may see an oz- plough turning op
the soil. Now, crossing a level belt,
TOO come on a small winding stream,
bidden by a magnificent screen of
enormous oleanders spotted with
large clusters of pink flowers, re-
minding you of the impossibly gor-
geous patterns of a flowered chintz.
Then you traver^ a little patch of
cornfield, shaded by small trees, old
and gnarled, beneath which women
and grey- bearded men rest in a patri-
archal group. Then yon pass Ba-
nias, where, amidst leafy thickets,
your horse drinks of a small sunny
stream whose waters, gushing hard
by from beneath a scarp of high
.grey rock, join foaming in a shallow
pool, and, through a thicket of trees,
now down to yon— the Jordan. On
through the Jordan; conveying re-
verently, amidst slight cbnckles from
your comrognes, a beer-bottle filled
with Jordan water, and corked with
a rag — the bottle having been pre-
vionaly hunted np in the village and
cleansed, by your pious zeal, of its
profane label of '* Bass*s Pale Ale ;"
— then, turning sharp to the right,
along the broad valley yon have
hitherto been looking down npon,
yon travel through luxuriant corn-
fields and grassy stretchis, all stud*
ded, park-like, with small trees — a
scene than which I could have pic-
tured to mjself no better ideal of
those fields of Galilee where *' Jesus
went on the Sabbath-day through
the corn." Then, np a steep hill-
side, amongst grey olive-trees ; into a
narrow and ravine-like valley, where,
cultivation struggles with the stony
soil ; along the slope of whose hot side
you wind, rising and rising till yon
see, covering the summit of a height
that juts forward from the right-hand
ridge, the little Druse town of Has-
beya, crowned by an old towered
castle of Moorish aspect
We dismounted in a small gra-
velled square at the very apex of the
town. On one side rose the old stone-
walls of the little castle — five hundred
years old, they say — with projecting
stone-carved windows, and with a soli-
tary gate approached sidewise by a
small flight of steps, now crowded by
retainers assembled at once to gratify
their curiosity and to do as honour.
On the other side of the square rose
a khan or coffeehouse— a glimpse I
got of multifarious turbans of serene
and cheerful aspect in its interior led
me to think it such— and a minaret
conspicaons like a lighthouse; from
whose very walls the steep slope
dropped down, covered with mul-
berry trees; down to a little rocky
stream that marked the valley^ deep-
est course, and beyond whk^h the
opposing ridge rose steeply. Behind
the castle, again, the stone houses of
Hasbeya — the dwellings, they told na,
of six thousand souls — swept down
the little prominence that uplifts the
town, and then again rose with the ris-
ing heights behind. It was a delight-
ful old place. If one had had a bugle-
horn and known how to blow, one
coald not bot have woond it straight-
way at the castle-door. The emir^
432
Hom^Dealing in Sjfiria, 1854.— Pore //.
[Oct
fair dangbter might have looked forth
from one of those stone^carved win*
dowB 00 to a Christian knight be-
low. I am Borry she didn't And
to see it next moroiog when they
brought 08 horses for sale ; when its
door was crowded by a groop of
Drases and Mossalmans watching
the horsemen that dashed their
gandily-accootred horses across the
sqaare ; one might hare thought one
saw a scene of old Granada, where
Moorish koights careered before some
ancient Andalosian stronghold.
We were received with the great-
est courtesy by the emir, lord of the
castle and governor of Hasbeya; a
man of an old and noble Massnlman
family that had dwelt there for ages,
bat which, at the time of oar visit, in
common with all the other families
of similar standing in those parts,
was much reduced in cifcamstaooes.
We were led, throueh a cloister
skirting a large paved court, into a
long narrow Taaltedroom. At its
further end, a small divan, raised
f above the level of the floor and lined
with carpets and cushions, occupied
the whole interior of a large bay-
window divided by stoue pillars, bat
perfectly open and without either glass
or shuiters, looking down upon the
square. The old emir gave us pipes
aod iced sherbets. He himself coald
take nothing, for it was Ramazan,
aud the sun was not yet down; so
he sat patiently watchiug the closing
evening till the Muezzin, with a
wonderful cracked Toioe that broke
every now and then ioto the shrillest
screech, proclaimed sunset Instantly
a servant rushed in with a great cup
of sherbet, which the emir took down ;
and immediately after, dinner was
served.
We sat smoking in the window
after dinner. It was pretty to see
the daylight fade, and the mountain-
side across the valley darken into a
black ridge, aod the stars brighten
aod brighten upon the growing night
It was a pretty old room too, dimly
lighted by a lantern suspended from
the roof, and another larger one on
legs set on the floor. The paint-
ing round the bay-window was ter-
ribly faded, and the plaster was
cracking off here aod here ; but still
the room was picturesque and plea-
sant, and with its dilapidatioD
bioed an air of nobility in a waj thAt
suited it excellently well to the fiaHen
fortunes of an old emir.
I suppose that the time of tliese
old Syrian nobles is come, aod the
moment in the world's bistory ar-
rived when all they have to do is to
yanish, the quicker the better. Bat
the process of extinction is a sad
one to see. Formerly they were the
feudal lords of the country. The re-
venues were collected through them,
and provided they delivered to gov-
ernment a certain sum, they were en-
titled to appropriate to themaelvefl the
quite uncertain sum ^ieh they might
please squeeze out along with it.
When Syria, by the intervention of
powers amongst which England was
one, was made over to Turkey, these
feudal rights were suppressed, and a
pension or stated income granted to
each emir as compensation. So far,
so good ; but in due time the Turkish
Government, as might have been ex-
pected of it, stopped payment, and
these unhappy old nobles, deprived
alike of revenue and pension, weie
many of them brought close upon the
verge of literal starvation. Such at
least was the account of their fall givea
me by men who ought to be wdl so-
qaainted with its bistory. Our host
of Hasbeya had escaped this extreme
ruin, and seemed in tolerable circum-
stances; bat we shortly ader met
another emir of much the saoie
stamp, who told us plainly Uiat be
was starving — a statement which the
seneral aspect of himself and his be-
bngiogs seemed to confirm.
I was wonderfully taken with that
old mountain • castle. I was seized
with qaite a desire to be Emir of Has-
beya myself. How one might hoist
one's flag on the old tower, and fill
the old court with hawks and grey-
hounds ; how one might smoke and
be lazy in the open windows, or ge
down to hunt in the plain belov;
what dealings one might have with
one's Aoazeh neighbours for their fine
horses, and how one might finally get
sick of ic all 1
Shortlyafter our final leave-takng
of the Wolad All, I foond myself
again at Beyroot Alone this time,
for my oompanion had remained in
1859.]
HMi*Dsaiing in Syria^ lSU.^Pari IL
433
Damagcos to pick up the last strag*
gliDg horsea that might ofier. The
steamer Trent lay in the offing, and
292 horses and seven males had to
be pnt on board her from a flat shore
without the vestige of a pier or land-
ing-place.
Fortnnatdy the ship's paddle-box
boats, made expressly for horses, of-
fered a wide deck for them to stand
on, aAd were provided with a broad
plank for them to walk np. Still
the problem was a perplexing one.
Near three hnndred horses to be invit-
ed to walk up a steep plank which
the shipbaiider might consider, amply
broad and every way sufficient, bat
which they voted at once to be
narrow and insnfficieot; that plank
heaving all the time, with the tossing
of the little sarf that tumbled on the
shore ; and then — all stallions, and all
prepared to fight like fiends — to be
packed tightly on board and towed
oat to sea. Some, indeed, consented
to the arrangement; bat others de-
clined utterly, and throwing them-
selves back on their haunches, with
their legs planted well out in front
of them, said, as plainly as horses
could sav it, that they*d see us ^in
short, that they wouldn't; and they
didn't; and neither coaxing nor hauling
made them budge an inch.
So, finding that neither persuasion
nor ordinary means of force availed,
I had recourse to extraordinary
meane. I got a long rope to the
recusant horse's head, hauled on by
men in the boat. That did nothing.
Then I got two more, one to each
forefoot, similarly hauled on; but
the beast only sat down lower on
his haunches, and that did nothing
either.
At last we found out how to do
it. The device is this. Let all three
ropes be hauled on vifforoasly. The
horse's fore-legs are puUed from under
him, and he sinks down on his
haunches to resist. In this attitude,
if he does not move, at least he can-
not kick. Taking advantage of this,
two men rush at him ; one on each
side, they lock hands round his but-
tocks, low down, as he strives to sit
like a dog ; and with a mighty hoist,
ropes and all assisting, heave him
forward on to the plank. This is
the effective stroke ; this is what he
seems quite nnable to resisi Once
on the plank, he rushes desperately
up it and stands on deck. Some,
however, obstinate or terrified, will
fling themselves off into the water ;
and there is nothing to do but to
put them up i^in pertinaciously till
good-luck prompts them to bolt on
board.
You must be nimble in your mo-
tions, for when he finds himself on
deck jostled by other horses, his first
impulse is to squeal, bite, kick, and
demean himself like a demon. The
very moment he arrives, hobble him
all round, fore-leg to hind-leg, with
the Syrian hobbles, so that he can-
not stir; punch and shove him into
his place, the closer the better to his
neighbour ; tie his head down tight to
the railing that surrounds the deck ;
wedge horses in all round quite tight ;
give way with the tow-boats, and away
yon go, as pretty a little pandemonium
of impotent wrath and ferocity as need
be.
It could not be supposed that our
horses reached the ship in a bene-
volent frame of mind. Yet the ar-
tillerymen who had been sent to assist
in the embarkation, and to whom
it fell to hoist the horses out of the
boat and stow them on board, declar-
ed that they were easier to deal with
than common English troophorses.
They were not, they said, "so
spiteful."
I did not measure the plank; it
might be six or seven feet wide.
Whatever it was, it struck me that it
ought to have been just twite as
broad, and railed on each side with
a closely - boarded palisade through
which the horse could project nieither
himself nor his limbs, nor break, nor
even see. When a large ship is fitted
up expressly for the conveyance
of troop-horses, such a machine
could no^ be impracticably cumber-
some to carry, and would be found
worth ite carriage. And as BUtek-
wood gete into strange places, and
may possibly some day fall into the
hands of some perplexed individual
with three hundred refractory horses
to embark, I will warn him that if he
see fit to adopt my hauling dodge,
he should contrive loops of some
softer material than rope to encircle
the horse's pasterns. W0 found them
434
HorM-Lsaling in Syria, 1854.— jPart IL
[Oct
ready to hand io the soft toogh loo])8
with which every Syrian hobble is
Peterlioi and several of his Italian
assistant remained on board till the
last moment; and althongh it was a
dead calm, were seized, all bot the
stoat horse-dealer himself, with snch
qaaluQs of approaching sesrsickness,
that they made me qnite prond and
thankful for the privilege which
every Englishman inherits along
with the blood of the old sea-kiogfi,
of not being sick without, at all
events, 9onu sea on. At last time
was up, and I looked my last on
Angelo Peterlini. I hope he still
flourishes. I should be pleased to
hear that, not immoderately l^giog
his friends and the public, he had
realiaed wherewith to retire to his
native Italv ; there at ease to sing in
heroic strains the Bamffas of the desert,
and to invent, if possible, fresh titles
of dishonour for the Bedouins.
And as the Trent, agreeably com-
bining the stinks of her engine with
those of a crowded stable, rumbled and
thudded away from the Syrian coast,
so ended an expedition which a lover
of horses might think himself fortu-
nate to have joined, and which the
annoyances inseparable from Eastern
travel had not availed to render otlier
than a* most pleasant one.
I must add a postscript Do not
let any man, because I have rated
the average price of an Aoazeh horse
at £34, suppose that £34 is to bay
him a striking specimen of the raee;
or, because I have described the
Anazeh horses as fine, imagioe that
the very fine ones are anylfaing bat
the exception to the rule. With
the Arab horse, as with ererythin^
else in the world, the ayerage is
grievously removed from the ideat
and all that yon want above it yon
must pay for. Finally, let any one
who may be tempted to seek for an
Arab horse in his native deserts
remember that though we, buyii^
horses by the hundred, could attract
numbers of sellers to oar ci&mp, ii
does not follow that he, in search of
a solitary animal, could do anything
of the kind, or, indeed, that he eooid
draw together a sufficient number to
offer him a reasonable choice; and
above all, if he wish to avoid triba-
lation, let him receive as great troths
all Angelo Peterlini's remarks npon
the Bedouins, and shape his course so
as-— if he will take mj^ advice— to keep
perfectly dear of them.
1859.]
Thi Lu€k 0/ Ladifmide.^Fart VJIL
485
THE LUCK OF LADTSMBDB.
CHAPTER ZX. — ^TBB PALACE AT> ELY.
The Lord Bishop of Ely and his
brother of Darham had ahreadj, do
doobt, ID the coorse of the eveoiog,
discussed high matters of Church and
State with all the gravity which be-
came a legate of the soyereigo (lontiff
and the chief-jostice of the king. But
lYilliam Longchamp was not a man
to suffer the weight of public busi-
ness to become at any time too oppres-
eive ; and the sounds which now
found their way through the open
doors of the long and lofty chamber,
where the prelates were sitting with
two or three chosen guests, into the
outer apartmenti thronged with bis
princely retinue, bore witness that
the energies of government were at
this moment in a state of whole-
some relaxation. Helion de Bloia,
admitted on terms of equality, by the
rare prerogative of genius, to a board
where dukes were sometimes treated
as inferiors, had Just concluded one
of h\i most delicious ckanstma; and
as the last cadence of voice and in-
strument died away amidst the gently
murmured applause of the Ifgate and
his noble guests, a loud buzz of irre-
pressible em) miration broke from the
listening crowd without, whose de-
light was scarcely kept within sober
bounds by the respect due to the
august presence in whose sight and
hearing they were.
The company there assembled con-
sisted of the officers of the legate's
household, and the numerous depen-
dents and followers of humble rank
whom his pride or his hospitality
gathered round him ; for the knights
and others of noble blood who rode
in his train, except the privileged
few who were admitted from time to
time to his own table, were enter-
tained apart in the guest-hall, which
lay in another quarter of the build-
ing. Those who now thronged the
spacious antechamber formed a very
miscellaneous assemblage ; impover-
ished Englishmen of gentle birth,
foreign adventurers, Gascon and
Hainault captains, esquires, and
pages, minstrels, rhjmsters, and pro-
fessors of magic, all found food and
shelter in that princely household,
and maintained nieir position there
as best they might, giving the oham-
berlaiDs occasionally some trouble to
settle disputed claims of precedence.
Raoul sat amongst them, recovered
from his late exhaustion, having
foend rest and solid refreshment
more efficacious remedies than $iny
which the leeches were likely to have
Erescribed, and now awaiting: with
oyish impatience the audience which
he had come so far to seek. For,
amongst the motley company in
whiuh he found himself, he had re-
cognised, and joyfully bailed as a
friend amidst such a msze of strange
faces, the esquire with whom he had
already made acquaintance on the
road ; and, by an importunity so
urgent as almost to affect that officer's
well worn feelings, as well as to ex-
cite his curiosity, had secured his
promise to introduce him to the pre-
sence-chamber, if possible, before the
prelate should have withdrawn for
the night He now learned also, from
the same quarter, that the reported
visit of the prelate to the house of
Ladjsmede, upon which Sir Qodfrev
had Ibunded his invitation to his
kinswomen, was in all likelihood as
pure an invention as the pretended
departure of Sir Nicholas ; £x>Dg-
champ's enquire, at least^ knew no-
thing of any such intention on his
master's part, and thought it liighly
improbable.
" My lord hath Sent word to the
abbot of Bivelsby that he will ride
thither from Michamstede, and lie
there one night, and so on with the
morrow's dawn for Huntingdon,"
said he ; " and I much doubt, be-
sides, whether he hath so much love
for your knight of Ladysmede as to
accept his hospitality. Who is that
strange knight that is now lodged
with him — who bears, it is said,
secret letters from the king ?"
*' He is one Sir Nicholas le Hardi,
a knight out of Hallamshire,'' replied
Baoul, " and has boroe a good ianoe
Tfi€ Luck <f LadtfrnedA^FdH VIIL
[Oct
a^iDst the infidelfli if odb mi^ trost
his e£qoire*B word of him ; he is gath-
ering mooey for Kioe Richard, hot
he makes do secret of his errand.*'
"He is stirring up other matters
as well,'' said his companion ; " we
have heard of him at Linoob ; he
hath been dealing with some ill- con-
tented spirits there, and listening to
their complaiots how that the lord
legate carries himself higher than he
should, and bestows imorter and
sharper jostice on the king's enemies
than is pleasing to some of those who
call themselves the king's friends.
I hardly know among which Sir
Godfrey is to be reckoned ; bat let
.this wandering knight look to it— be
will find the royal letters stand him
in poor stead, if he ,be foand practis-
ing here against the king's vice-
gerent. But I am speaking of mat-
ters with which you and J, yoang
friend, have nought to do."
An impradent confidence was not
one of the speaker's failings, and he
gladly broke otf the conversation in
the general silence which ensued
when the word passed round that
Helion de Biois had risen with his
viol in hand, and all crowded for-
ward to catch what they might of
his incomparable strains.
"Now, yunog sir," said Baoul's
new friend, taking advantage of the
murmur of applause which followed
the Norman's song, and pushing him
forward through the throng towards
the folding-doors which stood open —
"now should be our time or never;
my lord will be in happy humour
now, and will listen to your ule,
provided it be reasonable, and shortly
worded — which it hardly shall be, an
it be a woman's, unless you shape it
afresh. If you would win favour,
see that yon speak him bold and fair,
and ^ith as few needless words as
may be."
With the full intention of profiting
by this sensible advice, Raoul followed
the esquire until ho stopped within
a few paces of the table where the
prelates were sitting, and repeated
the lowly obeisance which his con-
ductor made both before and after
he caught his master's eye.
** Whom have ye there ?" asked
Longchamp somewhat sharply ; then,
•8 his quick glance recognised the
stranger who had stopped their pro-
gress a few hours back, he amiled
slightly, and his bold handaouEie feat-
ures lighted up with the ezpresBiofi
of kindly humour which became them
best. *' Ho I our young frieod of the
roadside? that we all played the
ffood Samaritan by I Gome — did the
leeches do their part by thee ? IM
they pour in the oil aod wise?
Or, 'faith, perhaps the wine had be»
poured in a thought too freelj al-
ready ? How was it, now V*
Poor Baoul's presence of mind wv
nearly failing him again. The qnes-
tion was an awkward one ; for be
felt conscious that the wine, however
innocently on his own part, and oa
the good abbess's, had had ita fdl
share in his discomfiture. He blndied
and hesitated, and was not mach as-
sisted by the admonitions which his
introducer was giving him in the
shape of nudges to speak oat. He
stammered out something that was
inaudible.
The bishop's esquire, who knew
his master's impatience, and was
already repenting him of his intro-
duction, came to the rescue on hh
own behalf rather than on Raoal*&
*' He comes from Ladysmede, my
lord, and hath a mes&sage to your
holiness — of urgency, as I under-
stand."
" It had need be argent, if I am to
be troubled with it at this hour,"
said Longchamp, his brow darkening
a littla
At that momoit a wild-looking
figure, which had followed the two
esquires firom among the crowd io
the outer chamber, and had stood at
some little distance during RaoullB
introduction to the legate, stepped ia
front of them with a rapid shoffling
gait, threatening every moment to
trip himself up with the loose gown
which trailed to his heels, and, with
his long flowing hair, gave him vezy
much the appearance of a woman.
*' Will it not please yonr ezcdlent
worship to listen rather to me ?" said
the new claimant, with a low Kvet-
ence more grot^ue than servile.
*' I have another fytte, which I pro-
mise shall content yon well, of the
gestes of Sir Hippomedon of Troy."
'^ Why, where left we the noble
Trojan last, Perrinett" said Long-
1859.]
The Luck of Lady$mid0.^Pan VUL
437
ohamp, addressing the poet; '*I re-
member DOW, there was a strange
drowsiDess came over me towards
the end of that last recital ; yet, no-
less I were ^jeamiog, I thought sartly
he had been slain and done witb.^'
^ fie f^ha]! be brought to life again
by a most sabtle eDchaDtment," said
the poet, bowing with an air of great
Belf-satisfaction ; " and shall make
good disport yet, I dare warrant for
him."
"Saints forfend ns?'' said the pre-
late hastily, " if he be not dead when
he is dead, he is like to grow tediona
upon OS — we shall never set done
with him at that rate; let him rest
in peace awhile, good Perrinet —
Stay," he added, as the conteur was
inrning away in mortification — " here
18 for thy goerdon as nsual, neverthe-
less. The joyoQS art shall not suffer
for mv dalloei>s — or for thine either.
And jiHTk ye— since it costs greater
pains, I take it, for one of such gifts
to be silent than to rhyme for a couple
of hours— hie to the wardrobe, and
bid them give thee a new gown to
thy liking."
''Thanks, noble prince,'' said Per-
rinet, as he received the legatees
liberal bounty — " we might have
Yirgils amongst us yet, but that an
Augustus comes so seldom."
** Had Yirgil been like thee,'' said
Longchamp, as he watched the
shuffling figure in its retreat, '* Au-
ffusttts would have cut his head off.
It is a marvel to me brother," he
continued, turning to Hugh of
Durham, *Hhat Heaven, in its wis-
dom, should endow such men with a
fecundity of nonsense! yet will he
keep a table full of roysterers listen-
ing to him open-mouthed for hours,
till they forget the drink that stands
before them. Come"— for Raoul was
yet waiting, though he had with-
drawn a step or two backward — ^* we
will even have the young esquire's
tale now ; it may be something new,
in any case, and can hardly be so
wearisome. ^Vhat says the worship-
fol knight of Ladysmede ? Despatdi,
and go your ways.''
'* 1 bear no message from Sir God-
frey de Burgh," said Raoul, his
courage returning as his blood still
warmed at the remembrance of the
kmght*8 insult ^ I am charged with
a word to your hdlness firom a right
noble lady."
*'Ha! is it so?" said Losffchamp,
smiling; ''then, my good lord, it
were but of courtesy he should be
heard at once, were it not ? Sooth, I
see now he has more the look of a
lady's messenger. Speak, yonng sir ;
we are all attention."
** Pardon, my gracious lord," said
Baool, hesitating and looking round
at the others — '* I am not sure — it
were more fitting, perhaps^ that I had
your private ear in this matter."
** I commend your discretion,
youth," said Longchamp, smiling
again, ** though 1 am well assured it
is needless. My lord of Amersham —
good Sir Piers I>e>la-val, yoo may be
over young for a lady's counsellor —
will it please you to take seats yonder
apart for a while? My* brother of
Durham is as mine own soul. Nay,
never look demure upon the business,
Hugh Follot, nor put any such ir-
reverent interpretation upon this hAt
one's message, be she who she may,
as I see lighting your eye even now.
Now, most discreet and prudent
messenger, say on. Not a rat besides
can listen."
Shortlv and distinctly, Baonl de-
livered the Lady Oladice's request in
her own words.
''Pardien!" said the prelate, ''as
though it were a small thing for one
man to have on his hands the afifairs
of a realm that is blest with a mad
king and a lively breed of traitors,
here I have thrust upon me the
guidance of a wilful woman 1 — for
wilful she is, like all her blood. And
wherefore, under your favour, gentle
sir, have your tender years been spe-
ciallv selected for the burden of a
lady's secrets? — under which I do
not marvel now that yon broke down
on the road."
He eyed Baoul curiously as he
spoke, and used a tone of banter
which banished the modesty, which
the youth had felt in so honorable
a presence, much more effectually
Uian the most gracious encourage-
ment could have done.
"The Lady Gladice hath none
about her own person whom she
may safely trust in any matter that
she would not choose to come to Sir
Qodfr^'s ear; the men at Willan^s
438
Tke Lwk of Ladpmede,-^Part VIIL
[Oct
Hope hate none but bim to look to
for place and pay. I would the had
"A more fitting meBseoger to do her
services," said Raonl firmly ; ** I have
no qaalitiea that beeeem sach an
office, save honour and good faith."
^ O, and marvelloQS discretion, and
a very pretty torn of words besides,"
said the prelate, laagbing to himself
at RaouPs flashed face and kindling
eyes ; bat there was a kindly gleam
in his own as he spoke, which mieht
have soothed the youth's ruffled
pride if be had foand oatience to
have marked it. " Still, bow comes
it that one who rides with Sir Qod-
frey himself, as I learn yoo do, are
snch a chosen vessel in the damsel's
eyes ? — and how does yoar discrimin-
ation reconcile yoar devoir to the
lady with yonr lawful obedience to
the knight r
^ I had forsworn bis service before
I came hither, as the Lady Gladice
knew," said Baoni, looking so hot
and angry that the Bishop of Darham,
who sat listening with some amuse*
raent to the dialogue, good natarediy
raised a warning finger; "he has a
false tongne, and \9 neither true man
nor gentle knight."
** Bold and rash words," said Long-
champ, '<in any mouth but in his
who can maintain them. Few men of
doable thy sommers, younker, would
care to use them of Godfrey de
Burgh."
'* I take shame to have used them
in such a presence," replied Raoul,
bending low, and somewhat abashed
as he caught the other prelate's eye ;
*'bat I would maintain them upon
him, by your grace and Heaven's, if
ever I live to wear spurs."
'*Thou wilt hardly do that, friend,
if thou carry that hot bearing towards
all men ; snch tempers are not long-
lived."
" I only meant/' said poor Raoul,
somewhat discomfited under the stem
gaze of Longchamp, 'Hhat I would
not have yonr holinees think so
meanly of me, as that I said of Sir
Godfrey here that which I would not
say to his face, if need were — if I
died for it; I am oM enough for
that."
*' And to live and grow wiser," said
the prelate. ** But having discharged
^ouraelf from the service of the
knight of Ladysmede, wbere is it
your good pleasure to think of be-
stowing yourself? — for you and Sir
Godfrey will be but dangerous neigb-
boors, if yon take serviot at Willui*!
Hope under the lady."
« I woold go to the Holy Wars, if
any good knight would have me of
his company, and serve him with all
love and honesty."
** He could hardly take with bim a
more dangerous companion, I think
— unless it were his lady-wife,*' said
the prelate. "Not so, boy; aa you
seem to have a mission to set other
men right, the service of Holy Ohorcfa,
I take it, will give most scope for
vour peculiar qualities; and a quiet
honsehold like mine" — be glanced
with the corner of his eye at ha
neighbour of Dorham — *were jast
the place for your young blood to
cool itself down into a little more
Christian fear and reverence of your
elders. What say you, sir? I did
not catch your name— 'WUl ye take
service with me ?"
"Ohl my good lord — yonr hoK-
ness?" cried Raonl, fidling on bit
knees in a transport of delight, for
there was now no mistaking the
legate's kindly meaning; and to ride
in the princely train of Willism of
Ely might have been indeed a
dazzling offer even to a youth of
calmer spirit than his — " you are too
good ! too gracious 1 — what can I say ?*
"The less the better,** replied
Longchamp ; '< but let it be said upon
your feet I am not over-persuaded
that I shall come up to yoar notion
of perfection in a master, but yon
will have the grace to bear with me
for the present, and to do my bid-
ding. Rest here to-night; and as
early as you will to-morrow, take
back my answer to Willan's Hope.
In three days— or it may be in less
— I am bound to Michamstede, and
thence to RiveUby ; at one or other
place, say from me, I will request a
meeting with my fair kinswoman,
and give ber such counsel as I may.
Ride straight there and straight back
— I will send a trusty comrade with
tbee; and if you chance to fall io
with any of Sir Godfrey's riders io
tho^e parts, say that ye serve tiie
Biehop of Ely; and that I will have
his ears cropped like a dog, be he
Ih0 Ludt of LadymidB.''Part VUL
43»
Axtti, knigbt or noble, that neddleft
with aov man oo an errand of mine/'
Frond and gratefal, the younff
eaqoire made a homble obeisance, and
withdrew.
This aoezpected transference to
the service of snob a pow^al patron,
which filled Baoal with as mach sar-
prise as delight, and made him at
once an object of jealonsy to the
friend who had introduced him, was
not the result of quite so sudden a
whim on the prelate's part sa he and
others present might have naturally
Qondnded. Loogohamp's goierosity,
it is true, was sometimes as capricious
as his exercise of power ; but not
unfrequenUy his acts assumed to
others the appearance of beiuff arbi-
trary and despotic, because in his
banghty contempt for the opinions
and jadgment of those whom he de-
spised— and they were rather the
exceptions whom he did not — he
rarely condescended to give a reason
for what he did, and ofUn, both bv
bis language and bearing, gave ali
the effect of a wanton caprice to what
was really, whether right or wrong, a
well-couBidered decision. Even in
tbe trifling matter of ^onng Baoul's
adoption into his service, his inten-
tion had been formed beforehand, and
from circumstances which few were
eyer likely to know. Waryn Foliot,.
with a kindly feeling towards the
boy who was thrown in such plight
apon the rude sympathies of such a
household, had sent a groom to see
that Raoul was cared for in the pal-
ace^ and to bid him wait on him
when he should feel sufficiently re*
covered. In the brief conversation
whidi followed between them, Foliot
drew from him at once, by some of
that unconscious attraction by which
hearts are opened, a more unreserved
aeoount of his quarrel with Sir God-
frey than his pride had allowed him
to give either to the Italian or to the
lady Gladice. If he smiled at the
boy's violence, he had the charity not
to do so until he repeated the st4^ in
his uncle^s chamber; the Bishop
of Durham told it again to Long*
cham|>, with some nave and regret-
ful strictures upon the petnlanoe and
irreverence of youth in that def;ene-
rate age. Bat the legate— partiy, it
might be, that he had Uttle good-wiU
VOL. LXXXVI.
towards de Borgfa, hot more from a
strong natural sympathy with any
indications of a bold and impetuous
spirit-* had burst into one of his
heartiest laughs at tbe recital, and
vowed that the boy had done weU.
He determined on the instant to send
for the vouth on the morrow, before
he left the palace, and if his bearmg
pleased him, to offiar him service in
his own hoasehokL RaouFs intro>
duction to hli presence that evening
had only somewhat hastened tiiis
result.
It was scarcely dawn when the
young esquire led his steed from the
palace stables at Ely, and looked
carefully, in the uncertain light, to
shoe and strap and buckle before he
sprang upon his back. Bnt^ early as
it was, u the palace-yard he found
another party already mounted. It was
Waryn Foliot, with a single follower,
now takiog horse on his return home-
wards to the Leys. He greeted Raoul
with ready courtesy.
*' I give you good morning, sir squire
— ^you ride abroad early t"
"I thank yon, worshipful Master
Foliot," replied Raoul ; *' I have busi-
ness that may not well wait"
**Ltee your way towards Ladys-
mede?" said Foliot; " if so, we may
as well travel in company. There
have been tales of loose doings on
the roads between this and Lincohi,
and honest men can never be one
too many; though, for myself I
wonld be bound to ride alone through
the breadth of England — ay. and
France too — with a light purse aud
a discreet tongue, saler than with a
soore of brawling knaves at ay
heels who can never keep tongue nor
liand out of other men's qjoarrela"
-' An it please voa to do me so
mnch grace as bid me ri^ in year
company," replied the esqpire, **!
shall hardlv be so ill*maiuiered- as to
say nay ; but I have need to be in
haste," he added, with a little flash of
conscious importanoa
''I know, I know," said Foliot»
smiling; *'voa serve a new mastei^
I have heard, and one that will have
no laggards in liis service, I give yea^
joy of my Lord of Efy'a favour;. he
18 the foremost man in this resla^
and, I will be hold to say, wears his
honours nobly. I will be* no
2d
440
TkeLwkqf Ladyimiie.^Pmrt VllL
[Oet.
rtrnee on tbe road, fiaool, I promise ever, a0 if hfe troable had been but «
thee.*' dream ; and before the day had worn
So they set forth together, Baonl's f«r on, they drew bridle for the first
happy laogh ringing acain in the time at an hosteliy in the town oC
dear cold air, light and carelesB as Michamstede.
CHAP XXI. — ^THB^ NET AND ITS PKIT,
If the abbess of Miohamstede had
renounced the world, it was not to
shut herself np in a selfish isolation,
but only to open her heart more
largely to those whom the world had
renounced, or who had been sore
wounded in their struggles with its
evil It only needed for her to learn
the outlines of Isola's unhappy story —
and of these Father Giacomo had in-
formed her — to insure for the stranger
sttcfa retft and protection as might be
found within the walls of the convents
That she had been a grierous smner
— and, in the pure eyes of the lady
Brunhild, few sins were more grievous
than a breach of the cloister tow
of chastity— was only an additional
claim to ihe compassion of one who
held her rule unaer the auspices of
the Mother of Mercy. That she went
in hourly danger from a powerful
enemy, against whom even the walls
of the sanctuary might prove no pro-
tection if her retreat were dlscovo^,
and whose wrath might in such cases
light upon the protectors as well as
the protected, was a thought which
never camwd the abbess an instant's
selfish hesitation. It is only in ages
of higher civilisation that all doors
are shut against the victim whom so-
ciety has branded, and whom it is
dangerous to protect For this, if
for no other reason, let the traveller
pause before he denounces as an im-
pious boast the legend which he may
}et trace Vut over the ruined arch-
way of Miehamstede. '* This is the
gate of Heaven:^ At least it stood
always open for the worU-weary and
the contrite.
There was now no longer any excuse
for jsola to linger as a guest in the
old tower. The day was at last de-
termined for her parting from those
•kind IHands. Her bnoyant and im-
palslve spirit, in which love and
gfief surged and swelled like a tem-
pest, stinggM out again into son'
ithina, under <the Influenoe of kindness,
even after trials which would have
laid some hearts low for ever. But
for the one overwhelming sorrow,
which lay on her like a heavy shadow
always — nay, almost in spite of it—
the weeks she spent at WUlanli
Hope had been the calmest and the
happiest of her life since early girl-
hood. Her new-found friends wers
scarcely less sorry to part than the
ItaliHn herself. Skilled m all the
limited accomptisbraents. of her age,
and having been a traveller in foreign
land, she had been a very welcome
comnanion in their secioded life.
Brighter flowers than ever had sprung
from Efhild's mechanical fingers
marked those portions of the eternal
tapestry which had been committed
to Isola's hands, on her own petition,
while the good dame was absent ob
her other duties of rebuke and ex-
hortation amongst her domestks;
aod richer melodies than ever floired
from Gladioe's careless voice nag
through the old chambers, and stilled
the noisy men-at-arms below, as they
caught the sounds through the open
doors, when the stranger could be per-
suaded to sing there some strain of her
native Italy.
But it was full time that Ifiola
should seek some securer and moie
distant refuge. Father Giacomo, is
the messages which he had sent bj
Picot from time to time, had never
ceased to urge it Sir Nicholas, fai-
deed, far from having any suspicion of
her presence in his neighbourhood,
had but spoken the truth when he
had told the chaplain that he believed
her dead ; and Isola herself had good
reason to think that he looked upon
her sudden appearance in Outhwln^
hut as merely the shaping of his own
distempered fancy. The reoeplioD
of a wanderer at the <Ad tower was
not in itaeir so remarkable an oooQ^
rence as necessarily to readi the
ears of Sir Godfr^; or even if it
had, since that wanderer was a help*
185a]
Tht Luck •f IMffmii e.-^Part VIII
441
lees woman, and not Iftdj to' enter-
tain any design upon his ward or her
taanors, it would probably have been
forgotten as soon as heard. Still
there was evident risk of disoonvy
from sneh m dose proximity ; and
Gladkse herself nnwillingly, for her
ffnest*^ sake, admitted that riie would
be safer in the oonvent at Micham-
etede.
^ Shioe it mast needs be so," said
she to Isola, when at length the day
was fixed for her qnitting the Tower,
" I will at least give you company
so (kr, and commend yon myself to
my dear friend the abbess ; good and
kind she is to all, and yon will soon
love her as I do.**
** I have told yon — ^have I not ? —
there is an Italian in their house —
Sister Beatrix, with whom I have some
poor acquaintance. I shall not be
wholly amonff strangers there ; albeit,
as onr holy Mother knowK, strangers
have BQrely been better friends to me
than they who should have been."
'"Tis a good life the sisters lead
there," said Oladloe thonghtftalhf ;
■* though I remember, to my shame,
I flouted at their habh and their
talk, when I was there, as being over-
staid and grave; but I was scaroe
more than a giddy child then, and
the good abbess chid me, rightly. I
think now sometimes it were well if
I had staid amongst them."
'' No, no r* said Isola, ** the cloister
is neither for yon nor me ; the peace
you talk of there Is but a Aving
death."
*'It were better even so," replied
Gladice, quickly, <'than" — bu^^ she
stopped and hesitated.
^ Than a life like mine, you would
say ? I know not To some, soch
TOWS are but tempting perjury. Had
I never taken them, I might have
known sorrow enough, but I should
have scaped the sin which is my
heaviest burden."
" But at leaM," said Gladice, <« you
Will find such rest welcome now."
" Rest-for how long ? Nay, whilst
he lives, and I live, there la no rest
for me but one, and that I must seek,
though I well know It Is kwt to me
for ever. Bven now— laugh at such
weakness, for I deserfe it— I gladly
seek this mynchery, as I have gladly
tarried here^ because I shall ititt
be near enough at least to hear of
him !"
*^ I would say nothing to pain yon,"
said Gladice after a pause ; ** bat
surely, if he has scorned and slighted
your love as you say, I do not say
that, being his, you can or should cease
to love him ; but such love would
seem to me more like a sorrow for
one dead and lost, than a clinging to
the liviog."
««AhI" said the other, looking at
her with a sad smile, *• you spesJc of
that you do not know I"
Gladice made no reply. Both per-
haps found the subject embarrassing,
and the conversation was not con-
tinued.
Very sadly, upon unwilling eyes,
dawned at last tne dark November
day which was to see their parting.
Almost in silence the last meal was
eaten ; Dame Elfhikl herself assisted
In mounting Isola upon her own
jennet at the gate, and her forewell
was as tender and as tearfbl as though
she were addressing it to a daoghter.
Even Warenger was moved to a
nearer approach to softness than he
had ever been known to show to-
wards any woman save her whom he
regarded with a sort of epicene aflho-
tion, as the suzeraioe lady who had
a right to his milKaiy obedience as
well as to his gallantry as a man ;
and when the foir stranger bid him a
courteous farewell as he held Gladioe*s
rein, the veteran bestowed upon her
a hearty wish for her safe joam^,
and accompanied it with a brief word
of regret that he himself could not
conveniently be of their escort that
day. Attended by her maiden Ber-
tha, and closely followed by Gropt
Harry and some half-aoofo of the i^
tainers of the tower, the lady Gladioe
rode forth with her gdest, in fulfil-
ment of her promise, towards the
friendly gates of Michamslede. It
was the day before that on which she
was herself pledoed to accept the nn-
welcome hospitiuities of Ladysmede;
and though her silent thooffMhloess,
as they rode^ did not muaii surprise
ber companion, the subject of the
maideD*s anxkNis thoa^ was even
graver than Isola oouM imagine. She
was ealcukttog to what lengths Bk
Nicholas might carry hia salt even
in the faoa of hsr moit detsmhMd
442 JU Lm<k of Ladygmide.^ PaH Vlll [Ost
TCsistaace, and bow to, in a cue of managaUe tenip«r, or his dam
extremity, ehe had any hope of mov^ diplomacy. A brief ooosaltatioD with
log her gnardiao by an appeal to the Daboie was all that he now reqoiied
rpQgh kiodoess which she believed to arrange his plan ; and before the
him to entertain towards her ; what day had well brolce on that gloomy
plea she sbonid find for evading, as norniog which was to be the lest of
she was resolved to do, her visit to Isola's sojoara at the old tower, Bir
the Manor ; how far she conld malce Nicholas himself, in plain armour,
nse of the knowledge she had ob- with his visor down, accompanied by
taioed from Isola without betraying the few tmsty followers of his own
h^r to her hnsband^s anger ; and who lay at Ladysmede, rode qnietly
above all, how Raooi might have oat at the |[ate of the Manor, and
sped in his message to the Bishop of was Joined in the valley below by
Ely. and what might be the proba- about the same number of military
bility of his interposiUon in her tenants of Sir Godfrey, who were
favour before it should be too late, quite ignorant of the bosinefli oa
She bad other and nearer cause for which they were engaged, and quite
anxiety and alarm, if ehe could have indifferent on that point, so long as
suspected treachery amongst the fol- they received from Dubois such
lowers of her father's hoosehold. weighty and iotelligible penonal rear
Dubois' silver pieces, employed sons for undertaking it fie bad pie-
with judicions liberality in his mas- viously given Sir Godfrey to under-
ter's service, had found their way stand that the object of this early
even through the strong old walls of expedition was to visit a rdigioBS
Willan's Hope. Lambert, the groom, boose at some distanee, which had
who was now jesting with one of his been backward in its contributioBB
fellows with that open smiling face to the royal service ; and he had
in which Nature seems sometimes to caused the report to be spread through
take pleasure in disguisbg a rascal, the household, in punuance of the
had communicated to the Gascon, in plan of action originally agreed up)Dy
pursuance of an arrangement which that he was now taking hia finsl
that clever negotiator bad found op- departoro from Ladysmede. In the
portonity to make during his visit event of his finding himself misin-
to tbe Tower, the fact of the ladv formed as to Gladice*s movements,
Gladice's hurried interview with and of her yet becoming Sir God*
Baoul, and subseqaently her intend- frey's guest, it was not his intentka
€d journey to Micbamstede^ Nay, to show himself again at the Maaor
with the honest wish, it most be sup- until after her arrival there. It wss
posed, of giving good money's worth possible that bv this means, if the
toe the price paid, be had been some- intelligence of his actual departoie
what over-positive in his information, should reach Wiilan's Hope, any
fie had stated as a fact, what was vague suspicion which miebt have
merely a report in the household, been roused hi the mind of the heines
that their young mistress had at would be set at rest ; while at the
length determuM to take the veil same time it ofbred a plaosibls
At the instance of her aadent friend, reason for taking with him nis owa
4he good lady Branhifa]. Oarried to immediate followers, whom he would
Bir Nich(^as'» ears, the tale bore every find the readiest instruments in the
mark of probabilitv. Baoul, then, design which he now c(Mitem|^alBd.
had communicated his suspicions to if Dubois' last information proved
Qladice ; a woman's instinct had led true. And if that design succeeded,
her to guess at Sir Godfrey's designs ; Sir Godfrey would rejoice to &>d it
and sfis had at once chosen the carried out without his own.actaal
eloister as an escape fhmi an un* knowledge or oo-operatioo.
vrelcome marriage. It doubly con- When the knight's party readied
firmed Le Hardi in his determination the cover of the woods which h^
to play his own game boldly — at between the Manor avd Willan^
once^ and alone, m would no longer Hope, they halted, by Sir Nieh(te^
be hampered either by Sir Godfr^'to order, in one of tbe little interseet-
diaU>pnieiided scmples, or his ua» tsig val^y^ sod dismeaoted and
1859.]
ThiLitA^
Part Via
Wfttered tfadr hofm at tbe itream
which raa throoffh it^ while Dabois
rode forward eboe. Strtklog off
from the main path iDto ooe of tha
many tracks made by the banters
and Bwioe-herds* be soon reached a
aeeladed knoll, which commended
the approaches to Willa&'s Hope,
and from which he conld easily die*
eover, althoagh still at sonoe dis-
tanoe, the figures of any persons
entering or qaitting it. Throwing
himself down upon the turf, with his
bridle over his arm, while he allowed
his borse to erop the herbage within
his reach, he kept his eyes fixed
steadily upon the old grey walls.
More than an honr paBseo, and still
he saw there no sign of moFement
Bat one of the Gascon's best qnali-
ties was patience; at last it was
rewarded. He saw plainly a nnmer*
oos party croM the drawbridge, and
as the flgares were thrown oat
strongly against the sky, he coald
even make oat more than one female
drMS amongst them. Oontinuiog
his observations nnlil the forms
grew indistinct as they descended the
slope, he remounted, and took his
way back rapidly by the same path
to the valley where be had left his
master. He did not know that the
movements of his own party had
been already watched by as keen an
aye as his own, and a sobtler and
more determined spirit
8h)w)y, and almost in silence, the
oompany whose departure Dubois
had been watching, rode on their
way. The heavy skies wore looks
that harmonised with their feelings;
and as the collected mist dropped on
them as they passed under the over-
hanging branches, Gladioe drew her
mantle closer round her with a
ahnddei^ not so moch from physical
discomfort as from the chill of her
inward forebodings of evU. Lambert,
who had charge of the party, led the
way at a leisurely pace, which at most
other times he would soon have re-
ceived orders to quicken ; but to-day
Gladioe was content to let the duU
hours drag on as they would. They
had not proceeded iar, when, from
the thick covert bjr the wayside
stepped out a man in » ye<imao's
russet drem, carrying ao axe upon
his shoulder. He was a stranger in
443
the yooDger lady's eyes ; bnt Isob
liad no difficulty in recognising Gm-
como. Oropt Harry, too, who scanned
him as he stood waiting for the
cavalcade to approach, soon knew
him for the same man who had
assisted Pioot to bear the sick lady
into the tower on the night of the
storm. He made a slight but coorte«
ous obeisance to Gladice, and then
stepping to the side of Isola's horse,
spoke a few words to her in their own
laogusffe The retainers of Wil]an*s
Hope looked somewhat scandalised
at the interruption, and watched
their ladv's face to see what notice
she would take of the stranger's
boldness.
He had turned from Isola, and laid
his hand on Hengist*s mane, while he
addressed the hit rider earnestly in a
tone which scarcely reached tbe ears
of the others.
''Lady," he said, *'the fate which
you would avoid folk)ws flisst behind
you. Ask me not who X am, or bv
what right I sjieak ; bnt turn with
me, and ride ; it is for more than
Mfel"
<* Trust him, oh trust himP said
Isola in a low voice of paiofal eagefr
neBs, as Gladice drew back from
Giaoomo, naturally startled and
farmed.
" Yes, trust me," said the Italian,
<^ and turn at once. Tou may be safe
vet, if we lose no time. To the right
here; f<dIow mel" and he pointed
down a narrow bypath.
^ By the mass, my lady I" said
Lambert, who had listened atten-
tively to what he could gather of the
conversation, /'you will surely not be
so ill advisea as to turn aside at this
man's bidding ?**
Gladice looked at Isohi, who repeal
ed her entreaty witH an impressiveness
which overcame at ones her own scru-
ples of mistrust.
** He is known to this Udy, and he
advises us of danger,, though I know
not what,'' said Gladice ; "^ let us turn
while we may."
Bat there was a suirmar of dia*
satisfaction on the part of more than
one of her other followers. They
pradently considered that their new
travelling aoqoahitance might as
easily iMd them into peril as out
of it.
4U
ThB Imek qf Lad^m^.^P4trt VIU,
[0«t
** There be IHtle danger ftfeot be*
tween this 'and Micbamstede," said
one, '^to a stoat band saefa as we
are ; and who is this ill-bodiog churl,
tbst we sboald^ hearken to him V*
EDConraged' by this show of no*
willingness on the part of his fellows
to listen to the stranger's warning,
Lambert now tamed roand and ad*
dressed his mistress
*' It were folly to listen to htm,
lady" said he ; "let ns ride on, and
we will be warrant for yonr safety.*'
'^ Bather tarn at one, as I bid
yoa," said Gladioe with a shade of
haaghtiness in her voice, as she balf-
tarned her own horse to follow Q-ia-
como, who was still beckoning them
impatiently to the path which he
had pointed oat
" Look ye here, Harry — Tarstan,
and all of ye,** shoated Lambert, ** we
shall have to answer to Master
Warenger for the safe rendering of
these ladies at Michamsteda I woald
be fbll loth," he continoed, bowing
respectfully to Gladioe, ** to do ought
against yoar worshipful pleasure,
but we must not be . turned unduly
from our path at a fool's fancy— even
if it be no worse, as it well may be.
Stand off, sirrah 1"
And forcing himself between Gla-
dice and the Italian, he seised the
rein of her horse, and urged him
forward. He was seconded in this
by one or two of his companions,
who had crowded up, and Glacomo
would have been ridden down if be
had not stepped back hastily amongst
the underwood.
"* Ride on, if you will," cried the
Italian ; '* there is danger before you
and behind I"
Lambert raised his curtal-aze with
a menacing gesture towards the
stranger, as he spurred his own
horse forwards. ''.Away, fooll" he
shouted.
They were the last words he spoke.
The next moment the aze fell from
bis hands as he threw them wildly
upwards, his head bent forwards
towards his horse's mane, and with a
single sharp cry he dropped dead
from the saddle, an arrow through
his heart
The consternation of the party
gave the priest another opportunity.
He alone was calm and unmoved.
»Backr be cried to the men who
had reined up and were baadliag
their weapons in antidpatioe of mm
encounter with some onaeen enemy.
— *'BackI if yoa would save yonr
hulyr
Gladice had uttered one faioi arj
as ^e saw Lambert's fall, and nam
sat pale as death, trying to soothe
Hengial, who had been diafed by
the groom's rough handling. laola
kept her alarm^ gne fixed apoo
Giacomo.
'* Said I not vour path was beset V
he continued, slmost with a saeer. to
the bewiUered escort ; '* will ye tnia
now r
**Beshrew me, if thou bast not
more hand in this thyself tban riiaU
be good for thee," said one of the
men-at-arms, making towards the
speaker. '* If we be fallen into tbievca*
company, I trow I can mark one."
*' Hold 1*' cried Gladioe—*' I know
him for a friend who gives trae coon-
sel."
" Nay, Turstan," said Oropt Harry,
" be not over hasty— ll-t to what tbs
Lady Gladice saith. There be others
in the company who know aoroewhat
of this stranger, too. If my lady SM
' follow him,J why I foUow him for
one ; and it were best for us all,
rather than bide here to be shot down
like driven deer."
The priest had sprang into the
groom*s vacant saddle, and before
the party had come to any resda-
tion, led the way at a rapid pace
threugh the oak coulee, followed
closely by Gladioe and J^ola. Hany
kept his place almost at his lady%
stirrup, and one by one, with eome
muttered rductanee, and many an
unquiet glance round them, the rest
of the escort turned their horses in
the same direction. Just as they
reached the edge of the wood, and
were about to emerge into the open
country, Giacomo rode forward can-
tiously, after giving the others a sig*
nal to halt They obeyed him now
as if he had been their recognised
leader.
" There is nothing left but to ride
for it," he saidf after watohing anz«
iouslv for a few moments the line of
wood which skirted the distance in
the direction of Ladysmede. *'See
there 1" He beckoned Hany to hini
1859.]
Tk9 iMch of lad^med$.-^Part VIIL
4iD
and pointed to the qnatter in wluch he
bad been gasioff.
*'I see a ^amp of Bpean, Bare
enoagb/* said the other.
** They are on our track, and there
are those amongst them who know
these woods as well as I, or we might
perhaps baffle them here. It itrere
as well for thy ladv to die/' said the
.Italian in the others ear, ^ as fall into
their hands,"
The man looked roand him in dis-
may. He did not half understand
his companion, bat he onderstood
enough to feel helpless and nncom-
fortable.
" We are bat eight or nine at most/'
he said, lookiag doabtfally at his sew
comrade.
** Ami I can count above a score of
spears yonder,*' interrupted Giacomo.
*' Bat we may hold them at bay
awhile, if thou ride on with my lady
to Miohamstede. I know nought of
ye^ friend," continued Oropt Harry
blantly^ **bat I have seen thee show
tenderness to one woman, and I wot
that be the best safeguard against
wronging another — specially such aa
her.'' He nodded over his shoulder
towards Gladice, and there was a
rough emotion in his tone.
" They will have beset the road to
Michamstede ahready," replied Gia-
como, " unless the fiend has bestowed
upon them less of his eanning than
osaal. Our best ohance is to put the
river between us."
He turned, and hastily communi-
cated his purpose to Gladice and Iso-
la. '<Toa caonot reach the roynoh-
ery," he said ; ** yon were scarce safe
there now, even if you could.''
"What must we do?" asked Gla-
dice, shiverihg and trembling. She
feared to ask what the danger was, or
whence it came. If her saspicions
were true, and if the enemies of whom
their compaoion warned them came
from Lady smede, she knew — ^and the
priest knew also — that even those who
were now escorting her were hardly to
be depended od.
^* We must make for the river," said
hCt calling to the others. And follow-
ed by the whole pf^ty, he left the
eover of the wood, and led the way at
fall speed in that direction.
They had not galloped for many
minutes before he drew rein again
for a moment on the edge of the valley,
and threw a loog keen glaooe behind
him.
'* They gain on us fast^" he said ;
<* and there go some to eut us off from
Swinford bridge." *
'^Now, our Lady help us!" said
Gladice ; " we can go no faster." She
glanc^ behmd her as she spoke, at
the panting animal which carried Iso-
la, and which, though forced to its ut-
most speed, could not keep pace with
Uie noble horse on which she herself
was mounted, and which might jet
have borne her out of the reach of
her pursuers. Even now, fiery wilh
the excitement of the race, she conid
scarce rein him to the pace of the
others.
Giacomo saw the difficulty. ^ Ber-
tha," said he, turniag to the hand-
maiden as they still rode on, **dost
love thv mistress well enough to do a
brave deed for her ?"
^ What a woman may do, I would,"
replied poor Bertha, crying and trem-
bUng.
" I ask nothing that endangers thy
safety or thine honour, maiden — at
least more than they are in daager
now. If we hold all together, we
cannot fail to be overtaken ; if we
separate, some will lightly chance to
escape. It is the Lady Gladice whom
these men seek. Don thou her hood
and mantle, mount on this good
steed's back, and some of us will
ride with thee straight for the mynch-
ery. If we reach it, well; if they
take us— why, they have missed their
quarry after all. The lady herself
shall make for the ferry afoot mean-
while."
" Holy St Bride?" said the poor
tirewoman with a freab burst of tears,
** what will become of me ?"
'* Kay, nay 1" said Gladice, who had
overheard something of the proposal,
** she shall go in no such peril for me."
Bat here Isola spoke. She had
been very silent, and looked flashed
with a wild excitement which con-
trasted strongly with Gladice's pale
face of despair.
**Stay," she said, "this service is
mine." She spoke in a determined
voice, as one who had made up her
mind. ''I will do that which the
girl bath been asked to do— I have no
446
Tlu Lttds of Lad3/med$.-^Part VII L
[Got
'^Whatr aaid Giaeoroo, sUrtfog,
" there were little risk for ue damsel
— ^but for you 1"
''Let it be even so/' said Isola,
pressing to l^is side and laying her
nand hurriedly noon his arm — **^ quick,
or we lose time.
Gladioe looked fromlsola^s excited
face into the priest^s, and then again
aronod her in an agony of doubt and
hesitation.
^ Nay, then," said the Italian, after
another imploring whisper from laola,
•* have it as you will— there is neril
alike every way — let that come wnich
will come."
They had dipped into the val-
ley while this hurried conversation
passed, and were for the moment out
of sight' of their pursuers. Before
Gladioe could well rally her thoughts,
and in spite of her faint remonstrance,
Giacomo had stopped and dismount-
ed, lifted her from her hor^-e, and
with Isola's eager help had made a
rapid exchange of hood and mantle,
and seated Uie Italian upon Hen-
gist's back. She, at least, showed
now no trace of fear ; and as she sat
there, soothing the impatient and
vet gentle animd, with her colour
higher and her eye brighter than its
wont, she looked as though peril and
. excitement had given her a new life.
Was it that she dreaded the capture
even less than the convent 7
'* Now," said Giacomo, when their
hasty preparations were complete,
*' ride straight across the open yonder
for Michamstede ; yon at least might
reach it, if the way were clear — but
of that there is little hope. Bertha,
and all of ye— if ye love your lady's
safety, ye must be content to part
with her for a while, and ride on
with us. I am loth to rob the ladv
Gladioe of her following, but if
she were mistaken for a serving-
wench, she were all the safer now.
If she will be ruled by me, she will
aeek the ferry yonder— 'tis scarce two
miles- on foot and alone."
*'That shall she not," said Harry,
*< oome what may of it Afoot or a-
borae-back, dead or alive, I go with
my lady there till she get safe home
again."
''Such a fool's speech had need
to come out of an honest man's
mouth," the priest mnttered, half to
himself. <'Go thon with her. tbeo,
if it must be— two may be as safe m
one. Make fast (he horses to these
trees, and see ye keep the shelter of
the wood-eide as much as may b&
If ye once win the ferry, pay tlw
ferryman to cot his boat adrift, and
ye may take yoar way at leisure oo to
the Abbey of St^ Mary— ye "Will be
safe there."
He thrust some money baatfly ioto
the retainer's hand, sprang on hli
horse again, and followed the rest of
the party, who were ahready apurriog
on towards Michamstede.
The ruse was so far aneeenfiiL
When the spearmen whom Giacomo
had been watching had reached the
crest of the hill and looked before
them ioto the valley, they saw what
seemed still the same objects of tfaetr
pursait, though they had turned
somewhat out of the usual track,
taking their expected route towards
Michamstede, the towers of whieh
were now visible in the distance;
That they had been sUrtled at tbs
appearance of a body of armed men
riding apparently upon their track,
and had quickened their own pace in
consequence, was nothing more thss
one of the ordinary incidents of travel
in such unquiet times.
Sir Nicholas rode on, not cariog to
OTerpress the horses of his band,
though the fugitives seemed now to
be gaining upon him in their torn;
for, as Giaoomo had suspected, he
had already taken measures to inte^
cept them before thejr should reaoh
the bridge which led into the town.
The object of his bold attempt
seemed fairly within his grasp; for
he could make out in the distance
two female figures in front, one
mounted, as his practised eye aK
most assured him, upon the Lady Gla-
dice's noble black horse; and this
corresponded suflSciently with the ao-
couot which the Guscon esquire hsd
brought to him of the party who hsd
set forth from the gates of Willan^
Hope. If the figures of Gladice and
her single protector were yisible oc-
casionally as they wound their way
from coppice ts coppice townrds tM
ferry, the attention of the knight and
his followers was too eagerly fixed
elsewhere to be easily attracted in
tfadr diiection.
1869.] The Lftek qf Ladymede,^Pan VllL 447
With a mfxtnre of tamnltiionB ebe replied. ''It' may be I have
feelings, of which eren she herself wronged him somewhat, after all ;
conld have given little acconnt, he will surely have forgiven the
mshiog through her heart and onick- dead t''
ening its pulses almost to maaoeso, <' Ay/' said the priest, *' but wHl
Isola let the reins fall loose npon the he forgive the living ? Bat let it be
neck of the gallant horse she rode, — I too have had long patience, and
and wuu borne along almost nneon- am weary too ; it may be we are near
sciooBly. She conld scarceljr have the end."
ezDlaioed the motive — or rather the '* My Giaoomo ! " said Tsola, in a
suaden impulse— which prompted voice of terror, as she tried in vain
her thns to assume Gladice*8 place ; to look Into the dark face that was
but she never repented of it for a turned away from her— ** my brother I
moment Something: there was, no — ^yon would not kill him V*
doubt, of a noble selfdevotion, which *• No T' raid the priest ; « not if I
would readily offer itself to meet the may avoid it I seek no man's life-
danger, be it what it might, which not his, of all men, if but for thy sake,
threatened her benefkctress. She Isola-^bnt ride on.*'
would have done and dared much There was still a chance, which the
for one who had such claims upon Italian's prudence did not care to
her love and gratitude. But, warm lose, that they might find the ap-
and true as her feelings were towards proach to the town unguarded, or
Gladice, the Italian nerself was con- that, by one of those accidents which
oious of little selfsacrifice in the often mar the most subtle combina-
service which she had volunteered, tions, they might escape any party
and was too honest to claim, even in who had been charged to intercept
her own heart, the 8elf*satififaction them. For near a mile they rode on
of thns repaying a kindness. Had again, their pursuers gaining but lit-
she been questioned when she first tie ground, when their last hope of
left the tower, she would have shrunk reaching the convent gates unmo*
with dread from the thought of fall- lested was destroyed at once. Five
ing once more into the power of her horsemen, fullv armed, made their
husband; but now, as she gradually appearance suddenly on the right of
Beared the gates of Michamstede, the the fiigitives, and drew across the
refuge, as she might still hope, from road in such a position as to leave
all such danger, she felt an almost no doubt of their intention to dispute
iresistible longing to stop, 'and meet tiie passage.
the man who bM so deeply wronged Giacomo cast a glance behind him,
her— whom she still so madly loved and saw that although he and Isola
— face to face, if her last appeal had maintained their ground in ad-
were only to die at his feet. He vance of their pursuers, most of their
conld but slay her ; and what was escort, not so well mounted, were
life without love but death to her ? slowlv dropping to the rear, and that
There was something also — she con- the hmdmost were likely to be speedily
feased it in her heart, and sought to overtaken by the hostile troop, whose
cast it from her— of a darker and shouts could be now plainly heard,
more unworthy feeling ; a bitter as they caught a nearer view of the
desperation which, at the price of chase from a rising ground, and came
life itself, would have stood between down upon them in good order with
him and another. levelled spears.
Left thus to himself, and still ahead He drew his horse up, and calling
of the rest, her horse had slackened to Isola, pointed in silence before and
his stride, and enabled Giacomo with behind them,
some difficjulty to rejoin her. "Who be these in front, in the
''We were safe now," he said, as devil's name?" said Uie man called
he looked back, *' if we had foes be- Tnrstan, as he rode up to Giacomo's
hind us only. But this was wild ooun- side.
sd, Isola— I cannot read what will *' They are near of kin to those
come of it" behind us," said the other quietly.
''I said I was weary of this life," « It is as I said."
448
m Lutk of Ladygm«ie.—Fart VIU.
[OdL
" We will ride through the koaves,
be they who they may," and the man
boldly. He turned and ehoated to
his comrades, and laid his spear in
rest
<*With oar jaded beasts, and
these women in oor company?" said
Giacomo. " No, friend ; it were a
waste of good blows, and thoamightst
chance to get small thanks for it.
See—those bshind would be upon ns
before thy fellows could well come
up. We are beset front and rear ;
and if I may give counsel to a soldier
of such experience, I would say, halt,
and ioquire their purpose peace-
fdW."
Bred in Warenger's rough school,
and having been foremost in many a
desperate fray under Sir Amyas, the
man-at-arms saw in the prospect of
a fight, provided the odds against
him were not unreasonable, nothing
less than an adventure sent provi-
dentially to break the quiet life which
he had led perforce, during the last
twelve months, under the rule of the
heiress. Yet, when he saw his fel-
lows straggling up one by one, and
marked how short the space was
which divided them from tlieir pur-
suers, his soldier's sense forced him
to admit that the stranger's coun-
sel was the wiser. Even with their
own slight advantage in numbers,
there would be little chance of
their clearing their path to Micham-
stede, if the party m front of them
made any kind of stand, before those
in their rear would arrive to take
their part in the combat, and so turn
the 6c»le fearfully against himself and
his companions.
The horsemen who seemed thus to
bar their approach to the town, had
ridden slowly forward, and were
sboutiog to Giacomo and his com-
pany to stand. But now one of them,
who was somewhat in advance of the
others, observing tokens of hostile
intention on Turstan*s part» put his
lance in rest also, and galloping for-
wards, summoned him fiercely to sur-
render.
Such provocation was more than
the disciple of the gentle Sir Amyas
could bear. Turstan, in spite of
Giaoomo's renewed protest, dashed
out to meet him with a wild yell,
which seemed to express the concen-
tration of sll his loBg^restiBined isro-
city ; and though his overprened
steed visiblv staggered as lie ehved
with his adversary, the latter went
back over his horse^s cropper, shield
and breastphite pierced throogk,
while the rider of WillaD's Hope
passed on, waving in exultation the
shaft of his broken spear. ^
Then began a wild and ' irregolar
skirmish, which at its oateet the
Italian tried in vain to check. TB^
Stan's companions who were nev
enough rode wildljr forward, shouting
madly in exultation at his exfdoh,
and trying to force their own paasa^
heedless ^ the women who were de-
pendent on their protection through
the small party who now doaed to
intercept them. Hengist toeeed ha
noble crest in great excitemeDt, and
would have carried his rider at onoe
into the thickest of the dao^, had
not Giacomo seized his rein, and
turned him aside at the moment
But almost before the last strag-
glers of the band from Willan*s Hi^
could come up to the aid of their
comrades, who, in spite of Tuistan'i
gallant example, found themselves
more than matched by the fresher
horses and more complete armour of
their antagonists, the main body of
Sir KicboWs party (amongst wImmb
was the. knight himself^ though Du-
bois was their ostensible leader^, who
had pursued them from Willan'Si
Hope, and who alone outoambered
them two to one, were dosing ia
upon their rear, and would soon
have made any effectual resistaaoe
hopeless. IsoUb's horse had again be-
come almost unmanageabte, and Qiar
como had some difficulty in retaining
his hold. Bertha, half dead with
terror, had drawn up on the other
side of the priest, as hist only hope
of protection, and now broke oat
into an audible wailing.
Suddenly the combatants in front
seemed to panae by mutual impulse,
and to fix their whole attention opoo
a fresh party of horsemen who at this
moment issued from the gates of the
town, and crossed the narrow bridge.
The new-comere were evidently re-
garded by both sides with doubt and
suspicion. They themselves, indeed,
had stopped, and seemed at first to
be watobing the state of affairs in
1819,]
lU Liuk^Ltdprnti^^FwiVUi.
449
frODt of tbem with a laudable diapoai*
iion not to interlero in » straDge
qoarreL It waft BaooI and Foliot,
wha had arrived thos fu on their
jouraey in oompanj, and were about
to wparate on their leBpective paths,
lightly armed and accoutred, it would
hftve been madnesft for them to msh
into »Qoh- a eonflict without urgent
oauae. But no aooner did Raoul
catch sight of the black horse and its
rider, who had at firet been hidden
from their obeenration by Uie move-
nuota of those who were engaged in
front, than, without giving his com-
panions any farther notion of his
meaoiDg or intention than an eager
6ry of '^t is she!'* he dashed forward
through the combatants, who made
way for him in puaeled astonishment,
not knowing whether be came as
Jiriend or foe, towsrda the group in
which he had made out, as he thought,
the figure of the lady Gladice. Waryn
Foiiot did not in the least compre-
hend the young esquire's exclamation ;
for even during their journey togeth-
er, Raoul had maintained a scru-
pulous reserve on the subject of his
own confidential mission, the impor-
tance of which he himself was by no
means inclined to underrate; but it
soon became evident — fur Bertha's
lamentations were sufficiently audible
— ^that in the confused m41^ in the
distance there were women in dis-
tress, and, bidding their attendants
follow him, Waryn too rode fo^
ward, though in less headlong fashion
than his companion, and, like him
passed unopposed either by Tucstan's
party or their antagonists.
But almost before even BaouVs
impetuous speed could bring him to
the spot, a change had taken place
In the position and intentions of both
parties. Dubois and those who fol-
towed him, taking no notice of the
two or three of the lady GUadice's late
«8oort, whom he passed in his career,
Bxtd who very pardonably shrank
aside from an encounter with this
snperior force, rode straight at thd
Ifproop which was oompo«ed by the
Italian and his two terrified oouh
panions. Heogist broke from Gia-
<:omo'8 hold, and, finding Isola's
trembling hand wholly powerless to
^uide or control him, galloped off in
the direction of home. Qiacomo^
after an iastant's hepitatioD, gave his
own horse the spur, and followed
her. Bertha, wisely thinking, per-
haps, that such a course promised
best to take her out of the immediate
danger, made after them as well as
she could* Hengiat's speed pomised
even now to carry off his rider
safe from all her poimen, when 8ir
Nicholas himself, who had hang
somewhat in the rear of his own
party, but had never for an instant
taken his eye from the black steed
and its rider, dashed off an angle
ao'ss to intercept Isola^s course.
With this advantage, a very few
moments brought him up to her side ;
but even then Hengist held on, and
though the knight pressed his own
powerful horse to his utmost, he
could do little more than keep pace
with the object of his pursuit
The combat was over. Foliot and
the others had come up only to find
BaottI Iving on the ground, bruised
and half stunned, and one of the fol-
k>wers of Willan's Hope standing
over him^ and rudely endeavouring
to get him to his feet Dubois had
met and unhorsed him as he bore
down upon them in his hmdlong
charge^ though he checked in mid
descent the blow that might have
taken his life, as he suddenly recog-
nised, with some snrprise, the well-
known features. Then, as he turned
round, be saw the black horse rush-
ing off, and his master's instant move-
ment in pursuit Sounding a small
horn which he carried at his girdle,
and shouting loudly to his comrades
to follow him, he too dashed off
once more upon the track of the ,
fogitives, leaving the retainers of
Willan'a Hope well content at their
deliverance, and little inclined to fol-
low up the adventure in the vain
hope of rescuing from such strong
hands a lady who had no especial
chum upon their service. Turetan,
who alone of all the party would per-
haps have held on to his enemies,
few or many, with bull-dog pertinar
city, was now himself dismounted, and
leaning on his broken spear with the
bbod trickling from an ugly wound in
hb shoulder.
The Gascon rode on, his men fol-
lowing him as they could, and passed,
without further notice than a glance
4M
7^ Ltuk tf Ladgmuit^PaH VIU.
[Oct
of contempt, the poor tirewoman Mid
the yeoman (aa he aeemed) who rodo
in her company. He had the htgher
game in viev ; and be well knew it
was Ilia master^a wiah to attaio hia ob-
ject witboat more recoarae to noleBoe
than was abaolotely neeeaaary. Be-
aidea, it waa no time to draw bridie
now, even for the pnrpoee of engaging
a more foWnidable enemy ; for already
the distanoe waa increaaiog which aepa«
rated him from hia maater and the nir
fdffitive.
Those two atin rode on, almoat aide
by aide, tbongfa laola waa still a little
in advance, Hengiat growing more and
more excited by the aoaod of bia ri«
▼al*e hoofs behind him, tboagh both the
gallant horsea, thick-breathed and kept
longer at their speed than osaal, began
to iabiinr in their atride. At laat the
cmsader fonod himaelf near enoogh to
reach forward and grasp the hand
which held the bridle rein.
"Yield thyaelf, fair lady I" he
cried, in a tone that might have been
meant dther for conrtesy or triumph-
ant banter. ** Yield -* rescue or no
rescue, priaoner of mice 1"
laola had kept her bead bent upon
her breaat, and the veil which hung
from her bead-dreas nearly concealed
her feature?. But ahe raiaed it a
little aa he apoke. She waa not
startled at the voice. Though ahe
had not recognised Sir Nicholaa
amongat her parauera while at a dia-
tance (for be bad worn purpoaely
plain armour like the rest), nor bad
seen hia movement to cross ber coaraCf
she had felt an instinctive conaciona-
neas of who it waa behind ber. She
longed, yet dreaded, now to aee hia
face ; ahe half turned to look at him
but his visor waa down. She felt hia
rp tighten on her wriat, aa be tried
vain to check her apeed.
She had heraelf no power to atop,
even had ahe wiabed it. Sir Nicholaa
abifted hia hold, and caught her rein
close to the bit The aodden jerk
brought the boraa partly round, and
at the same moment the veil blew
aaide, and laola looked him in the
Cace.
He retained bia graap for a few
aecondd, and through the bare of hia
helmet looked at ber fixedly, while
neither apoke. Then be dropped the
reio, and Hengiat^ now freed from all
reatniot, toaaed bk bead ezoUiagly,
and continued bia cBveer. Bat the
knight^a borae gradoally alaekaiied
bia pace, and feeliog bo loBger cither
apur or bridle, arar a few atridea
Btopped, and like a well-traiiied beast
atood aiill. Hia rider sat maticiokaa,
save that be raised hia band to lift
bia viaor, and, diadoainga coaDteDaaeB
pale and ghaatly aa if it were of the
dead, gazed with a doll fixed ataie
at the flying figure before bina. Thn
be leant hia hand heavily apoo bii
aaddle-bow, and aeemed for a momeat
aa if he coohi witb difficulty support
bimself in hia aeat
Thna be aate when Daboia cams
up, and looking in bia raaKer*8 face
with acme aatoeiabBient, inqnii«d if
be bad been hurt in the late coa-
fuaion f Sir NicholaB waa long before
be apoke ; and then he midSt what
aeemed to bia eaqnire but aa iooohe-
rent anawer.
«< I have seen ber, Duboia," aaad be ;
<*I have seen her again."
•«Seen bert— aeen whom? What
mean you, Sir Nicholaa?" aaid the
Gaacoo.
Le Hardi only answered bim by a
look ; but there waa an expreaaioa a(
such horror in it, that a ahade of palkr
seemed to paaa over Dobob^a bar4«t
(ace.
<'You are faint, my good lord,"
replied the eaqnire, but in a lem
ateady voice than uaual : ^ tbia U baft
the old fancy. But the lady yoodei
will eecape ua yet, nnleaa we both spar
on."
''Hold, Duboial" add the knight,
laying bia band upon bia eaqake^
shoulder, ** yon ia not the Lady Qia-
dica It ia^it ia some fiend, 1 be-
lieve for a verity, that baa taken her
abapeto joggle mel"
Some of Sir Nioholaa*a followcra
bad now come up witb the an
aa much aurpriaed aa the eaquira bad
been to find that the koight bad
destated at aoch a moment from the
chaae which he had followed ao loqg
ind patiently. It did not aoit with
the Gaseon*a diacretion to contiBoe
aach a diacoaaion with bis maater in
their iieariiMf.
<*Sir Nicholas ia morUlly faint,"
aaid he to the flrat man who rode up.
" Some of ye go aeek aoone water ;
them will aurely be a apriog down in
1669.]
The Liteh of Ladymiei$.'-JPiart VUl.
451
the gnlly yooder.'* Ad4 while he
cleB|)fttclied them upon ibis emod,
he himself assisted the koight, who
received his servloeB almost aDoon-
scioosly, to dismoant, aod proceeded
with a show of officioosoess to ODlace
his helmet It gave the knight time
ftt least to reoover somethiog of his
lost composorew
" Will it please yov. Sir Nicholas,''
asked the esquire respeetfdilyy as
sooo as he saw that he might hope
tat a oobereDt answer, *' that we should
costiooe the panoit--or shall these
^ood fellows go their ways back to
Ladysmedef*
"Let them go, Dobois; there is
DO farther need of their services."
"And for oniselTes!" asked the
esqoira
''To Michamstede— we will lie at
Michamstede to-night/'
Giacomo, with the helpless Bertha
still following him, had drawn *
little aside to avoid Bir Nicholas's
riders, and proceeded at a mora deli«
berate pace in the direction la which
Isola bad been carried, while he
wfttched anxionel^ the result of the
omsader's pnrsait. A smothered
exclamation of relief broke from him
when he saw her final escape; and
when he found that both parties had
drawn off from the combat, and that
there was no farther intention either
of attack or pursoit^ he gradoally
qoickened his speed, and followed
isola's course towards Willan's Hope.
Bat as he gained the cover of the
woodlands agidn, he heard bia own
fiame ottered by a Toioe in the thicket
behind him, and cheeked his hone
for a moment as the speaker stepped
out cautiously into view.
'*That was a good aim of thine,
and well sped, Picot,'' said he to the
hunter; ''the lady Gladiee owes
thee thanks for ndding her of a
false serrant.''
"Thank me no thanks for that
arrow,'' replied Picot ; *' I promised
thee a shot to-day, father, if need
were ; but I had an old mark of
mine own set there of long time.
Lambert of Willan's Hope shall scarce
fright an honest man*a daughter in
the Dere woods again."
The Italian only waved his hand
hastily in reply, and had ridden on
before Picot had ended.
When lUoul had recovered from
his heavy fall, and found himself but
slightly hurt, he looked round him
eagerly for the rider on the Uack
st^. But Warvn had already learnt
from the men of the lady's escort —
though thein was but a confused
story, for the whole of the day's «d«
ventures had been to them a mere
bewilderment— that Qladioe^ thanks
to the stranger who had given them
warning, had alreadv made her
escape, as they believed, to Rivelsby.
Baoul, after some difficulty in per*
suadiog himself that the lady whose
rescue he had so gallantly attempted
was not she, determined to ride round
to d^ver his message if he might,
at the abbey ; and thither, not choos>
ing to quit his companion on a road
whioh now appeared so dangerousi
Waryn Foliot accompanied binu
OHAFTXB XZIZ.— THK ESCAPB.
The river Oose, whose sluggish
stream wound for itself a serpent-
like path through the rich meadow-
laDds between Michamstede and Hunt*
iogdon, paesiap^ in its course the wide
domaiDS of Rivelsby, which extended
for some miles on both sides its
banks, until on the left they were
met by those of Ladysmede, formed
for great part of its course an almost
impaasable line of demarcation
There was a rode horse-bridge at
Swinford Mill, some three miles
above the Manor ; but frem this place
to Brook's fehy, where the river, took
a bend after it left Rivelsby, towards
the town of Michamstede, the broad
stream was only to be crossed by
swimming, thus cutting off all or*
dinary communication between the
lands on either bank for a distance of
fhll five miks. ''EvU Sir Hush/*
indeed, in days psst — one who allow*
ed few hindrances, divine or human,
moral or physical, to stop him in his
coarse — ^was said oAen to have swam
his horse across, by night and day;
hot as the same wondrous steed was
credibly reported to have carried him
in safety aoross a bqg in which lif o
452
Tl^e Lwk of Lady$mede,—P^t VIU.
[Od
of bis pnraners, folldwlog bltii by tbe
ireacheroos moonligbt, disappeared
for ever, horse' and man, ana where
none save Will-o^-wisp was ever known
to find footing before or sincei be most
plainly have been an animal of nn-
nsaal blood and capabilities ; and if
the same current report spoke truly
of the price which the knight paid
for him, and tbe quarter in which he
made his purchasei there were few
amongst his neigbboors, however
they might admire tbe animal's per-
formances, who either envied Sir
Hngh his acquisition, or would have
car^ to venture into the same market.
At present, the depth and breadth
of the stream, and the Impracticable
character of the banks on both sides,
would have deterred any but the
very boldest rider from attempting
such a feat
"When, therefore, tbe lady of Wil-
1an*B Hope and her faithful follower
had cautiously made their way to the
ferry unobserved bv Sir Nicholas's
riders, and found the old fisherman,
who eked out a very uncertain living
there by carrying passengers across,
busied in washing his eel baskets,
with bis boat on their own side of
the river, they felt themselves in com-
parative safety. Once fairly across,
and the boat secured, all probable
danger from their pursuers on the
other side was. over. A short two
miles by the river-banks would take
them to tbe friendly gates of Bivels-
by. It was true that even tbe
sanctuary of a religious bouse might
be little regarded, in such a case,
by an unscrnpnlons wooer like Sir
Nicholas; but, unlike tbe Lady
Brunhild — who, if spiritual terrors
should fail her for the defence of her
bouse, had no secular arm to resort
to but such as a lame bailiff and a
few ancient serving- men could suppfy
—the abbot of Rivelsby was known
to have stout retainers of bis own,
both within and without the abbey
walls, bound to do battle in defence
6f all its rights and privileges ; and
in the days of its past abbots, the
church of St. Mary had not been slow,
in dealing with the lawless barons
who were its ndghbours, to call \n
carnal weapons against those upon
whom ecclesiasticu censures seemed
to feXL hannlesi. Hone knew, pe^
haps, so well as Abbot Marttiv bow
seriously the misgovernment of im
immediately predecessor had iojond
the abbey in this vital poiot of
strength, as well as in the mitter of
revenue; for the military teoooti ii
many cases had either so sueceofaflj
opposed all demands for salt and
service, rightful as they might be,
under his supine administration, as
to have established for themsdn!
a complete immunity, or had ptff-
chased exemption bv the paymeot of
a composition which had gone isto
Abbot Aldred's private purse. StiS,
tbe actual force which Birdsby
might put forth in self-defence, od
any urgent need, was confflderebk,
although the superior was etmm
that it would never enable him to
hold his ground, with any hope of
success, agunst the opra hostiiitjof
his powerful neighbour at Lidjs-
mede.
Gladice had borne up DoWy dic-
ing her anxious and toilaome wilk,
creeping, as they had done as nod
as possible, through tbe bnL«hvoo>i
in order to avoid observation; vA
Oropt Harry, who had tried m they
went along to administer coosoUtkB
and encouragement after his ovb
rude fashion, had found that not only
were his lady's powers of cndnrantt
somewhat greater than he had io-
agined— for the charge of a lady oa
foot was quite out of harmony wWi
his views of the fitness of thinp^
but that her presetroe of mioo in
danger was considerably greater tbm
his own. But now, when at last tbe
ferry-side was reached, she sank upon
tbe bank exhausted by the rau^oa
of feeling, at the thooeht of hoBl
now freed from at least the imoioat
and pressing danger of the bst boor.
The ferryman was surly. Like nag
other perverse human betogs, be
chose to affect indifference towai*
that which was really the mflo ob-
ject of his life. PaasengerB. in tb«e
winter months, were few ; and tbo^
he was bound by his tennte wider
the abbey to carry across all ptfw*
who should claim his serfioei «ti
certain small fixed fee, be bad alro^
noticed, as he looked up witii a^ne-
long glaoce from Us oocopatioo.
something in tiie ladVs AreaB ud
•ppearanee, b spite nf her W^-
1869.]
The LuA cf Lad^mede^-^PaH Vlll
46S
Daboi^'8 ealeidatiopS) If indeed it was
eren known to bim. When tbe at-
tention of the men was now at-
tracted by Oropt Harry's lond and
im|>atient voice, it was rather an idle
cnriosity which qnickened their steps
in his direction than any satipicion
that the object of their expedition
was at that moment on the point of
escaping them so easily.
When, however, they came sud-
denly in B^ght of a female figure
seated on the bank, and a man
hurriedly loosing tbe boat with the
evident intention of crossing, one of
the two, as if some hasty thought
had struck him, threw bis rein to his
companion, and ran forward, calling
loudly to the ferryman and to tbe
two fugitives to stop. Tbe firBt-
named deliberate individual did not
need to hear such a caution repeated.
Upon the man-at-arms it produced,
as was to be expected, the very con-
trary effect No sooner did be be-
come aware of this new interruption,
stepping tastily forward towards the than grasping bis lady's arm aJmost
guise, whicb might have led him to
hope that in this case be should not
be stinted to the poor ordinary pay-
ment Time was of little value to
bim, and he did not care to consider
what might be its importance to
other?. He went on washing his
baskets, therefore, without taking
any notice of Harry's demand for a
passage, further than by an inarti-
culate growl of intelligence. The
honest serving-man felt that even
now time might be precious, and was
becoming considerably exasperated
Sit the old man's perverse snow of
indifference.
'* Gome, leave that, and .bestir thy-
self" said he at last impatientiy,
'*tbe eels may wait awhile, I war-
rant; they wiU be less in a hurry
for thee than we are."
The old ferryman looked up again
at them, and then seem^ to apply
himself to his present occupation
more perseveringly than ever.
<*Tbis passes all," said the other.
stump where tbe little boat was
fastened ; " wilt put us over at once,
old dummerbead, or must I do a
turn of thine office for thee?*' And
he poceeded to undo the moorings,
while the old fisherman at last rose
slowly, grumbling, from bis baskets.
Tbe raised tones of Harry's im-
patient expostulation drew upon him
with violence, and pointing breath-
lessly to the man wno was running
towards them, he half led, half carried
her into the little boat He bad
seated her in tbe stem, and seized
tha oars which lay at band on tbe
bank, without any attempt at oppo-
sition from the old ferryman, who
seemed to consider a literal compli-
a notice wnich be would have gladly ance with tbe injunction to stop as
avoided even at the penalty of wait- great an exertion as could be ex-
iog the old man's leisure. Two men pected on his part He had- leapt
bad been walking slowlv along the
river bank, leading their horses,
hidden from the view of the two
fagitives bv the thick alder-beds
which lined the stream here and
there on both sides. They were
some of tbe small party who had
into the boat himself, and was lean-
ing forward, trying to cast off the
moorings, which in his anxious baste
seemed as if purposely complicated,
while the other man was now within
a few paces of tbe bank.
** Stop bim, fool T the latter voci-
party wt
been detached by Le Hard! to cut off ferated to the ferryman—^* Stop him 1
tbe escape of Gladioe by Swioford -—or it shall be worse for thee 1"
bridge, in the possible case of her The old man shnfiied forward, and
escort making in that direction for laid his hand upon the boat's gun-
safety, if any premature alarm was wale, drawing her in again a little
taken. They were now leisurely re- towards the side. Those few seconds
turning, satisfied that no (brther pre-
cautions were necessary in that quar^
t«r, since the chase had evidently
taken the road to Micbamstede, and
expecting shortly to bear or see some-
thing of its successful result The
Ibrry, as being used by foot-travel-
lers only, had not occurred even to
brought the pursuer within reach.
It was no time Ibr half-measures ; the
&stening was loosed at last and in
another moment the boat would have
swung free from the ferryman'lB pre-
carious hold. The heavy sword
which the man carried drawn in his
hand flashed down upon poor Harry's
454
TkBhiukoJ Ladysmeds.'^Fan VIU.
[Oct
head as be leant forward in the act
of castiDg off the rope, and be fell
aoroaa the gunwale with hia face in
the water.
Bat the boat was o£ Pale, and
with wild ejea, bat lips set hard to
repress the cry of terror that would
almost break, Gladice had risen, and
grasped one of the oars. She had
▼ainly tried to intercept with it the
blow which she saw aimed at her
faithfal follower; bat at the moment
that he fell, she had planged it with
a despairing energy against the bank,
and the strong current rapidly swept
the little boat, once started, towards
the middle of the stream.
The shriek which Gladice had with
difficulty suppressed broke out into
ftn hysterical ezpressioo of relief
when she saw her poor retainer
struggle with some difficulty into an
upright position, and, though with
the blood streaming down his face
and neck, and with a somewhat dizzv
look, sufficiently master of his fiicnf-
ties to inquire for the other oar.
Whether the good steel plates that
oovered his leathern cap bad turned
the blow, or her own poor attempt
had done something towards break-
ing its force, or Uiat his adversary,
hurried and out of breath, had been
diort of his aim, ce^in it was Hasry
had received no further damage than
a slice cut from the brim of his head-
piece, and an unimportant flesh-
wound along the side of the head and
cheek-bone, from which, however,
the blood flowed freely. It might
have added to his lady's relief to
have seen the broad grin, hideous
as it was in the present state of his
oountenanoe, with which he pointed
to the old ferryman scrambling up
oat of the deep water into which he
had been plunged head- foremost, on
the sudden motion of the boat, be-
fiwe he could let go his hold.
The fugitives were now once more
out of all immediate danger, for the
shouts and menaces of their pursuers,
on the other bank, were only idle
terrors, so long as they were masters
of the only means of crossing the river
for many miles. Making the boat
fiMt to the bank as soon as they had
crossed the stream, they only waited
until Gladice had hastily bound
her follower's wound (not without
much opposition on bb part), to make
their way as fast as possible to Bit-
elsby. Arrived there, and admitted
as a matter of course within its hoepr
table shelter, they waited in the little
chamber near the gate, where way-
farers of the humbler rank were ente^
tained and relieved, until Gladice htd
sent a message to her old friend aod
confessor, Father Ingulph, to notify
her arrival.
Great was that excellent man's
astonishment, not so much at the visit
itself (for strangers of all ranks and
degrees^ upon any occasion, and often
upon no occasion whatever, were wont
to resort to Bivelsby), but at the cir-
ca uistances under which the lady of
Willan's Hope bad undertaken it—
on foot with a single attendant. Gla*
dice was reluctant^ for manv reasons,
to enter into all the details of her
story ; but she told the good father
quite sufficient to excite nis sincere
sympathy and condolence. With
somewhat awkward compliments aod
E refuse tenders of assistance, he led
er into the guest-hall, while he de-
spatched a lay brother to inform the
lord-abbot of her presence, and to
take his orders for W entertainment
and bestowal in such wise as became
her sex and rank.
*' I prav you, good father Ingulph,"
said Gladice, "Took carefully to ny
poor follower here ; be has been sore
hurt, I fear, in my service ; you have
some skill in leechcraft, I well re-
member V
" A little, dear lady— but a little,"
said Ingulph, apologetically ; — ** some
poor knowledge of simples. But in
the absence of our intirmarer, who
hath gone to comfort our bailiff in a
qninsey, I will do what I may.*
He laid friendly hands at once
upon Harry, whose wound had bled
through its hasty bandage, and whose
stain^ and bedabbled head and fisos
made him appear more of a sufferer
than he really was. The good Bene-
dictine carried him off into the lavar
tory, in spite of his earnest protester
tions that he needed no kind of as-
sistance.
"'Tis nothing, good father, no-
thing,'' he persisted; "a little water
—or a cup of liquor, if it were not
over bold to ask — and I am as good a
man as ever."
T^ Lutk 9f L9dyiamii.-^P»H VIIL
A&
** Water thoa shalt have, and liquor
too, as far B8 may be pmdeDt," said
logulph; "bat toy wotrnd must be
looked to — I have promised the lady
Gladioe."
In spite of all reewtaooe, the moak
iosiated upon making anrgical eza*
minatioQ, aod removed the bandage
wHh some difficulty from the matted
8Dd blood-fltained hair. The blow
had gashed the cheek -boue slightly,
aod passed close to where Harry'b
ear should have beeo, had not the
knife of the Saxon long since antici-
pated it. This embarrasshig fact it
was which made him so reluctant a
patiest It was difficult, until the
good monk had caiefully washed off
the blood, tx> trace the extent of the
damage*
*'TMis might well have been an
awkward stroke, my son," said he ;
** it hath taken thine ear clean oH"
« Well--it hath left the head sound,
reverend father ?"
«« Praised be 8t Mary, it hath in-
deed ! I have a sovereign balm here,
made from a recipe left us by the
blessed St. Grimbald, once prior of
oar house— used with this reliquarv,
which contains some of that holy
nmo's hair, its efficacy in the cure of
wounds is wonderful."
And he proceeded to apply some of
it to the still bleeding surface. It
bad a grateful OQolness, and the man-
at-arms submitted to the monk's at-
tentions with a better grace than at
first
The Benedictine examined the head
again narrowly, as once more he
ivip^ away the oozing blood, and
removed some of the ctotted hair.
** A miracle I--a notable miracle I"
he cried eagerly, as he suddenlv
panaed in his charitable office; ^it
htkth healed under my very hands I
The skin is quite sound again I Won-
derfal is St. Grimbald !"
** The saints know how to reward
good service," said the patient,
humbly.
*' Many a cure have I heard this
balm fam wroiwht»" said logulph,
lifting bis hands In admiration, *■ but
none like this !'*
*'I do, indeed^ fed a marvellous
relief, futher ; and I thank thee and
the good saint both ; but I shall carry
the scars, I fear me, to my dying day ;
for an ear will scarce grow again.
Let them not make ribald jests upon
me, good father, for the loss of it"
Harry was anxiously covering his
head again with the bandage, for he
had no wish to have the case inves*
tigated more closely.
<*Stay," said Ingulph, «tfaou must
straight to the abbot— he will gladly
take note of St Grimbald's deed ; it
is for the honour of our house—"
"Nay, nay, father; I would not
seem to boast of the saint's favour on
such an unworthy knave as I am ;
let it not be blazed abroad over-
much.''
*'What may be the marvel, bro-
ther ?" said Andrew the sacrist, who
entered at the momrat
*'A most notable mirade even*
now, in my sight !'* said Ingnli^,
relating to him the nature e( the^
wound, and its cure.
The sacrist looked curiously at the
recipient of St GrimbaM's favour,
who was settling his cap on his head'
as carefully as he could.
'<Twas indeed a terrible blow/'
said brother Andrew; <<did it take
off both ears at once 7"
**It was a two-handed sword, fa--
ther, and cat both ways," replied
Harry, winking at the sacristy who he*
saw was not to be deceived.
The sacrist shook his head and
turned off laughing. Ghiod father
In|plph looked pm^led, but said no-
thmg ; and Han^made^ his escape.
vox*. I.XXXVL
80
Jhtmtnibmrmg^' TJk ^pku <Mfik
fOit.
]IOUlITAIXBBBIXa.«*-TBB ALFIJIB CLUB.
Thb sportiog poison exiats ta •
greater or le« d^s^ree, in some ib^^
or other, in the breast of every gemi-
ioe BriUih roan. It is » renoant of
WbariaiDY we are wiUiog to aUow,
which has clang to oa through the
whole eonrae of onr proffieseive eivil«
iaation, and whieh we bope» indeedr
will be the . last to leave na ; for
when we loae it» we shall share the
fate of othor coantriea where over-ie-
flnemeDt haa been the herald of do-
eadenoe. GHvea the average endow-
menta of youth, atien^ th, spirit, and
the ednoated Briton, if a man bom
to labonr, will pine at times for some^
thing more than the routine of work
and repose; if a man of leisare, for
something more than the mere per-
formanoe of the duties of wealth and
the relaxations of efK^minate pteasore.
The nnmber of those who are in this
eondition increases with our popali^
tion and prosperity, and in proportion
to their increase are the means of
gratifyioff the sporting propenaitv
within the former aiea diminished.
Sport may be deined as physioal
exertion combined with hazard.
BMkge^t^ioir is not sport, for al«
though it has the ekment of haaard,
it has not that of physical exertion,
and therefore none bnt a degenerate
Briton woold be found among the
kabituis of a German spa. Neither
is mere pedestrianism or mereridhig
sport, because it powessos i^yslcu
exertion withoai extraordinary hax-
ard. The hazard may oonsfet in a
apice of personal daoger, or the un-
certainty of findfaig and securing
nme. Hence foK^hunting in Great
Britain, as oombiotng both kinds of
haasardy is perhaps the qneen of sports»
and a fortiori lion- and buffiUo-hoaV
ing. Salmon - fishing la auperior to
hunting aa for aa the excitement of
pursuit is concerned — bferior as re-
gards the personal danger. These
mav be looked upon as typical sports,
and towards theee^ or some moaifioa-
tions of them, we presume nearly all
British tMtes to gravitate. But with
the increased number of
are bitten by the tara&tniacf apott,
the fodlitiea for kxMHnolioo bava in-
creased, while the hone dirtriol far
sporting has beoosM aa fsdl tkas
tnere ia obvioualy room for faol km
of the apcrtamen; and the kqgesa
porse in sporting^ as in war» oanka
all before it It vras not In every
one^s power to go to Oorioth; and
it is not in every sporteOMn'a power
to leaae a stand on the Altaa,
Of to possess a shan in a Seottisk
moor. Hundreds of higk^apiriled
Britons, well ednoated, well manniTwl,
with high tastes and flsympalkksy
bkst With abundant Tigoor, bd
BBoderate meana^ find it iaapoasibie la
gratify the national kmging for apart
within the old-calabllshedboandMKs,
or in the time-honoured ways. Hcnet
it haa become necenury to aeareh far
new methods and scenes of apoetia^
Nature and Ait are endless^ lko«gk
life is short ; and difihrent BMaaa «C
gratiiying. the longii^ have been
found, so that none may find
selves selfishly exdnded, and
his sphere may be able la cany
his peculiar trophies. Natural i
has been taxed to fomiBh
to the seika of sporting
and in doing oo has lended'to i
a higher and more refined order ef
them. And Art has pointed ta
walks in whiek the artist never trod
before, and which to foUow ka nrnt
possess, in some degree Ike pliynesl
energy, and contempt of faligaa and
danmr, of tbesportanaib Tkalevcn
of botany have long confeswd to a
kind of exoitamenti like in kind Is
that of the sportsman, attendissc the
heat for :rara or itrange or prevMiilf
undescribed specimens ; and Ike aea'
side lounger is encouraged to enlighten
his idleness by groping, at k>w tidei,
in the marine atore^op of naturs. hf
the sportsmanlike aest abifaitad in
that department in the writinga of
Lewes or Kiogs^v. Aooordii^ to
these authorities, the parsnit ia not
so deficient in actual danger as sosm
' Ptak9, Pa$9u,an4 OUuien : A Serui of JSxeurtumt ^ MmUrt tf tikt Aijrim
Chk Loadoa: Longmans, 1859.
1669.]
MaunC(nMgring^^Tk$AIptM CM.
417
ndgbt Boppose, !f oiirled cmt entbn-
■ittkically; and broken bIudb, from
liippeiy tangle over rooks, and a
pleasant nnoertainty about being oat
off by the retoming Ude» may do
mooh to oompensate for tbe want of
tiie popular perib of a oroes-oonntry
mJIckk But the great dieoovery of
ue day fa a ipeolei of sport toivhieh
Its devotees have gfveii the not miapt
name of MomitainMrittg. Thfa fa eon*
nected wHh science so far that every
deBcription of a new sscent of a peak.
or remark on some hitherto nnyisited
g^ier, may be considered as a con-
tribation, however hamble, to the
great and growing study of phydcal
ge«)graphy. It possesses the two
great (WMats of hanrd— vis., dan*
gsr and nnoertain^, in the perils to
which cUmbevs of high moontains
■SB Hable, and the uncertainty of an
mdisooverad way, the discovery of
which fa the pnae sooght for. Am
the old kinds of sport had ^leir
Jocker Ginb, Boyal Tacht Olnb,
Foor-in-hand Olab, ^., so fa thfa
new kind represented bj its Alpine
Olab, the date of the foandation of
which may be supposed to give a
local habitation ana a name to the
new national sport Pecaliar advant>
agea belong to thfa new kind of
MBOMment which are foaod in no
other. Tka scenes where it fa cai^
ried out give the idfa or worUng
flMO of the over-dvilfaed world tho
peatest attiunable change. He fa
ttmasported from the reek of cities
and m doll air of plains, to regions
of freshness and vitality, where the
air itself seems to prodnoe a kind of
innocent intoxication. He fa carried
away by those railwavs^ which are in
general inimical to the hardy physi-
eal life^ as bv magic, in a few hoars,
«id at small cost, into the grandest
ngiom of the earth, for the differ-
once between the Alps and Hima-
fams can be only one of scale. The
eflacte of either on the spirit of Bsaa
nost be that of sabhmity nn^
proachable by hfa intelligenca Me
m wafted from all. the volgar petti-
ness, the little social annoyances and
Ijyrannies, the inexorable prose of oar
^wnrydtf associations, into a world
wlddi Is not of thfa world— where
Qod and Nataie fa all u all, and
Han fa next to nothing; and from
whose snmmltB of tranaail glory, if
theycoold be seen in toe mtance,
the vast hosts who contended at Sol-
ferino would appear indeed, as the
TVines* correspondent described them,
Iflte two heaps of miserable ante
strugglhig for tbe possession of a
mismble ant-hill. He flies to a
region of eternal liberty, fhr abovis'
poiitios or polemics, where only tbcsr
who never will be slaves find them*
selves at home; Bach are the 6 witeer.
the Korseman, and the Briton; and
sttdi are the nobto T^rdese, thoogh
nominafiy subjects of a master.
'•la dn Btqrn lA Vralbtlt,
derGrfilto
Btdfet nleht to dte MbSnen Lflfte ;
IMeWeltlftToUk " -
Wo dm Mnaoh
mU
**In the HIDa li FiMdoiB, the nek eTddU
OUmbeth not to tboee toMqr Salle:
Tbe world ie bailt oo peilMleB^eplaB,
Where, frettlctg end fretlbl, Intmdee
not men."
The Hnes, we believe, were writte*
by the fate great natnralfat and
mountaineer, Alexander Yon HnD»<
botdt If not by him, by some one
who felt as he did. We might al-
most have wished that the Alpfaie
Otub had nasied themselves after
tiiat great cosmopolitan pbilcsopher,
who made mountidne rather than
men hfa study, but wim conferred ne
small benefit on hfa specfas in ifla*
presring on the minds of men the
magnificence of moantains, these ob-
jects which, more than anv others in
nature (those heavenly bodiea which,
from dfatanc^ we cannot understand,
not excepted), give the impression to
tiie human mind of thrones of the
Eternal. By better acquaintance
With their dangers, they have lost
mudi of the mysterioos horror in
which tbe first ages enshrouded
theoi, but there has been an inoalok
labia gain to tbe human soul in the
contemplation of their superb U>veli*
nees. We will venture to say that
tiie first impression of a snowy nmga
on the eye of a tmveUsr, aa soon aa
he hss rerifaed that it fa not dead,
fa not one of fisar or shrinking, bnt
uie admowledffmmit of the presence
of an incredible beauty, and the do*
sfre to be amonot thon wonders,
and see more of them as soon ss
4M»e
Mwntain9$rnigd^Th$ Alpine Club.
[Oek
poariUtk For omeelvev, we Bball trala up amoDK the fordgn Tisiton to
alwajs ooant it aa one of the great the Alps, but especially amongst oar own
dajs' of life, wben, on turoiog an
angle of forest near Schaffbaoaen,
the raoge of the Bernese Oberland^
well known in the names of its peaks,
first bunt into view. If o scene seen
before or sinoe ever seemed to excite
ns cquUly. Yet in grandeur the
?iew of ^nt BUno from the Jura is
soMvior.
The aim and end of the Alpine
Olob is a ooble one. By its pnbli-
oationa it enables different indivi-
doals among its members, by the
simple and faithful account of their
moantaineering experiences, to com-
bine a record whose testimony ^ill
couDttymcD, maay men as familiar with
the peculiar difficulties and rides of ex>
peditioos in the high Alps, aod as oofB-
petent to overoome them, as moat c^ tb*
natifo guides.
"The powers thus acquired have bean
chiefly directed to aooompliabing the
ascent of the highest eommitfl^ or effedp
ing passBB acroes the leas acceaaible pot-
tions of the Alpine chain; and withia
the last five yeajs the higheat peak of
Moute Rosa, the Dom, the Great Comblo,
the Alleleinhom, the Wetterhom proper,
and several other peaks never belbre
scaled, have been sucoessAilly attached
by travellers, most of whose names will
be found among the oontributOfB to this
volume. In the accidental hxtercoorae
^vnk'fn^t^^ttontr^^^^^^^^^ of"i;h^ who h;:e'^^ engaged in «.
provoking m our youth a noble emu- „^^^ ^ ^^ been ^^w^ tbat
lation, and gmng them a taste for ^J community of tastTiuid leeliag
the higher kmds of relaxation- Any ^^ngst those who^ in the life of the
member, however humble, who is j^ig^ Alps, have shared the aame eojey*
satbfied, without theorising, to put ments, the same labours, and the au»
down what he sees with his eyes, dangers, oonsiitutes a bond of sympathy
and what he has gone through and stronger than many of those by which
done, oontribotes to the general re- mea are drawn into aasodatioa; and
solt; and the general result is a
koowledffe whidi is its own reward,
in the elevation of character it con-
fers on those who ponder on the
marvels of Qod's creation, aod fami-
liarise themselves with those pheno- J^""^* *""* J . - . „
lUTMTO wuMYoi wiM* MMvwo pucuu- ^^ enMiTed lu Similar
mtta whieh appear to the eve alike ^^^ ^ggly avaU tbemselrea of ob^
of the poet and the philosopher, the eartonal opp^nitiea for meeting to.
Shekmah of our modem world, the gether, foT^mmunkating infixiSrtioa
early in the year 1858, it was resolved to
give scope for the extension of this
mutual feeling amongst all who have ex-
plored high mountain region^ by the
formation of the Alpine Club. It was
thought that many of those who have
visible manifestation of the presence
of the Almighty.
The oircamstanoes of the fonnda-
tfa>n of this Ckb are given in the
aa to past excursions^ and foi planniag
new achievements; and a hope waa en-
tertained that such an aasociation ought
indirectly advance the general pragteai
pnfaoe to this its fiirst publication : — of knowledge, by directing the atteniioa
of men, not professedly followers of
" Of late years an increasing desire has
been felt to explore the unkDown and
little-frequented districts of the Alps.
The writings of Professor J. D. Forbes,
those of M« Agassiz and his companions^
and of M. Qottlieb Studer, led many, in
whom the passion for Alpine scenery
was blended with a love of adventure
science, to particylar points in whkh
their assistance may contribute to vain-
able results. The expectatiotis of the
founders of the Club have not been dis-
appointed; it numbers at the preseat
time nearly a hundred members^ and H
is hoped that the poneasion of a psr^
manent plaoe of meethig will wMtorialiy
and some sdentiflc interest in the results ftuther the objecta whkdi it haa praposcd
of mountain-travel, to strike out new toitael£''
haeniameatooopStaly shunned by ordi- ^ ,!f °* #?fu-^. ??^*^,^ ^
naiy travalleia. Pfsctice haa developed !??"r" ^ .^'5 .JT^ "^^ P*"*"
the powen of thoae who undertook such >«ied an account of their ezomaMni^
axpeditionsi experience showed that ]■[• Jj^ **»* ^\ ^ ch^J limited to
the dangers connected with them had "le highest region of tlie Swiss Alps,
been exaggerated ; while, at the same Adventures in this r^on eompoie
time» it taught the precautions which are tlie balk of the Tolmiie. An fntemf-
rsaUy rsquAlte. The result has been to bag aoooont of tiie prinetal glMsisn
1859.]
Mountainuring.—Tke Alpine dub.
4^
fn the region of Snowdon in North
Wales follows ; and one of the most
active contributors, Mr. Hardy, gires
an account of an ascent of ^tna with
the followlog preamble :—
'* iEtna ! What business has an ascant
of ^tna in the ohrouide of the doings
of the Alpine Club ? i£t&a is not in the
Alps ; nor is it 13,000 feet high, as the
Catanians wnly pretend. Let me tell
the objector that tne Alpine Club, while
it derives its name from one familiar
group of motmtaiuB, is thoroughly ca-
tholic in its principles, and already sees
Tisions of a banner with a strange oevice
floating on the summit of Popocatepetl
and Dhawalagirl, and is hoping by the
luflaence of its enlightened members to
driye out the last remnants of the wor-
afaip of Mighty Humbo J^umbo from the
Hoontains of the Moon."
Thus we may hope that, If this
book meet with the success it de-
Berves, it will be the first of a long
series which in time will embrace
accounts of expeditions to all the
principal mountain - chains in the
world, and unite in one great work
the Tarions isolated narratives which
have been published by scientific tra-
Tellers and others; such as wa9, for
Instance, Dr.* Hooker's account of the
mountaios of Sikkim in the Hima-
laya range, which is replete with valu-
able observation ; and amongst other
facts mentions the deposition of
Dbawalagiri and the coronation of
•* Kinchinjunga," now, we believe,
within the dominions of her Britan-
nic Majesty, as **the monarch of
mountaios/' according to present
knowledge. If we look at the msp
of the world, we see that at least
two of the great continents are held
together, as it were, by a huge ridge
or backbone of mountain eleva-
tion, which, although in the case of
the eastern hemisphere stififering
partial interruption, may be roaghly
described as continuous from one
ocean to the other. In Africa the case
does not appear to be quite so clearly
made out, for the precise centre of
that continent seems never to have
been explored. Dr. Livingstone's re-
■earches only embrace the centre of
the southern lobe of that great con-
tinent, and he appears to have estab-
ttehed there not the existence of a
sopposed chain of mountaios, bat a
tolerably elevated table-land wHh a
basin in the middle, from the edges
of which descend the rivers Congo
and ^mbesi. It Is not impossible
that in Africa also, at its widest part,
there is a similar backbone begin-
ning not far from Sierra Leone in
the west, and losing itself in the
east in the mountains of Abyssinia.
In America, the monntain-spine, as H
well known, trends north and sontb,
while in Europe and Asia its dir«o-
tion IS east and^ west. It begins
with the mountains of Biscay in
Spain, passes on through the Py-
renees with a sHght intermplion into
the high Alps, which throw off
the* important spur or rib of the
Apennines ; thence it divides into the
Balkan and the Carpathians, which,
not being quite so high, appear to
have distributed the forces of eleva-
tion. We trace the chain next in the
Caucasus and the mountains of Arme-
nia, in Persia, with the fnteiruption
of the Caspian Sea, passing into the
Hindoo Koosh and Himalaya, where
are found the highest known moun-
tains. Hence the chain forks and takes
a direction with its spurs north and
sooth, the great bnlk of the em-
pire of China appHcaring on the map
of Asia, as a kind of hnge delta,
formed by the ramifications of mighty
rivers, and raised out of a primeval
sea.
As the Himalayas are the culmin-
ating region of this vast system in
Asia, so do the Swiss and Pied-
montese Alps form its highest
ground in Europe. If we tnm to
the map of Switzerland, we find that
the primary and secondary Alps of
that interesting country comprise
about half of its whole area, and
there it is that we must look for the
broadest part of the great European
spine, the elevation of the secondary
mountains, or sobordioate chain, ap-
pearing ip the peaks of the Bernese
Oberland nearly as great as that of
the primary, which may be cond-
dered to number among its peaks
Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, and the
Matterhorn, and to carry over its
summits the frontier line of Switzer-
land and Italy.
Switzerland may be roughly divid-
ed into two halves, one of which,
from north -eaat and the lake of
4«0
Mmmiaki§§ruiffj^l^ AlpiM (Uub^
OoBBkufoe to iontli-ii8tt and liie hke
of General comjiriBea nearly all tlie
gronad that a model farmer woold
care to have in his hands, much of the
ooontry in the north closely resem-
bling England, and the Pays de Yaod
fesembling the richest part ^ France.
Bat even this eompwatlvely cham-
pakn oonntry is ont ap and oonfosed
with minor ranges and peaks, and
studded with lakes, and iU largest
plains are rather broad valleys or
elevated Uble-laods, snoh as that on
which the oity of Berne is sitnated.
The other bal( boonded by the Lake
of Loceme on the north, and Lago
Magffiore on the sooth, by the Tyrol
on the east, and Savoy on the west,
Trlptdemos Yellowley would hardly
take as a gift; and yet to the poet,
the artist, the man of science, and
the lover of daring adventore, it is by
Itf the most valoable part of Europe.
In the nentral groona between th^
two portions^ and where they insen-
siblv blend with each other, is the
eradle of Swiss liberty, the foor so-
ealled forest cantons or Schwyta, Ury,
Unterwalden, and Lnceme. Boood
them as a nacleos, in course of time,
the other cantons have dnstered, a
soarce of strength in a milltwy and
political point of view, and yet in
some sense a sooroe of weakness, as
presenting to the eye of an invader
fertile plains easily accessible, whic^
may be held as a nledge for the snb-
mi^sion of the whole confederation.
Britons have natural sympathies
with Switzerland and the Swim.
They love beautifal scenery, and they
still look upon the Swiss mountains
as a ^fortress formed to Freedom's
hands,'* — a lighthouse-rock in the
ooean, round which a sea of despotism
may surge io vain. Sir Walter Scott,
in Ann$ of Geurstein, has compared
Scotland with Switaerland as to na-
tional charaoteristios. We may fur-
ther compare the two countries as to
natural oon^guration ; the' highlands
and lowUads of each are divided 1^
an imagiuMT diagonal line running
N.E. to 8.W. ; but in Scotland the
mountains lie to the north of that
line, and the plains or comparative
lowlands to the south; in Switaer-
land vw veniL The priaoipsl scene
of the ezpk)its of our Alpine Club is
in the csotral and aonthem part of
[Oot
with
the highlands of
occaaioloal detoun in the
hood, in that vast ice^nd-rodT world
which lies on either side of tlie val-
ley of the Bhooe, which divkks the
Bernese Oberland firom the Pennias
ranin.
The first ya^et whidi meeta Ike
eye is signed Alfined WiDa, and re-
lates "^ the Passage of the Fen^treds
Salena, from the Od dd Balme to
the Yal Ferret, by the Glacier da
Tour, the Gla<»er de Trient, and the
Glacier de Salena." The i^tion of
the scene of this expedition shorn
how futile is the common oomplaaal .
of travellers, that certain moaataia
districts are so hackneyed and fi-
miliar as to have eihausted all inter-
est It lies dose to Ohamonny— tibat
« den of thieves,'* according to one of
the oontrlbutorB--that litOe Loodoa
of the High Alps, as we maj eaO it
— and diverges from the route of the
Col de Bdme, which ia travcned
every year h;y hundreds of tooriata of
difi^rent nations— the Oxford Street
or Strand of the Alpa. Our eacpe-
rience has led us to the observatioa,
that although, in beantifnl aoeoerf ef
world-wide celebri^, the atreana of
tourists follow eadi other like aheep
through certain paths and paasagei^
by diverging a little to the right or
left of uese, even where, except to
the adventurous^ no ice-region pre-
sents insurmountable obstaoleSt the
solitudes of nature may be entered,
full of new and endless beaoties,
where human foot *'hath ne^ or
rarely trod." The Bhine ooontry
perhaps furnishes our strongest in-
stance^ where, by following tM lateral
valleys, the genuine lover of natars
may nave nature to himself quits as
perfectly, except ia idea, as ia the
wilds of Sutherland or of Norway.
This passage of the Fendtre de Selena
was luU of grand inqvesaiona* and
highly spiced by adventure. A ridge
was reached overhaoaing the Gladar
de Trient, in deaoendlng from which
one of the party nearly met with a
Iktal accident
"We found tome roeka fatthig oat
here and th«re along this ridge, whiih
greatly fecilitatedour progreii. Itw«4
howerer, a matter of eoandesabla dift-
,caUy, for the ioe was hard and vary
slippery, and the enow not dcfp eooi^p
185$.]
JfyuUakmring.-^nt AJfj^im OM.
461
tobttemoohitrHoe. TkBdmomAlStmt
hj beiaie us wis tkie nMrwl sppiMoh
to tbe kit arik of the WMtMliorD that
I have ever mat wHb. After breaUDg
through an oreriayiging ooratoe of flt)-
len anowt we began our deeoent with
mndk eaation, makfaig firee nee of the
ropea After a wbQe we came to two
rocks, about fifteen or twenty feet aptrt,
each upon the Tery edge of the ridge,
whidi waa here aomewhat deeply cov-
ered with Boow. Balmat and I were
the finif and we thought that we might
▼eoture to dide from one rock to the
next, and ao avoid the labour of step-
outtiog, and the tedious preoaution of
Uifaig the ropesi We raaohed the lower
station in Sifety, but B^ who came next,
lost his direoKion, and was going over to
the left, down a fbariul slope of ice three
or four hundred ftet high, too steep for
us to see in what it ended, but separated,
in all probability, by a bergsehrtmd from
the Glacier de Trient; for we found one
At the foot of the gentler slope on the
right. It was a terrible moment, as
there was onlv one chance. It was
uttoriy impossible for him to stop him-
seU; or for either of the men to help him.
Bahnat was already some distance below
cutUng step% and Oacbat was engaged
with W. twenty or thirty paces Ugher
upb & showed great presence of mind.
& did not utter a ufcrd^ Ind (htrew lUm-
Hffon hi$ right sidCy §o as lopautu near
to the edge as possihle^ and stretched out
hie arm for me to grasp. Ibrtunaiely he
passed just wUhin my reach^ and I was
able to catch his hand and arrest his pro-
gressj othenoise it might have been a sad
day for aU of us,**
That laborioiiB day was foOowed
by a very oooomfortabie bivouoo, re-
nrinding the reader of a narrative of
the Peoinsalar War, when the detach-
ment was brought to a stand-still in
the middle of a plouffhed field, and
the order wis issued uat they should
make IhemKlvea eomforteMe for the
iiightr'4m order» as the writer char-
aoteristieally remarked^ most diflbmlt
to obey.
"The slope on which we were en-
camped was so steep, that no one who
iras not fortunate enough to find a hole
in which to nestle could keep himself
from slipping, eQ>ecislly as the bilbeny
bushes on which we lay were soaking
wet with the heavy dew. W., who is
mat at sleeping, with admirable instinct
irand a most eligible hollow close against
the fire, where the only danger he in-
curred was that of being scorched; but
ItwistheoQlyplioeof the kind; and,
after trying every qpot whloh seemed to
give the slightest promise of support,
and finding that nowhere could I Keep
mvself from slipping down ezcent by
dinging to the wet boshes, I was obliged
to desert the flr& and betake myself to
the under side oz a boulder about thirty
yards ofC, where I had the double advan-
tage of a hollow to Bit in and a back to
lean against. Here I tied my handker-
chief over my head, and tried to think I
WBS very warm and oooifortahle; but I
was notao suocessfol but that I was very
glad when Balmot brought me a laige
stone, which he had hMted in the em-
bers of our fire^ to sit upon."
Those who are not» like the gentle-
man in his narrative, ^ great at
sleeping,*' always find, that liow to
get tte proper amount of rest at
night is a great dififteuHy in long
mountain ezcursioos. For ourselves,
we eonfesB that we have never sne-
oeeded In sleeping mudi in an elevated
bivouac We have often slept on the
hard deck of a steamer, ^ as one
memorable instance reminds us, when
we were awakened by the sacri nom
of a French sailor who tumbled
over what he supposed a bale of
goods wrapt in a plaid, on a fine
night in the Bay of Biscay. The ex-
citement and novelty of the scene,
and the certain amount of cold tiiat
it is impossible to exclude, we have
genendly found fatal to deep. We
reoollect a fflorioos bivouao on the
Alp of the Watsmann, in the Sala-
bnrg Mountains^ where we lighted a
fire of pine wood, which we had the
subsequent satisfactioa of knowing
awakened interest at a great distanoe.
There were German students and a
number of moontam maidens who
sang tJlieir provincial songs, having
been attracted by our fire, and oon-
aeqoently plenty of hilarity, but very
little sleep. The result was, that
most of us fell asleep on the very
narrow summit of that mountain at
9 A.1C. the next morning. In fsct, it
is much easier on these excursions to
obtain rest, which is as necessarjr as
food, at mid-day, than at midnight.
Whence we would always prefer
making such excursions as nearly as
possibfo on the longest da^ of the
year. And thus it is obvious thai
among the Scandinavian moontains,
where the day in summer is nearly
4e2
M4nmtt^neitring.-^2U Aipkt$ €Mu
[Get.
coBtioiioiif, open-air deeping is mote
easily managed than in the Swiss
Alps.
The "Col da G^ant** is a weU-
known pass, and in the regular pro-
gramme of the Cbamonny goides, but
to those who swerve a little from the
beaten track, plenty of adventures
present themselves in threading the
Hracs or castellated masses of glacier
ice. Here is one of them :—
" Looking now to the rights I suddenly
became aware that high above us, a mul-
titude of crags and leaning columns of
ice, on the stability of which we could
not for an instant calculate, covered the
precipitous incline. We were not long
without an illustration of the peril of
our situation. We had reached a posi-
tion where massive ice-cliffs protected
us on one side, while in front of us was
a space more open than any we had yet
passed ; the reason being thai ike ice ava-
• lanchea had chosen it for their principal
path. We had just stepped upon this
^ce when a peal above us brought us
to a stand. Crash I crash I crash I nearer
and nearer, the sound becoming more
continuous and confused, as the descend-
ing masses broke into smaller blocks.
Onward they came I boulders half a ton
and more in weight, leaping down with
a kind of maniacal fury, as if their whole
mission was to crush the siracs to pow-
der. Some of them, on striking the ice,
rebounded like elastic balls, described
parabolas through the air, again madly
smote the ice^ and scattered its dust like
clouds in the atmosphere. Some blocks
were deflected by their collision with
the glacier, and were carried past us
within a few yards of the spot where we
stood. I had never before witnessed an
exhibition of force at all comparable to
this, and its proximity rendered that
fearful which at a little distance would
have been sublime. My companion held
his breath for a time and then exclaimed,
* 0*est terrible ! it faut reiowfier.' In
feet, while the avalanche continued, we
could not at all calculate upon our safety.
When we heard the first peal, we had
instinctively retreated to the shelter of
the ice bastions; but what if ooe of
these missiles struck the tower beside us I
would it be able to withstand the shock?
We knew not In reply to the proposal
of my companion, I simply said, * By all
means if you desire it ; but let us wait
a little.' I felt that fear was just as bad
a eounselkKr «B raahnosB^ and thought ft
but fiiir to wait until my compaaioii^s
tenor had subsided. We waited aooord-
ingly, and he seemed to gather oounge
and assurance. I scanned the heigfato,
and saw that a little moire effort in an
upward direction would place us in a
less perilous position, as far as the ava-
lanches were concerned. I pointed this
oat to my companion, and we went figr-
ward. Once, indeed, fi>r a minute or
two, I felt anxious. We had to croes in
the shadow of a tower of ice, of a loose
and threatening character, which quite
overhung our track. The freshly-broken
masses at its base, and at some distanoe
below it, showed that it must have psr-
tially given way some homns be&re.
' Don't speak, or make any noise,' aud
my companion, and although rather
sceptical as the influence of q>eedi in
such a case, I held my tongue, and escap-
ed fh}m the dangerous vicinity as fest as
my legs and alpenstock could cany me^"
We cannot say that we are inclined
to share the scepticism of Professor
Tyndall,* the author of this account,
as to the effect of the voiee io bring-
ing down small or great avalandiei,
whether of stones at ioe-Uooks. It
18 the last ounce that breaks the
camel's back, and the least vibration
of the air may originate a moyement
which was only suspended by the
perfect stilhiess of the atmosphere.
It Is not more extraordinary that the
slight shake of the voice should pre-
cipitate a ton of inst balanced mat-
ter, than that a little, touch of the
hand should set the Logan -stone
rocking. We remember once stand-
ing immediately under the glacier of
the Hinter-rfaein, and on a sadden
calling OQt to the guide, who had fol-
lowed 08 from the village of Splugen,
and who was at a little distaiioe
behind nsi The first words served
to awake stones which were sleeping
on the face of the ice, and set them
bounding over the slope. We went
on speaking, our guide aoswerlDg
nothing, but making frantic geetoreB
instead, until a larger block than
usual, coming as from « catapult
within a few feet of our heads, inte^
preted his meaning, whieh was^ that
there was only safety in silenoe. M
soon ss we ceased to speak, the
» see by the Times th at this gentleman has ascended Mont Blanc tliis sum-
succeeded m passing twenty hours on the summit
im]
MmUammHng,^n$ Jifm§ (Mk
4MB
mUraUh horn tl» gfoder cetied
ftiao.
The pnper next in order ooDtaiM ■&
account of excarafona on the western
side of Mont Blanc, inclading the
Ool de Miflge, by Mr. Vanghan
Hawkins. This paper is valuable
as portraying diflBcnlties experienced
in consequence of the Alpine travel-
ler's great enemy, ** stormy weather,"
and at the same time from showing the
expedients to which courage and pre-
sence of mind may resort to make
the best of it, preventing others from
extreme disoonragement under cir-
camstances which are sufficiently
common, in all mountainous districts.
Mr. W. Matthews, Jun., is the next
writer. He gives an account of most
ittterestiog explorations in '* the moun-
tains of Bagnes, with the ascents of
the y^Ian, Combin, and Graffeneire,
and the passage of the Col du Mont
Kouffe." This mountain ]ab;^rinth lies
to the right of the historic pass of
the great St Bernard, and the great
height at which the Hospice is situ-
ated makes it a most eligible start-
ing-point for excursions into it.
•* There are few parts of Switzerland
which more richly reward the lovers of
Alpine scenery, and which have been
liitherto so utterly neglected, as the
magnificent mountain-ranges which en-
close the savage defile of the Yal de
Bagnes. Six great glaciers pour their
froasen streams into this valley, one of
them famous as the cause of the meian-
dioly inundation of 1818 ; and from the
chain of the Oombin, . which forms its
western barrier, and occupies the tri-
angular space between the two branches
of the Branae, rises a great alp, a hundred
feet higher than the Finsteraarhom. Yet
not one In every hundred of the crowds
of tourists, who flock every year to the
8t. Bernard Hospice, turns aside at Sem-
branohier into the Val de Bagnes^ and
of these scarcely any one has explored
the snow-basin of Oorbassidre, or wan*
dered over the me-flelds of Chermontane ;
while those writers who have made the
passage of the Ool de Fendtre, have in-
variably described the ' inaocesaible pre-
dptces of the Combin * with the sort of
hopeless feeling with which they might
have spoken of the mountains of Slkkim
or Nepaul."*
The 'Mnaooessible " Oombin was
Biinnoanted by Mr. Mathews ** in «ix
hours of easy walking (7) from Ocnp-
r* llM reflMdks which
dude this most inteeestiog aooonat
of high rambles will meet with a
ready response from all qrinpft^tic
leaders.
**To those who feel wearied— as who
does not at times ? — with the ceaseless
mill- work of Bogland, in the nineteenth
century, there is no medicine so soothing,
both to mind and body, as Alpine travei,
aflfbrding as it does Interesting observa-
tion and healthy enjoyment for the pre-
sent, and pleasant memories for the time
to come. • . .
*' Very many happy days have I spent
among the ' peaka^ and passss, and gla-
ciers ' of the Alps, bat I look back upon
none of them with feelings of such great
satisfaction as. upon those in which I
wandered among Uie unknown fastnesses '
of the * Montagues de Bagnes.* *'
Within the four last yesrs the
popnlaritv of Ghamonny has been
eclipsed by that of Zermatt, chiefly,
we suppose, in consequence of tlie
neighbourhood of the still unsealed
Matterhorn. Whether this mouataio
will remain or not the real Jungfran
of the Alps, is a question which will
doubtless soon be resolved.
By comparing tile narratives given
in this volumCi we observe that almost
all the more important peaks have
been scaled, or are considered scale-
able, from some side or other. These
very glaciers and snow-fields which
festoon the sides of the aiguiUeSj and
present so many dangers and diffi-
culties to the traveller, have never-
theless furnished him with paths
which, thoogh seldom easy, are gener-
ally practicable. We have observed
in many places rocks — not mountuns
— of the same character of the Mat-
terhorn. We speak here at second-
hand, never having seen the Matter-
horn oarselves but at a great dis-
tance. The Matterhorn is rather a
rock than a mountain — ^the highest
rock in Europe, as Mont Blanc is the
highest mountain. Its precipices
appear to be practicable onlv by the
same process by which precipices of
eaual slope are surmounted or passed
when they consist of ice or ner^^
that is, by cutting steps in them.
Bat, as in the case of the Matterhorn,
the problem seems to be how to climb
sheer steps of nearly smooth rock ;
the process would be a most diffieolt
4U
MoutMnmifig^^fU Jljfm$ CM.
[Oet
■ad tedioiis cue. Soma one vott of
neeeiritj go firat, aad. after catting
M Bumy BiepB ta poBsible at a time,
eome baek the way lie came. It
might be ponible to plaot the pin of
a rope aeeorely in some chink, or to
drive it into tne solid rock ; and the
next aaoent miffht be made with help
of the rope. We ehall donbtlew hear
of lomething of the kind being done
or attempted Mxm, for there is a cer-
tain class of British travellers who
would risk lifb for the sake of a
BocoesBfnl ascent of the' llatterfaom.
Whether the resnlt woald jostifr the
peril, is a qnestion for their deter-
mination, not for onra. If to risk life
for mere national or personal glory be
jastifiable, we shonld prefer sncn a
path to glory to that one which lay
over the hecatombs of Solferino. The
ifth chapter of oar book contains an
aceonnt of a Journey from Zermatt to
the Yal d'Anniriera, by the Trift
Pass, by Mr. Hinchlift The great
dii&ealtles of the ascent of the Ool
were saceessfblly sarmoanted, and
the pariy foand an anchorage on an
open plateaa of nM on the descent
" The proriaion ^ptttpflacks were emp-
tied and used as seats ; bottles of red
wine were atook upright in the anew;
a goodly leg of mnttoa on its sheet of
paper lormed the oentra^ garnished with
hard eggs and bread and ohesee, round
which we ranged ourselves in a oirde.
High festival waa held under the deep-
Uue heavena; and now and then, as we
looked up at the wondrous wall of roclai
whloh we had descended, we oongrata-
lated ourselves on the victory with a
quiet nod iodioative of satia&ction.
VL Seiler*8 beautiful oranges supplied
the rare luxury of a dessert, and we
were just in the fell enjoyment of the
ddksaoy when a booming sound, like
the discharge of a gun far over our
beads^ made us all at onoe glance up-
wards to the top of the Trifthom.
Olose to ita craggy aummit hung a cloud
of duet like dir^ amokei and in a few
eeoonda another and a larger one burst
forth aeveral hundred feet lower. A
glance through the telescope ^owed
that the fell of rocks bad commenced,
and the fragments were leapiog down
from ledge vo ledge in a series of cas-
cades. Each block dashed off otben at
eveiy point of contact^ and the uproar
became tramendoua ; thousand Of frag-
anenta, making every variety of noise
aeoonUng to their stae, and pesdndng
llM efliMk ofa flra or
artillery oombhied, thnndered
wards ikom ao great a
waited anadonaly for
time to aee them reach the aaow-Md
below. Aa nearly as we could eetimali
the distance, we were five haodred yaidt
from U)e bese of the rock^ eo thai we
thought that come what might wo wers
in a toleraUy secure posttioo. At last
we saw many of the bkicfcs phmiKe ioto
the snow after taking their last ftailbl
leap; presently much larger fia|
il^owed, talcing proportioDably
bounds. The noiae grew fleecer au
fiercer, and huge blocka began toiUl m
near to ua that we jumped to oar fteii
determbied to dodge them to the beet ct
our abiUty. <Look ontT cded aome
one^ and we opened our right and laft
at tiie approadi of a nxmater, avidaatl^
weighing many hundredweigbt^ which
was coming right at us like a nnge shell
fired fhxn a mortar. It fell with a heavy
thud not more than twenty feet from
US, scattering lumps of snow into the
circle where we had just been dining;
but scarcely had vre begun to recover
from our astonishment^ when a aiSl
larger reck fiew exactly over oar beads
to a distanee of two hundred jsidi
beyond us. The malice of the Trifthon
now seemed to have done ita
The feet was that the fell had
place too near to the line of our i
for the remembrance of it to be alto-
gether pleasant"
The situation in which Mr. Hlnob-
liff and hia oompaaiona atood oiidcr
fire on thia occarion, bringa to oar
memory an oceaaion when two toor-
ists, standing on the plateaa wliieh
connects the two Olyoera in North
Wales, by nnthinkuigl^ rollii^ a
small atone over the brink of a pre-
cipice above livn Idwal, were the
agents of a aimuar cataatropbe. As
it grew to a climaz, they ielt aa if
the guilt of blood woold be on their
heads ahoold any adventorooa wight
be exploring toe very
valley below, and made m
readation never again to repeat a
aimilar experiment the eftcm were
mooh thoae so graphically described
by Mr. HinchliffT
The next excorsion— " Pasa of thi
Schwann Thor from Zermatt to
Ayaa," by the editor— k one of ths
meat intersating in the vHide booL
and there is great fireahneaa ano
originality hi the T
iai9.]
Momiiaiimrniff.^J%€ Alpiiu CM.
4$5
"The view Ikom lihew«fl«ni doMof
the Riffel, now well known to most Swiss
tonriata^ includes the nnge of peaks
ftom the ICatterfaom to the Weissboin,
with the glaciers hj which they are he-
girt. The moon had risen; the Tallejr
helow, and all the lesser boDows, were
filled with a bluish hase that stretched
aorosB to the base of the Opposite peaks,
not fanning, aa ctoods do, an opaque
floor oa wmoh they oould seem to vest,
b«t rather a dlot mysteilooa depth, into
which thejrplunged to aa imaeasnraible
distanoei The great peaks and giacten
ahone with a gtorj that seemed all thdr
own; not sparkling in the broad moon-
lighty but beaming forth a calm ineilahle
brilliance, hi^^ ak>ft in the ether, &r
above the dwellings of mankind. Chief
of them all, the astounding peak of the
ICatterhom, that stupendous obelisk
whose ibrm defies the boldest specula-
tions of the geologist— gleaming more,
brightly Ibr some ft^esh snow that rested
on every fiirrow of its sur&ce— towered
upward into the sky. All men, even
the least poetical, are variously im-
pressed by such scenes as theses and the
mind is invdhmtarily carried back to
some soene of wonder and mystery that
in early life has fixed its image on the
imagination. My own &noy on that
night recalled a half-remembered tale oi
the Scandinavian Sagas, wherein the
mprthical hero breaks into the assembly
of the god% where they sit In solemn
ooQclave, fixed in deep slumber, with
long white beards desoending to the
ground. Some such night-scene, amid
the wild mountains <^ Norway, may
have suggested the picture to the old
northern bard."
ObBervatioQs follow In a spirit as
wdl poetie as scientific on odonr
and twilight and certain aMmntain
eflSBote,'the like of which we remem-
ber to haye seen in tiie short snm-
■Mr nigfato of Scandinaria. The (hot
iBy that the elevation of the High Alps
ptooBB the obasnrer nearer the sun,
and makes the day hmger in propor^
tion to the htitnde. In the Alps,
altitude, and not latifeade^ determines
in a measure the day and night, as
place aa well as time determines the
aeaaon of Ute year. It is snmner at
Ohamoony when it is mid-whuter on
the summit of Mont Bhue. Even
the ordkuaj tonrist who has slept
on the Bighi or the Fanlhom, and
obtained a bvoumble snnrii^ is ao-
ifoainted with the lovely phenona-
Bon catted the Atpfoa fossk
** Just befim sanrise we had reached
the Both! Kumme, the steep slope over
the Gk>mer Glacier, whence the range of
Monte Bosais visible in its whole extent,
when a new object of interest presented
itselfl To the eye, the air round us
had appeared perfectly dear, and with-
out the slightest tinge of vapour, when
suddenly the lower SEOoe between ua and
the opposite range became suffused with
a rosy flush that was accompanied with
an evident diminution of transparency ;
this appeared to be stricUy limited with-
in a definite thickness of the atmosphere,
extending to a height of about 16,000
feet At the moment when the change
took place* my eyes were turned to the
south-west^ over the Matteijooh, aa if a
gause veil had suddenly been placed be-
tween the eye and the distant sky, and
clearly showing that the tint was pro-
duced in the lower and not the upper
regions of the atmosphere. Most travel-
lers in mountain countries are iamiliar
with this phenomenon, but few have had
so favourable an opportunity to observe
it in the region where it is produced. It
appears to me to be one amongst numer-
ous indicatums, that vapour contained
in the atmosphere in a state of rest has
a tendenpy to dispose itself in horizontal
strate of unequal denaify. The exquisite
tint which is seen in the Alps about ten
minutes after sunset, and less oommoi^y
before sunrisei may probably be caused
by the reflection of the sun's rays firom
the under sur&oe of some of these strate
lying conaiderably above the level at
which the rotsfy glow becomes visible.**
Well maytiie aathor of this pasMge
enthnsiastiadly exclaim—
'* What enjoyment is to be compared
to an early walk over one of these great
glaciers o^ the Alps, amid the deep
solenoe of Nature, surrounded by some
of her sublimest obiecte^ the morning air
Inlbshig vigour and elasticity into every
nerve and musde, the eye unwearied, the
.skin cool, and the whole frame tingling
with joyous anticipation of the adven-
tures that the day may brmg forth !'*
And there is music as well as paint-
ing and poetry in the ice-world.
" On a sudden, aa if flom some prodi-
gious distenoe, uiere fell upon my ear
the sound of musical instruments, purs
and clear, but barely distinguiahable.
I halted and listened : there could be no
doubt, there was the beathig of a drum,
and ftom time to time the sound of
hnm instruments. I adced Mathias^
who now came up^ what he thought o<
1^ but he had no idea of the cmmsl
456
Mountatneerivi;,-^Tke Alpint Vlub.
[Oct
Then remembering that pereonB passing
the night at the Grands Molets have
declared that they heard the church
bell, and even the barking of dogs, at
Entrfires or Comiayear, I straight ima-
gined that they were celebrating a festa
in some of the vaUeys on the Piedmont-
ese side of Bfonte Rosa^ fh)m which
direction the sounds seemed to come.
"We moved on, and the sounds con-
tinued, becoming rapidly more intense,
and soon as we approached a deep nar-
row crevasse, the mystery was explained.
" At a considerable depth below us, a
trickling streamlet in the interior of the
glacier fell from one ledge of ice to
another ; the crevasse under our feet
played the part of an organ-pipe, and
the elastic mass of Ice struck by the de-
scending rill produced sonorous vibra-
tions. Two interesting conclusions fol-
lowed from this charming experiment in
the laboratory of the glacier. First,
that the movement of water in the in-
terior of a glacier is not stopped at nighty
and henco that a sharp frost probably
does not penetrate very far below the
surface; second, that the formation of
fissures transversely to the direction of
the veined structure, and parallel to the
surface of the glacier, is not confined to
the lower extremity of a glacier, where
such fissures are constantly seen in and
above the roof of the cavern whence
the glacier torrent flows, but may pro-
bably extend in many directions through-
out the glacier. I had often suspected
that the water which percolates the ice
in warm weather, finds here and there a
obanael along oearij horisontal sur&ces
in the interior of the glaoier : bat during
the day-time the sound of running water
is heard in so many directions that it is
impossible for the oar to follow any
single streamlet ; now, however, in the
silence of the surface I could distinctly
assure myself that the streamlet below
ran along a slightly-inclined bed until it
reached the crevasse, from which it fell to
a lower level in the mterior of the ghider.^'
The paper from which these quota-
tions are taken contaiDS an accoant
of a most adventurous excursion by
the author, who was unfortunately
accompanied bj a guide whose nerve
was scarcely equal to the task. It
Is impossible, without the aid of the
eograviogs, to give a Just idea of the
difficulties eocoQQtered in passing
certain pyramids or pionacles of ioe,
aome eighty feet high, and each
capped or bewigged with bdow and
peodant ioldes. To avoid the iteep*
nesB of the Bbpes, some sixty d^
grees, ft was neoesstry to pass nnder
the icicles of the summit, carefully
avoiding toachin^ them, lest the
whole mass should come down on
their heads ; and in one instancy
because ao ioe precipice barred sd-
vaDce, it was Decessary to retorn
from the top and pass at a lev«l
along the face of the cliff. This ve
see the traTeller and hte guide id the
engraving aocomplfBbiog, tied to-
gether by a rope. Whether this is
advisable in such sitnations is a
question with Alpine travellers.
\Vliere it is necessary for each to
plant his foot in the steps made by
those who have gone Wore, and
when a false step would insure de-
struction to the unattached indivi-
dual, it has been argued that the
rope would only drag down the rest
in case of a slip. It has been argued
on the other side, that althoogh a (>e^
son woqM not be able to stop him*
self, the momeotnm of the slide ii
but moderate at first, and the weight
of the person who had slipped conid
generally be checked by the slight-
est additional assistance to his own
eflforts at self-preservation. The
case of a guide at the wall of the
8trahl-eck,.who beld up three men
who had slipped, seems a strong in-
stance in corroboration of this view.
A plaoe for making the experiment
would certaiuly be the *' mftr 4poQ-
vantable " or ** mar de la col6 '^ of
Mont Blanc, which is so well de-
aeribed by Mr. Albert Smith and hii
artist We recollect crossiog a siini-
lar plaoe, the Br^che de Roland in the
Pyrenees, where a false step woold
have Bent any one of the p^rty of«r
the precipices of the Oirqne de Gava^
nie. One of the party, who wtf ra-
ther nervotia, acknowledged thai the
alpeutock of the gnide held behind
him gave a sense of security ; a rope
would, of coarse, neutralise still forther
the fieelinfl^ of isolation.
Mr. Ltewellin Davjea follows soit
in the same magnificent neighbotr-
hood, asoending one of the Miseha-
bel-homer oalled the Dom. The
name soggesta a monotain like Moot
Blano, but the moantain fignrsd in
the chromolithograph is a peak ; so
we Boppoee the tiame to inplv the
Cathedral, as the Gertoan Dootkirehs^
: 18W.]
2bmiainemni^r^Th0 A^e Club,
m
or impljr Doin» deuotes. Ifr. Dwries
a^ka with gre^t rapture of the
vifiw from the top.
'* Tbow who j|Mak aUghtingly of the
advantagoa to be gained ^ aaoending to
t^e higheft poini^ do oot know what U
is to see mouDtain-iope spread out be-
neath you, almost like the stars of heaven
for multitude. The greater ranges rise
in mighty curves and backbones, ridged
with shining points, and give distinction
to the scene ; but in that country of Alps,
wherever you look, there is a Held of
mountains : the higher you rise, the more
magnifioent la the panorama you com-
Tfae AUeleiahorn liea to the south
of Mr. Dairka' route* and is described
hj Mr. Amca, who also inaatera the
Fietsehboro, *^no donbt IkmUiar in
sppeaiABce, if not by name, to those
who have creased tba Simplon Paaa
in fine weather." Aa a little change
from the beantiea and anbiimitiea of
Mr. Ball and others, we may extract
some facetUB from Mr. Amea'a narr»>
tive. The inddente in cpiestioa oo»
earred on paaaing a night in a ebalei
on the Trift Alp» where the traveUera
iDond a merry fwrty.
^ My companions were halTundresaed,
and I waa flnishfng a cigar outside^ when
1 became aware of suppressed wluaper^
iaga and titteriags in the immediate
nttghboorbood-— aoonda which, on fur^
ther investigation, proved to emanate
Ifom a juvenile group of the female
population collected at the comer of the
next hut, and apparently watching with
great interest the mysterious process of
going to bed, as practised by the English
nation generally. After a little compli-
mentary * chaff,* and one or two songs
ftom them, veiy fiiirly sung, and con-
tahking invariably some reference to a
• echfttali ' (sweetheart), I Joined the rest
of the partyi undressed, and, being the
laati aeoording to the good old ra]% pot
onl the light Ko eoooer had I stepped
into bed than a crash ensued, and I aad-
deaily found myaelf half-buried under a
chaotic heap of disorganised bedclothes,
the bolster occupying the post of honour
on the top of my head. The treacherous
fabric had given way at the foot of the
bed, owing, no doubt, to the substratum
of logs having been arranffed in some
position of unstable equilibrium. Amo-
mentaiy rilence of astonishment waa fbl-
lowed by peals of laughter flrom my more
Ibftnnato companion^ till two gnidea^ at*
tiactod by the aoiae^ made their appear*
witb a lantan^ and oommenoad
the work of restoration, which waa soon
completed in a more solid and trust-
worthy form, not, however, without sun-
dry incursions of the fair sex, whose cu-
riosity was proof against my extreme
dSshdhiUe. The situation, as revealed by
^e sudden light of the lantern, was no
doubt supremely ludiorous, but was not
predaely the kind of apectade for the
oontemplation of iemale friends, and they
were repelled accordingly. It did not ,
occur to me at the time^ but I have my
suspicions, that those inpocent damaela
were privy to the catastrophe, and had,
of maiice pr^ens^ unsettled the founda-
tions of the couch.*
This incident strongly reminds ns
of some of onr friends' 8candinaTlan
experiencea Mother Eve's daoghtera
hare a family liljaneaa all over tiie
world.
The next narrativeB lead m acron
tiie valk^ of the Bhone to the well-
known (at a diatanoe) Bernese Ober*
land. £very Swiss tonrist knows the
magnifioent panorama aeen from the
high places about Beme^ and deriT*
ing its chief interest from the range
of snowy peaks in the sonth, with,
their high - sounding and romantb
names. Yet these old acqnaintaDces
of the traveller have even yet some nn-
explored recesses, and Messrs. Aader*
eon, Ball, Hardy, aod Bonbory show
by their narratives how mnoh that is
new may be foond by men posaesa-
ing legs, hands, and ejes, and wit to
nse them, even in the most familiar
country. This range would doubtless
have been better known before, bot
that its recesses have been protected
by what Tacitus would have called
^'ancientsnperstitioD." People eeased
to tronbie themselves abont what was
universally regarded by the natives
as utterly inacoessiblft Onr eo«ntiy«
men have now aecoslomed them-
selves to reoeive the aeoanals of the
natives ** cum grano salis," and rely
npoo themselves for obtaining aoen^
rate information, sioce they have
fonnd that Englishmen, many of
them leading in general the sedentaiy
Uves oi cititt, have been able to show
the bom raoontaincera the way over
their own monntaioa Mr* Haidy has
seated the Peak of Darkness^ and
drawn saide the veil ; and the great
Aletsch gkcier, one of the moat lo*
markable polar rcgiona in the . tesD*
perate sone, has been ti^veraed and
468
JfiHuiftiAuif^^.— !rW Alpim €i^.
[Oflt
hy iBOfB fhiii odB tooriflt.
There k no reason it fthonld not be
tborooghlj explored by ecieotifio men,
«• it Beems to preeent fewer difBcul*
tioB, combined with fioer ebaracterle-
tan, tbaa neet other g^aeieii. Hiv
Hioohliff has leeo the woDdenof the
Wildetmbel ud Oldenbon, the tat-
ter being the prinoipal peek of the
remarkAble DUblereti. This mooa-
tein ie well remembered by ns, as
oontraatiog with its ragged grand-
eore the Arcadian eoenery of the Val-
ine dea Ormoni, which is ascended
from Aigle in the valley of the
Bliooe» and than which there k not
a rogion of more peaoefhl loveUnea
kthe whole of Switaerbnd. Memt.
Kennedy and Hardv next aatoniah
na with the ihct of ibeir haTing snr-
▼ifed **a night •adTentore on the
Brirtenitoek/' a monntain overhang-
ing the entrance to the 8t <3othm
Paaa above Amateg, wheie the ad-
VBUturoui toariati were obliged to
aleep by toma locked hi eaoH other's
arms^ to avoid their lUHng over a
pieeipiee— like the babes hi the wood,
bat without the wood, the robins^ or
the leavesL Lastly, Mr. Forster takes
a flight to the KtUe-known Alps of
Canton Qlams, making the baths of
Stwshelberg his hesdqwten, and
visiting the ihnons Martinslodi or
Martin's Hole, a ronnd tnnnel over
ikB Segnsa Pass, throogh which m
beam of the son deseeodi into the
valley at certain seasons. Bbel, he
says, isMgines the name to be a eor-
niption of Martts Loch,'' because tbe
ion shuwB throogh it on the steeple
Of the diareh at Elm, In the months
of March and September." Bnt we
riMold rather oonneet it with the ad-
veatues of St Martin, who gives fats
name to the Martfaiswand in the Aus-
trian Alps, and whd^ flrom the high-
4jiag propensities of his Holiness,
eoght oertahily to be adopted as their
5 iron by sach members of the Al|^n»
ab as happen to be of the Bomaa
Oathollo peisoaskm.
Bather valoable to gedtagists tfaaa
msre travellers are Ine remarks on
the cU glaeiers of SwitMrland and
North Waks. All SwitKriaad dhhI
ODoe hafo pieaented a scene like that
sssn hi the eztresss north-west bf
KaK, and usallcasd in hki Air$u
JSap^MwiioNa whim the stmmidoBa
gtaotar called by Homboldt*s name is
4^ *- ■ •■^-- fill I ■■it I m il
w nrnwe ureennaa
AmiBriea; and Nctib Whies mut
have been, with
much what Switeerlmid is now. Be>
ing direeted to the Ihets
m this chapter, the most
observer may veriiy tinm* as we oao
attest tmoi oar own experience. The
glens of Owm Trifiwn and Cwm
Llafar are especially interesting, as
showing the patha of old-world gia-
«ers, and thos North Wales la tfas
complement to Switsoerland, dh
ioff the featoies of those glacier 1
which are as yet nnrevealed to hi
eye. The chaotsr on Btaa, by Mr.
Hardy, conctadea the nanativcs of
excnnions, by way of showmg tin
catholicity of the aspiratloBS of the
Alpbe Oiab ; and Mr. BaUoblignslly
pabUshes soggestlons for Alpine Ha-
veilers, aa to meaaarci of precaatioB
and eqoipnient, which show that the
Olab have no wish to restrict ths
eijojment of their hiffUaod pie-
serves. There is an even leval of good
writing hi thia book, because the
writers write Uom the abondanee ef
theur hearts, and apparently, witti a
general absence of intelleotnal effort,
describe the ^ysical exertiOM tiny
have madOi The real oseret of need
writingv as we aH know, is to have
something to write aboot Then tiers
will be no neoessttv of raislog a qiisa*
thm of Latin or Saxon phraaeolpgy.
The idea will clothe itsdf of itself m
the most appropriate form of vema-
calar. With regard to the oatward
form of the volume, we may aay that
the first-born of the Alpine Ohib en-
cases a soand mkid in a soand lK)dy:
and more than this, that ita ootward
iJMVoar ia decidedly orepeoBesshng. It
is eqaallv a book for the drawhig*
room or library table. Togivaaaidaa
of the pains bestowed onitywehsse
only to raentkNi that it contains idM
maps, eight diromo4ithoeraphs, and
twentv-thiee woodcati^ au of merit,
espeoially the maps* The diromo-
Htographs, tboagh good, are hard-
Iv adequate to the expressfon of
tne vastnen of Alpine scenery; bat
it most be remembered that this
beaatifiilbimnchof artisstm in its
infoncy } and where so mnch dependi
OB the ihintsstiMMNMitof eoloor sai
MuNHmams the wonder Is that so
mush haa besft dons witk so (
ratively unhandy i
i8ie.]
JftiiiitfliwuffcHi I Tin AfpiM CM.
4B$
We MoM hive vkM to beve
\mnk eUe to iooMe in tbe aene le-
▼few, aeine etkera oT the hoet of
Alpine books tbei beie been hUiy
pratented to tbe peMio; nod if we
bad berore u Mr. Oolemen'e Semm>
from thi Sa^w^fiM^ we nlgbt be
able to jndge bUU betsler tbaa from
tbe nopieteiitiooi illnstrations of
Pm^ F«in». and GiacUn, wbat art
bee been able to acbieve in acenes
ae 9et nearly anriaited bj tbe pro-
fe«Moal artiat. Bot the book in our
bands aoffices to show bow engioatiQg
is tbe psasioD fiw moontain-dioib-
ing, and bow tet ev conntranaQ
are beooning bitten witb tbe deligbt-
Mlnlbetion. Witbeatthoogbtofie-
Bults» tbe nMienent bss taken plaoe^
bat donbtkai great resolts ma j flow
oat of it For tbis end» organisation
is necsnaw, and is foand in the pro-
neotos of tbs AlpbM Olab. We pro*
pho^j that, amotigst nen of intdli-
oenee ss well as apirit, tbis will soon
be one of tbe aeit popolar of all the
olabs ; thoogb wbether»as it bss tbe
free mtrU of sli tbe mighty psJaoes
of nature, it wUl oare to boild itself a
boose mede witb bands in FbUMall,
nMjr long be a oocstioo.
Tbe^ is another ww of Tisitiog At
pine regions^ which the Alpine Olnbi
with their loltj sspirationi, would
probably despise, but which is more
•ttraoHre to ordinary people, and even
to then who love, to e certain do-
gMs^ danger and diffienlty, posseawe
pesnliar advantages, espeoially in the
matter of indepmenoe. Mr. King's
IteJktn Valkifi qf the Ahi. and the
Lauhfi Tour round MonJU RosOf
prove bow mnch may be seen in
places not insoceseible to bdies ; and
we know well that to the reallv
poetic or artistic insight little is
gained by novelty or strangenesB^
bat that the ontverse itself is ever
novel and strange in all its aspects
to those who keep their ^es open.
We know noihinff more cbarminff
than nnencambered and unattended
pedestrian excanions in moontain
regions, no medicine for mind or
.body of more universal effica<7. Tbe
charms of natore tosiease to the
kyven of nature m time goes out
nod do not grow eld with tbehr age.
And the spleodeos of Alps and
Fyranees have only served to give us
a fresher mst hi the enjoynMot of
And
with these kiw elevations there is m
plessure scarcely known at inaeccgB
Ible heights, or wbsM the continuity
of altitade is broken. We mean the
kofp upland walks along the crests
of hOla. Bach a walk we aeoosfr-
plisbed on a glorions day in the sum-
mer of 1868, with ddigbi never to
be Ibraotlen. It began with tbe as*
cent of Sea FeU Pikes from Wastdale
Heady and then continoed over the
crat of LaMpdale, behbid Lsnedale.
Pikes, over Borrowdale Fells, down
Eidale, to Grasmere. Tbe little dif^
floalty of finding the way over the
Fells gave a fillip of excitement to
the walk. But the parity of the air
was net to be snrpaased. It seemed
all oxygen or oaone. Another such
walk preceded it by two days, be-
ginning with a steep dimb of the
Bed Pike firom Battirmere» and tak*
ing tbe tops in succcfston to Sty
Head Pass. In North Wales, also,
we recollect many soch rambles, the
finest of which was the tours of
Oamedd David and liewelMn, and
tbe tons of tbe Glyders, following
the heights to Gapel Owrig. In tbe
Alps and Pyrenees we nave ever
found tbe greatest delight in visiting
tbe lesst>trodden routes^ althoogn
these were not always tbe more dan-
rms. Alpine dangen are not to
enceuntend alope^ or withoat cer»
tabi preoautions whkh reduce them
to a minimum. A sselancholy in*
stance hae lost oconrred, recorded in
the Timm by a correspondent whoea
letter bears date^ Zermatt, Angosl
18. A Bossian gentlanan, by
name Edouard de la Grotte, hai
perliJied miserably in a crevoaie en
tbe Findelen giaeler. He was at*
tended by two Zermatt gmdes, but
soomfoUy refused to take an (i/pen*
itodb; and though a rope was passed
round his body, H only appeared to
have been looped round the arms of
the gnides. According to the gafdes'
acoounti he slipped into a crevasee,
and the rope breaking abort at each
Bide of him, thev were not able to
reoover him« xne crevasse wss of
peculiar fbrm» narrow at the topg
then widenuag and then ceolractb^
again Iwtber down. The nnfiirtn*
note man appeaie to hove fidlen i
sixty feet, and then to base '
wedged witb bis bead aomewbal
}
4n^
Mmntaiin6ering.^Ihe Alfiku OM.
[Got.
lower than hfe body. While the
oliimsy goidcB were trying to reach
liim with too short a length of rope,
h^iog been at the trooble to make
two joameys for them, the poor man
died, having been gradaal]y and con-
Boiooely frozen to death, lite warmth
of .his body had oecanoaed'at firat
bis sinking a few feet farther, and
then the cold of the glacier overcom-
ing him, he was frozen in, and as he
wonld then have been slowly croshed
by the expansion of tlie ice, it is hoped
that death terminated his snfferings
before this last torture. The gnidee,
whose conduct appears thronghont
to have been characterised by care-
lessness and want of presence of
mind, appear to have laid themselves
open to suspicion on acooant of the
appearance presented by the broken
enas of the rope. It is possible that
their negligent hold of the traveller
g^ve way at once to the weight of
his body, and that they cot tlie rope
at the places where they said it had
been broken, to save their reputation
for trustworthiness.* This accident
was followed at no long interval by
one still more distressing to home
readers, as the subject of it was an
eminent member of the University
of Oambridge. We allude to the
melancholy death of Archdeacon
Hardwicke, by felling down a steep
place in the Pyrenees, near the Ba-
gn^res de Lnchon. Having probably
been over the ground ourselves in
retorniog by a by-way firom the
Port de Yentaque, we cannot think
that the aoeident was caused by any
peculiar dangers or dilllcdtieB exiii-
ing there. The venerable geoUema
was an experienced Alpine traveyer,
and the i^paient ease of his route
may have rendered him less cautloas
than usnal.
The former instance, which aeens
more to the purpose^ would be aoy>
thing but discouraging to real Alpine
travellers. It simply shows what
security may be attamed by eertaia
precautions, the neglect of which may
easily be fatal. It is aatoaiahiqg,
considering the appearaooe and real
nature of these diflieultaeB, how very
few accidents have hitherto oeeurred
in the high Alps. Nev«rtheleBB, it is
to be esteemed a national bonoort
that most of those peaks hitherto
considered inaccessible, and many of
those panes hitherto ooosidered in-
psMable, have yielded to the cooago
and perseverance of those islaaden^
whose still more daring and eDdoriog
countrymen have passed the continu-
ous night of the Arctic winter in dark-
ness and snflfering, to solve problesH
not much more important; or endured
the torture of thirst iu the beming
deserts of Central Africa, with an end
and porpoee avowedly and really high-
er, but in no dissimilar spirit While
France, actoidly more dd-feafaioeed
in her ways, stUl pants for that mil-
itary fame of which the workl has
heard so much before, Gkeat Biitaia
strives for newer and bloodleas lau-
rels, and se^ aocordiog to Ihs
Creator's sanction, to assert the so*
premaoy of Man less over hie Iwe-
ther than over material Nature.
* Since this article was written, a letter has appeared in the 2lnica^ fkom one of
the members of the Alpine Club, whose remarla seem to corroborate our coojectora
as to the death of the Russian gentleman at Zermatt :— ^" He fell down because
there was not a sufficient length of rope. The fact of the fihortness of the rope is
sufficiently proved by the manner in which thej used it. They tied the gentlemau
round the body, as is usual ; but instead of fastening themselves in the same manner,
they, evidently with the intention of maklDg the rope cover a greater space of groond,
dmply held it in their hands, each taking one end of it. Now, sir, is it not almost
certam, that supposing the man in the middle to fall, the other two are unable to
hold on to the rope, and it slips from their hands with the Jerir ? And, this, I beliere,
happened in this particular case. The rope was too short, so the guides held ths
ends of it in their hands, and when the gentleman between them fell, they were
unable, in consequence of the jerk, to keep their hold. They say the rope hrokei
I am indhied to doubt it*' There is, however, an obvious difficulty in this tbeoiy
as to how it csme to pass that the rope was not carried into the crevasse vrith the
geatlenian. It may have alq>ped from the hand of one guide fiiati then, bdng
kxiaely bound, have detached itself from the body, or the guides may hare neglectsd
lotiethetBaveUeratalL
1859.]
7%e SM-Me in the Faped 8tate$.
471
THB 8SA-8IDE IN THE PAPAL STATES.
Amoko tbe DUioy dekislons prenh
lent ia the ordinary imaginatiou»
there are few more grcmndlem than
the popular Northern idea of Italian
climate--that idea which neither fact
nor descriptions can disBipate, and
which eTery honest English fancy
believes in devoutly, let travellers
say what they will. Thus we go on
with melancholy persistence, hot
faith nnftiiliDg, carrying the delicate
blossoms we iove best to brave ont
the buffets of winter amidst the
countless cross - dranghts and chill
paved floors of Italian apartments,
where oar complaints are set down
to the soore of English egotism and
helplessness by a people much more
given to the savage placidity of en-
durance than to any possibility of
reform. Bat if Boreas blows shrill
in the l^amontara at one season,
and suffocates his breathless victims
with the sirocco at another, there is a
steady spring brilliance in the Italian
sky which restores one to that half-
forgotten etijoyment of May, which
our grandfathers used to have, or to
say they had, but of which we, in our
island, have certainly of late days
lost all security. Jaly and August
in Italy are months to be gasped
thruugh, and endured as one best can.
But there is a May— the fact is indis-
putable—and for those who love that
month of the poets, it is something
to know that it survives somewhere.
May, bright, fresh, serene, and sweet,
with skies of deep untroubled azure,
steadily shining through starry night
and sonny day — familiar honeysuckle
and wild roses bursting upon all the
hedges — tbe rich red glow of the
pomegranate blossom burning amidst
its cool deep shade of leaves— the corn
ripe and golden — the vines tender
and young, the grey sweet olives
lending a singular calm and com-
posure to the kndscape with theur
mild neutral uncertainty of tone — and
not a oiond, save now and then a
sunny puff of white, like the wing or
the robe of some chance angel, upon
the untroubled depth of sky. Such
was the Roman May which shone
this year over all the melancholy
YOI* Lzzxn.
plain and rich hills that surround
the everlasting city. Distant echoes
of French cannon, and progoostica-
tioos of Italian tumult, not yet real-
ised so far south, had darkened the
air with its annual enormous swal-
low-flight of home-returning tourists
rather more precipitately than usual ;
and ^Rome was empty," something
as London is in September, when we
took our esrly way to the sea-side.
The emptiness of Rome makes itself
visible by the shutting up of great
hotels, and the dismantling of shops
frequented by those Forestlerl or wan-
dering barbarians who bring toll to
the old mistress of the world, by the
languor and leisure of certain streets
recognised as the foreigners', or raUier
the Eoglish, quarter — and not least
by the total desertion of all tbe
sights which a leisurely pilgrim,
unappalled by visions of malaria,
may enjoy if he wills with all the
privacy and leisure of their owner,
now that the season is over, and
Murray no longer drives along the
Oorso, a SAcred ensign, in one out of
every two or three carriages, and
marches into church and gallery
under everybody's arm. We did not
remain, however, to enjoy this mono-
poly of some of the best things in the
world ; but as we were not going to
England with all the rest of the bar-
barous people, we went to the sea-side.
Our way lay across tbe Gampagna
in all the early glory of the May
morning. The noble desolate arches
of tbe old squeduct striding over the
wonderful flat before us, and the fields
on either side aglow with all the col-
ours which nature unassisted puts
into her flowers. No great things of
flowers either — brilliant red poppies,
purple mallows, dainty wreaths of
the tiny convolvulus — white -bells
of nameless magnificence growing
upon coarse weed-bushes, and this-
Ue^heads purple and yellow, but so
matted and grown together, with
their minute invisible under-layer of
pimpernel and celandine, that the
whole looks like a close carpet of
varied colour. There is scarcely a
tree in the landscape, save those dis-
31
473
neSeoMte in Uu Papal SlaiM.
Pet
tact clouds of foliage upon the billf,
aod a chance seedJing here and there
about fiome roin—nor a house eave
the pathetic fragmeots of housefly
boilt in the times before malaria,
whet) people were oot afraid of the
Oampagna ;--boi if there are neither
houses nor trees, there are shadows
falling, aod flitting, and changing by
some unseen agency, stretching in
long blue lines into the n distance,
fljing like some invisible breath over
the great silent plain, where nothing
else, save here and there a troop of
grey wild cattle, seems to move or
breaiho. The white towers of the
Alban bills glance out among their
trees at lialfa-dozen different alti-
tudes, one appearing after another as
the road turns. Such is the first half
of the way ; then we are turned adrift
at an Osteria for a couple of hours
while the horses rest, aod the heat of
noon Eubeides. The Osteria is a farm-
steading as well, and wealthy in its
way. Up-stairs there is a Camera di
Pranzo^ with a great heap of corn in
one corner, and some rude tables and
chairs at the other, where we have
maccaroni, bread and butter, thin
wine, and anchovies set out for us,
in such fashion as a wajside " public"
uses in the Papal States. The next
room is a dark bedchamber, without
any means either of light or ventila-
tion save the door. Entering here on
a vojage of discovery, von are be-
wildered by a sudden gleam of eyes
and flickering motion. It is not a
pigeon — the pigeons are in the third
room, the beet bedroom, in company
with a promising family of chickens.
If jou open the door a little wider,
yen will see on that enormous bed, big
enough to contain a family, and high
enough for a funeral couch of state,
two smallest babies, one, poor little
sdul 1 broad awake as only babies know
how to be, unbelievably good and
contented in its dark prison, its
bright eyes twinkling towards the
wetcome light — the oUier decorously
asleep. There they lie, the poor little
twins, whom a liberal Providence has
bestowed upon the busy hostees of
Funtana di papa. What can the
good woman dor She has three- and
tour-year olds downstairs, at the age
of mischief, who most be looked after
to_ a certain extent— not to say all
her farm, and her gooli^ and hn
maccaroni to attend to. Bo ik
babies are wisely bestowed ia tk
vast parental bed, ao fear of vigortm
kick or tumble alarmiog the awtkr,
who haa done them op ia swaddrio[r'
bands this morning, aod left them ii
the dark till it is time to attend to
their reasonable ueoeaaitjea. If tke;
choose to cry unnaaaaMj tar
amusement or "distnction," tlief
are happily too fiar off to distract tb
domestic quiet They most wait tiil
they are old enough to '' district '
themselves, the small nnfortaaate,
when they will have their revenue.
But there is DO poverty to this oK
bare, savage house. The walls of tk
dark room are hong with the mu;
articles of a substantial wardrobe-
bright • coloured gowns, and sbavB,
and bodices worthy a landlady. Os^
side spread the rich Tineyards bak-
ing in the noon, which keep the win-
butts full in the Odteria; behiod,tlie
corn is taking its last perfection U
golden ripeness. The bees are nuk-
ing honey — every thiog thrives td
looks plentiful, and moat likdy th«j
will get on very well these mpk
people, the babies in the dark iDciod-
ed, without ever finding out vlat
comfort means.
It was evening when we came to
our sea-quarters, a serene afUrDOoo,
inclining towards sunset Ibi^im
a deep Mediterranean bay, bluer tfaao
the heavens, one corner of its craitat
tipped like an arrow-head wiib tlie
gleaming line of a little seaport
striking out sharp into the water,
with one tiny tower of defeoce, vA
a little crowd of picturesque lat««B
sails lying along its tiny quay; ^
deep curve falling far into the dis-
tance on the other side, with the haif-
visible tower of Astura dropp«l ^
the water's edge, to mark the oatlioe;
and steppiog boldly out into the ^
half-way across the semi-circle, tlat
lion- headed promontory, white un
magic, where Circe and ber sjr&a
sang ; while deep in the light ot tbe
bay, serene and commaudiog, ^
what looks like a great medicw
fortress, turning its line of jeal*^
towers and stout defences to»«ra>
the sea. Behind all, the noble li^
of the Yolscian hUls skipe vast m
distant towards the invisible ooeia
1869.]
Tk4 SfoMt in the Papal States.
473
on the other side of tlie .Giroean
headlaod; and the pleasant BODiiy
slopes of a raral ooQDtry, vineyarda,
and pastnre-IaDds, and gardens, with
Yillas and convents sown among
them, and a fringe of breezy downs,
complete the landscape. Bold c1iffd»
yellow and rugged, with nodding
§ lames of broom on their crest, and
ark fragments of ancient masonry
at their feet, defend the coast as it
corves and deepens towards that
great old stronghold which frowns
upon the bay. It is into the peace-
able heart of that same ancient
strength and place of defence that
this peacefol road leads as, winding
between its hedgerows; for these
towers and ramparts are only ranges
of hnmbte tenements and dwelling-
houses nowadays; and Nettuno is
no longer a palace-fortress of the
middle ages, picturesque and lawless,
bat a little populous Italian town,
where a swarm of dark-skinned
people live and multiply among the
old decaying turrets, without a sospi-
cion that their little dusty noisy sun-
shiny sea-village is one of the most
picturesque combinations of old walls,
and towers, and bastions, to be found
even in this conotry, where every
thing is picturesque that is aged, and
decaying, and forlorn.
Everybody turns out to gsze, of
coarse, as we drive into the, deep mo*
mentary gloom of that archway, jast
within the ancient gate where the
old Goloona palace strides across the
narrow way, and erects its little
tower in ready defiance of any hoetile
stranger; but they sell onions and
lettuces to-night at the door of the
Golonnas, and it is about this arch
that the villagers swarm, and under
its shadow that the butcher, most
important, but most coy of trades-
9ien, as we shall find hereafter, hangs
out his iron hooks and bars his
greasy shutters. And now here is
the Piazza Golonna, with its forlorn
little oolamn to identify it ; a picta-
reeque square, with traces of fair old
architecture here and there, and an-
other palace opening its big door and
desolate vestibule at one side. The
men are in the larger piazza oatside
the gate, where are likewise the
car<&» — those indispensable Italian
neeessities; bat the women are at
all the doors and windows, and the
children are everywhere. No fear
that his Holiness shall lack for sub-
jects. Heaps of boys tumbled about
in all the corners — shoals of babies
in leading-strings, tilted up from the
rough causeway by premature little
women about twice as high as them-
selves; and younger babies, helpless
little fishes, with two flickering hands
in motion, distributed among the
mothers at the doors. However, we
have our way to make to our tempo-
rary habitation, which is not to be
approached but on foot We go with
a train in waiting, curious to learn all
about ue — and here at last is oar
house.
It would no doubt be very promtc
in comparison to live upon a Marine
Parade ; so let us climb with equani-
mity this stair, which is like a very
steep ladder, and investigate our ac-
commodations. These consist of a
range of bedrooms, a s^tla, and an
eating- room, down stair, the bed-
chambers overlooking, and the
dining-room opening upon, an oblong
piece of terrace or loggia, the narrow
end of which overlooks the sea. The
said bedchambers are partially floor-
ed with tiles, and partially with a
terrible concrete, curiously studded
with small pebbles, which any un-
wary individual, stepping upon it
with a shoelcf's foot, is not likely to
forget Each has an enormous bed,
pilra high, with hard rustling mat-
tresses stuifed with the dried leaves
of the maize, into, or rather on to
which it is necessary to climb hj
means of a chair, and where there is
space enough for a whole family to
dispose themselves for the night The
furnitare, of an admirably stoical
contrivance, serves the bare uses of
necessity, but pretends to nothing
more; and the only ornamental
articles visible are simple tureens of
common earthenware, one of which
stands on almost every table by way
of decoration. After all, when one
looks round upon the forlorn apart-
ment— the hard eminence of that
bed, the iogeniooslv miserable chairs,
the dusty painted deal table, one
thinks with a little compnnction of
the marine parades and sea-view ter-
races which one has abased at home.
However, dinner waits below.
474
The Sea-aide in the Papal SUatm*
[Oct
There is a family of father, mother,
and foar black-eyed little girls in
these lower Fuoma, all of whom
bivoaao for the night in an apart-
ment, next to onr saiU'd-manger^
through one side of which, separated
bj an impropta partition of semi-
traosparent canvass, we have to pass,
with i^Qch enlightening peeps of that
congregation of beds, and snch odoara
as are mdispeneable. Dinner appears
at broken and irregnlar intervals —
sonp desperately hot, with floating
bells of grease on its surface, and a
mass of thready home-made maccar-
oni below ; then little anchovies and
slices of uncooked ham and Bologna
sausage ; then the fritto — where
are other slices of ham curiously
gummed into an enclosure of bread,
and accompanied by fried arti-
chokes and yegetable, marrow and
balls of rice ; then a dish of peaee
once more, with prosciutto^ small
slices of ham appearing amid the
broken and dueky green of the un-
happy vegetable ; then the umido, or
stew, a piece of overcooked meat laid
upon a bed of rice which has ab-
sorbed the gravy ; then a pair of
roasted pigeons of antique age, the
patriarchs of the race; then tiny
Alpine strawberries and cherries;
and so the meal is concluded, and
we have eaten, or are supposed to
have eaten, " a real Italian dinner I"
as somebody assures us with exulta-
tion—not a hotel dinner, cosmopoli-
tan and uncharacteristic, and adapted
to the tastes of strangers, but unso-
phisticated and individual cookery,
native to the soil — with perhaps
only a little less oil, vinegar, onion,
and tomato than the good people
would have had for themselves.
That is pleasant to know, certainly ;
but we are not over-effusive in our
gratitude. Let us go out upon the
loggia when the quick twilight has
fallen, and the moon rises over the
sea. The loggia has no better pave-
ment than the pebbly concrete which
forms a portion of our bedroom floors,
and has the clothes-line still sus-
Snded across it, on which the Sora
arianna, our landlady, has had her
'* washing *' hung out to dry — npt
to say that it is encumbered with
various household and kitchen uten-
sils not generally regarded as orna-
mental: however, these ard very
secondary matters in this part of
the world. From the low waU which
bounds one side, we look down opoa
a little triangular piazza, with pie-.
turesque outer-stairs, and deep angles
of darkness und^ them, wh«re there
is an old house which has been
a great house some time, and which
still retains, like a solitary jewel, the
prettiest delicate Gothic window,
divided by a little twisted pillar.
Opposite that is a dim picture of the
Madonna, with a twinkling feeble
lamp newly lighted before It; and
while we look down in the soft
purple gloom of the night, over the
great black gulf of steps which leads
from a corner of the little piazsa to
the fountain, there suddenly breaks
out a measured chanty led by a
woman at one of the doorways, and
responded to by others round, tiU
every door bears its part in the
response, as the inmates appear npoa
the high **stairbead#," or under the
lower arches. With the high bouses
shotting in that morsel of space — the
** little span of sky, and little lot of
stars," which is ail that is visible of
the vast heavens from that enclosure
—the half-seen figures at the doors,
the twinkle of the lamp before the
shrine, and the fainter irregnlar
lights in the windows, the scene is
as picturesque as could be imagined ;
while still the one voice rises with
a certain rude solemnity, and the
chorus answers with a homely^ irre-
gular sincerity of response, till the
litany ends in a ** Viva Maria,
Maria YivaT' sung in an altered
time and quicker chorus, which
brings all the silent inhabitants to
the windows to join in, and ends
the nightly observance. The voices
were not very sweet, nor the moaie
very entrancing; but that was how
they sang the Ave Maria, with the
soft boom of the Mediterranean
echoing in, the work-day over, and
the village clocks sounding the first
hours of the night
Other sounds, however, not so
pleasant, came at other hoars from
that same piazza, as at this present
moment They issue, still nearff,
froms behind the canvass screen which
parts oor steps from the Sora Ifa-
rianna^s domestic sanetoary. /here
18591]
71i0 Sea-iid^ in the Papai StaUe.
476
is a chfld, jost beyond tbe eta\y ao-
reaaoD of babyhood, sqnalliog with
an QnoeasiD^. hopeless length of cry,
which nothing bat early swaddling
and an Italian mother's patieiua
coald poMibly bring about Any-
thing like the dreary persistence and
loDg-frindedncM of those little langs
. is certainly not to be heard in credit-
able houses anywhere bat in Italy :
however, she does not mind it very
mocb, — that bostling shrill-tongaed
little woman, who knocks aboat her
elder girls like so many pieces of
faroitore, scolds her maida--for she
has two, and is a wealthy person-
chatters with her gaests, and, if no-
body else offers, with her hasband,
and evidently feels herself in very
satisfactory ciroamstances. Peep into
that other room before we go np-
Btairs. Girolamo is at sapper, his
wife taking her seat and her morsel
by times, as oooapatioo or inclina-
tion permits, and a brother or friend
bearing tbe goodman steadier com-
pany. The tablecloth is not very
white, bat the chances are it is clean
enoogh. Perhaps there is a dish of
French beans, stewed oat of all
possible coloor, with indescribable
saaces^perhaps a salad, possibly a
plate covered with slices of saiami,
cat (0 thin as to be transparent.
There they sit in high content and
enjoyment, with aa inordinate sap-
ply of dark-complexioned bread, and
a great flask of wine, cool and fresh
from the "grotto" — wine of their
own growing, and no contemptible
browse — lighted by the tall Roman
lamp apoo the table. The only light
in this apartment daring the day
comes from a small sqaare grated
window high ap in the wall ; and an
English cottager woald think the
place a desert, with its total lack of
foTDitare, except the table and chairs
io iiomediate ose; its tiles, which,
dor log all their existence, have never
koowQ of sach' domestic implements
as noop or scrabbing-brosh ; its bare
UD plastered walls, and absence of
light. If the Sora Marianna had
been an Englishwoman, she woold
have famished a drawing-room by this
time, -and sent her daughters to a
board i ngwgchool ; bat perhaps, on the
whole, it is jost as well for Teta and
Anc^iioa th^ no sach idea coold
pos^ly enter their mother's head.
Tbe goodman of the hoase is very
"well pat on," in comfortable, an-
churacteristic garments which sach
a man might wear anywhere ; hot
the padrona appears in the com-
monest of cotton gowns, snch as an
English maid of-all-work woald scorn
*' of an evening ;*' bat which is cleaner
than it ]ook§, donbtless, thoagh that
is not saying mnch. There is no
prettier costame to be seen anywhere
than the characteristic costame of
Nettano; bat that is only for festas
and great occasions. Harianna*s hair,
thongh it clearly has not been ao-
done or brashed to-day, is twisted
into two thick plaits with an inter-
woven ribbon, and wound roand her
head, on the front of which the broad .
ends of ribbon are tied in a bow — a
pretty fashion enough, thoagh it
shows to no great advantage on these
dusty locks. There she sits chatter-
ing with her shrill tongue, perfectly
confident in herself, and feeling no
lack to the satisfaction of her amour
propre. Shall we say, as so mnny
|)eople say—forbid it, heaven I— that
civilisation and railroad should
penetrate hither, and pat ambitious
thoaghts in the heads of these good«
people? It is difficalt to decide.
Are they better there, in their dark,
undeansed, ansavoary houses, than
they would be in the grand, valgar,
new drawing-room which Marianna
woald assarediy set up if her lot
were cast in an English country
town instead of an Italian one?
Heaven knows! Between sham re*
finement and real savagery, perhaps
there is not much to choose.
However, there is an odd reality
of cleanliness, totally indififerent to
the appearance of it, among these
people. Their linen is rough and
dusky, without a shadow of that
gloss, whiteness, and fragrance which
unen washed in clear running water,
and dried in the biszing bleaching
sunshine, with pure breezes blowing
it about, and not a *< black'' within
a hundred miles, ought to show.
** Washed in the fairy-well water, and
bleached on the bonnie white gowans,"
it bears a natural sentiment of radiant
poetic cleanliness which the commmi
Italian mind would seem totally des-
titute of. And to descend to homelier
476
Ifie Sethside hi tke Ptgnil SttUes.
[Oct
particalars, that mofit tieefiil and an-
obtrasive of domestic machines, a
mangle, is an nnknown refinement of
civilisation here, so that the house-
hold linen makes its appearance in
the condition known to English
housekeepers as " rough-dried." Not-
withstanding, those rough napkins
and tablecloths are clean after their
fashion ; so are the beds, though
there is neither polish nor freshness
in the /eel of the linen ; and the
same thing holds wiih the nnder-
garments of the villagers, which,
idden under an exterior appearance
anything but cleanly, are neverthe-
less, as a general rule, very tolerably
dean. A like principle rules in the
kitchen, where a universal begrimed,
engrained dirtiness prevails, but
where the pots and pipkins, abun-
dant as they generally are, seem in-
variably well cleansed within, what-
ever may be their appearance out-
side. This fundamental virtue, over-
laid with every possible invention of
carelessness ana easy indifference
to appearances, is an odd peculiarity
of a people so fond of appearance and
show, and eo little careful of real-
ity ; but it is comforting in its way.
piscomfort duskier and more grimy
than that which existed in the kitchen
of Sora Mariunna, it has seldom been
our luck to see. The entire surface
of the apartment and of its scant fur-
niture was hopelessly blackened; a
grim, contented, immovable soil had
grown into the very nature of every
article in the place. One comer was
fenced off with a low rail for the
poultry, which did not much improve
the matter. The fireplace, like most
other kitchen fireplaces here, con-
sisted of a broad shelf of stone, con-
siderably higher than a table, with
two little basins made of iron bars
sunk into it for the charcoal, and a
possibility between the two of kind-
ung upon the flat stone, when ne-
cessary, a fire of wood. Bat dark as
was everything else surrounding this
primitive kitchen-range, the copper
saucepans and earthenware pipkins
which jostled each other over those
tiny glowing pits of charcoal, were
unapproachable in their cleanliness;
af d the great vase of water hard by,
fresh drawn from the fountain, as
spotless and clear as it was cool and
reftohing. It worid be nnjini to
pass over this soul of goodoess in
things evil. It is the redeeming pos-
sibility of the humbler Italian domes-
tic life.
There are few things more ridicu-
lous than the mishaps of a party of
travellers in a village out of tbe way
of such invasions ; but one does not
laugh with good-will while one is un-
dergoing these hardships, or is likely
to fall into the same anfortaoate
plight speedily again. We opened
our eyes next momfog in oar igno-
rance and innocence, believing tint
we had come to enjoy the sea and its
breezes, and perfi^rtly easy ia oar
mind, despite last night's eookery,
on the subject of dinner, notwith-
standing the truth was that we had
come to fight for our living, and that
the purveyor of the party bad a sore
and troublous life of it, and lilUe
comfort in the existence which was
held under such a dismal respondbtl-
ity. I'be sea lay so close to us that
we could have dropped pebbles into
its ripply edge all day long over tbe
low wall of our loggia, consequently
fish was all but impossible -r- as ink-
possible as though a railway had
reached to that margin of salt wat«
to carry away its glittering spoiii to
the bigger markets of the city. Early
sunshine of the summer morning saw
the goat-herds milking their bearded
flocks in the piazza, in preparation
for a long day's absence on tbe pas-
turage, and groups more pictaresqi»
were never painted ; but, alas, if
memory or calculation failed at that
one precious moment to lay in store
enoogh for the necessities of tbe day,
with a liberal margin for aocideno^
what was to become of the anhappy
children belonging to as till smnset
brought the flock home again with
their tinkling bells, and made the
humble luxury of a cup of milk a
possible indulgence f Vegetables, ia
the shape of French 'beans and ^ast
onions, were usually practicable* and
now and then a chance windfall of
potatoes made our hearts n-joice;
but the butcher remained th« mys-
tery and misery of our existence.
We rose up with vain hopes ef im-
possible lamb and beef, but sank into
despondency before we bad swallowed
our spare breaktast, a^^ with eyts of
1859.] 7%tf Sea-sidsm ihtPapd SkUei. 477
terror and citsmay looked forward to tbongh uneatable otherwise, tbey
the dinner-table, where everything, might still make yery good sonp. We
save the houillont was a lottery. We did not, however, disturb the placid
at NettQBo and the good people yon- existence of these patriarchs. By dint
der on the horn of this bay-crescent, of lying in wait for him, and finding
at Porto d'Anzio, killed bat a lamb out his haunts, and the locality of
between as, and, it is to be presamed, the *' grotto " where he kept his per-
slew greater animals only in qaar- ishable store, when he had any, we
ten, not to say that a fatal ogre of a at last made a conquest of the coy
Prince Borghese, lord of the manor merchant of beef and mnttoo, and
and universal owner of the soil, sat by degrees impressed upon the
remorseless in his villa, midway be- minds of our hostess and her
tween the two hapless little towns, maids that the British temper does
with a watchful cook, who pounced not always yield to the soothing
upon all the best pieces before the influence of a '< patienza / ' and
rest of the world had opened its eyep. that the pleasing uncertainty in
The best pieces I as if one had leisure point of hours and provisions whidi
to dream of a bfst, when any piece seems to answer ver^ well for these
was a wonderful example of good localities, does not suit with northern
fortune, and when, morning afler habits. It is not, however, so easy
morning, early or late, the same dis- to impress this upon the recollection
consoUte barred shutters and vacant of a household which can always
hooks of greasy iron dismayed our make its vegetable messes sumptu-
sools within us as we dived under ous by an impromptu introduction of
the deep shade of the arch, with vain promutto, salami (to wit, ham and
hopes and anxious pulses. Alas 1 as Bologna sausage, cut into trans-
if one*s struggle through existence parent slices), or anchovies, which
was not hard enough without a per- dainties require no cooking, nor even
enniHl struggle for one*s dinner l^-as (excepting the last) preparation of
if it were not sufficiently troublesome any kind, and which incite the Italian
to collect those paltry bits of gold appetite to an enormous consump-
and silver to pay for the same, with- tion of bread and wine, the two
out the bootless agonies afterwards staples of existence. These excellent
of hunting up an impossible some- people, who preach to our own poor
thing where there was nothing to women at home over the disadvan-
buy ! Perhaps the sympathetic tages of bad cookery, and are so fond
reader may suggest " poultry *' in of adducing continental example,
this melancholy dilemma. Did not might learn something, perhaps, if
we also suggest it pathetically, and they would, by a little real study of
with many an iteration, to the obdu- continental cookery, as it is found
rate ear of Sora Marianna? who, at among the class whom they address,
laet, after much entreaty, with sbriii To be sure nobody gives Italy much
laughter and public exhibition of the credit for dainty dishes, though we
ugliest living birds of the neighbour- doubt greatly whether the French
hood, derisively off<fred to our dunce ! workman's pot an feu^ his bread and
accorded us a gallmOy which turned apples or bread and grapes, wonkl
out to be no gallinOt but an old, old strike the English workman as any
bird, doubtless as well skilled in the improvement upon his own more sub-
ways of the world, after his fashion, stantial fare. However, the principle
as those ancient cocks of greater re- of cookery among the Italian lower
known whom Punch and the world classes ia very clear and apparent ;
wot of. We were also permitted a that is best which gives least trouble :
certaJu pro visionary and problemati- the vegetable stew which cooks it*
cal claim upon a couple of ducks, the self quietly by the fire till it is little
forefathers of the hamlet^ who wad- more than a mash of discoloured pulp ;
died under our windows all day long, the soup which boils after the same
perfectly ea^y in their venerable easy fashion — which has simply to be
minds, and happily nnconsdoos that filled up with water as the quantity
Marianna, with shrill iclais of laugh- diminishes, and made into greasy
ter, declared ov^ their heads that porridge when everybody is ready fo'*
478
I7u Sea-iide in the Papal States.
[Oet
diimer, by the sndddD phage ioto
it of a heap of maccaroni ; aud for
'* kitchen " or relbh, when each is
Decessarj, a refereoce to the iDfallible
bacon -shop, Where the officiating
artist gives them a half-pound of
bam or sansage in a score of half-
visible slices, and has store of the
pungent ewe-milk cheese, which
flavours all their dishes. Such is
the domestic science of the humble
kitchen here. Perhaps it would
be safe to say that the pure natural
flavour of fresh food, undiBguised,
and retaining its natural sub-
stance and appearance, is a thing
generally unknown upon the Con-
tinent— all very well at a good
Parisian restaurant, or costly family
table ; but no amount of progress is
likely to make a poor Eoglish house-
wife into a French cJitf de cuisine,
and for anything less it seems ex-
tremely doubtful how far a morsel of
meat or a mass of vegetables, stewed
totally out of their senses, and in that
state of inanition disguised with some
foreign flavour of cheese or vinegar,
is better than the rich beefsteak, a
little scorched perhaps, or the cot-
tager's beans and bacon. Pardon the
digression, bountiful reader 1 and re-
member diaritably how much philan-
tbropical nonsense has been spoken
on this subject for the last half-^ozen
years ; and if there is a great deal to
be said for the bee&teak and the
bacon, think of the utter absurdity of
discoursing rubbish about continental
cookery to the honest woman who
sets before her husband and children
that monarch of soups, the broth of
Scotland I which, by the way, is na-
tive to Leicestershire, and most likely
to various other English counties, as
well as beyond the Tweed.
However, it is so generally under-
stood that one does not go to Italy to
be comfortable, that the matter needs
no insisting upon, although we per-
sist in taking our invalids there, to
make an end of what morsels of ap-
petite and opportunities of comfort
they may have. In this rude little
town on the Mediterranean's edge,
with its ancient bastions facing sea-
ward, and its steep and lofty scarp
surmounted still by the old wall and
line of towers — a wall no longer
battlemented or defensivci bat filled
op with poor little hovsea, tlie hmD
wmdows of which break in inegvlar
lines through the old mcisoiiry, aad
which are reached by pictoretqoe
dilapidated staircases, aod a mi«i-
grown terrace, — there » aboDdaat
store of the characteristic Attractions
which do bring straogera to tJui
country. It is impossible to torn vp
the merest little alley, or enter the
narrowest line of street, withoat laU-
ing upon some corner which wonU
make a picture. Talk of Gotbie
architecture being inapplicable to the
uses of modern life, as if narrow win-
dows and heavy muilions were a
principle of Gothic architectore, in-
stead of the merest details and par-
ticulars of one of its periods I Look
at the ease and grace, amid all its
rudeness, with which this Gothic
fortress and stronghold of the mid<ye
ages has turned itself into a town,
and infused its own leading rule of
necessity and ready adaptation into
the humble houses which have clus-
tered up about it, that leading prin-
ciple evidently being plain use and
need, and nothing less or more. Down
that broad flight of steps yoa oome
at the fountain, with a lofty itobfe
vaulted roof sheltering its great
basins and its silvery spring, where
the women wash and chatter over
their work, and^ where a prooeGsioa
of water-carriers, with great vases on
their heads, are always coming and
going. But the sweep of t hose arches,
so cool and deep in shadow, is not
more characteristic than the tnnis
and elbows of this outside stair,
ascending just as the convenience of
its old inmates had suggested, with
arched openings in the wall to give it
light, and breaks of sudden saa^hine
among its shadows. There the people
look out in the early evening dark-
ness to lend their chorus to the Ave
Maria, and there they cluster when
there is anything to be looked at —
for the curiosity of Nettuno is easiJy
awakened, forming in their own
groups and positions a sight much
more worthy of being looked at than
most of the spectacles which interest
them. What a world of picturesque
use and homely gracefulness lies in
that outside stair 1 True, they inter-
fere a little with a level line of street,
but fortunately there is here oo line
859.]
7%# filMMids in ths Pofot Stales.
479
f atfeet to be interflBred with, only «
3CQrreDC6 of breaks and opeDiogs,
Dd graoefal coroera, at e?ery poasible
iiid of angle, as coDvenieDce ODce
ictated — coDvenieDoe to which time,
Dd that bold evident grace of use
Dd Doceasity plaioly visible npoo
11 these irregularities^ has given a
^cnderful fascination. Now and
ben, looking in throagh an open
oor, yon catch a glimpse of an
partnient on which two or three
undred years have made no change
-not very lijght, certainly, with ics
Modow high in the wall, and rade as
Is inmates, bat cool and spacioos,
pd perfectly adaptable to all domes-
ic nses, even by a master more re-
ucd than the indostrions cobbler
fho sits oataide all day long with his
ittle stand of materials, and sings,
nd gossips, and labours, with a
aerry heart. Standing back a little,
)at not from any luintenr or dis-
lain of its neighbonrs, stands an old
)alace. the deserted habitation of a
loble Roman family. If you are wise,
rou will lodgo yourself there when
roa go to Nettnoo, though the land*
ord is not a noble Doria Pamfiii, bat
)Dly a jolly baker. Down that deep
irchway at the side, how the males
:ome and go with their flour-sacks,
)De swuDg on either side like a don-
iey's panniers; but within, throagh
the. wide vestibule and grand stair-
case, dirty, anA dusty, and in sad
iegradation, but noble notwithstand-
ing* yon come into a lofty hall in
perfect preservation, the common
diDiDg-room of the modem baker's
collection of sea-bathing guests, as it
was the common room doubtless of
the priDoely household three hundred
years ago. It is perfectly suitable to
ita present use, with a certain cheer-
fal, noble, human simplicity that
adapts it to the shelter and comfort
of human creatures uoder all circum-
staoces— a kiod of place in which one
walks loftier, aod breathes freer by a
nataral iostiuct ;— and yet would be
as perfectly in keeping with the new
taru of circumstances were nobility
and wealth to return to it with all
the arts of decoration to-morrow. A
lioe of bright apartments opens from
this hall fronting direct upon the sea,
with nothing intervening to break
the dkci, throwing out balconies
over the tideless IMitenranean sarf,
and commandlog the whole, blue
sweep of that wide bay, with its great
headland looming out to sea; and,
standing upon ooe of these balconies,
with the stroDg old walls below tak-
ing bold upon the rocks, and washed
by the sea spray, seeing nothing of
the surronndini; population, but only
how the line of building rounds at its
ends into those great towers, and
widens downwards to its invulner-
able rocky base, it is eas^ to imagine
that we stand on some pinnacle of a
great individual fortress, and that
it is no little monictpality, but some
single factious noble, who holds
against all assailants this castle by
the sea.
Let us make haste» however, out of
doors, fur here is a procession about
to pass, and the Piazza Goloona has
decked itself for the occasion. Some-
thing ornamental hangs from every
window. Look 1 so long as there is
a pretty bit of colour to be had, we
are not particular in Nettuno as to
appropriateness of the drapery. One
or two superior and highly virtuous
people have, it is true, the correct
and proper article — a crimson cloth
with a yellow fringe or binding ; but
the majority are not so well provided.
The good women accordingly turn to
their personal wardrobes; here it is
a red shawl, grand and fiery; there,
a gauzy pink one, spread over some-
thing more snbstantial, and flattering
lightly in the breeze. Next window
has a gorgeous table-cover of red and
blue cotton hanging forth, decorous
and steady; the next, some nonde-
script bit of coloured stuff, with one
of the pretty embroidered necker-
chiefs, worn in the local costume,
spread over it— a graceful contriv-
ance. Then we fall lower to coloured
aprons, and furtive skirts of dresses,
and even cotton handkerchiefs — ev-
erything which has colour enough to
make a little show ; and nondescript
as the exhibition is, the general effect
is undeniably pretty, lively, and gay,
with a touch of the whimsical, which
does no harm U^ its picturesque qua-
lities,— the summer air playing in the
odd disguises, the sunshine touching
all it can reach into bright refler-
tion. The women clustering at doors
and windows; the rente of the ap-
460 JhsSethBUkintheJPigtpal Slates. JJc^
proMliraj^ proeeasion nftrked along or pass from one geiiertfliBB tt m-
the little eqaare by epri^ of box and other, and form an loportaBi pc
sweet' nnelliog mjrtle, strewed in an of the primitive propertj and ovez.
!«nprompm carpet, and a pleiiflant Btir of their hnmble ownen. A» a!f
of expectation animfttini^ the whole, come trooping down from uafa* *&
The little chapel door stands open ; deep shadow of the arch, tkt fver
\U interior, dark in shadow, contrast- ones gaining a certain modcai ^ie'^r;
iog with all this oat-of-doors light from that pretty bead-drcas.^ ctmsz
and sanshine, and the faint candles into the light with their vMi i*.
twinkling on the altar. Yonder robes, and glittering omaiBeato. b.
comes the procession, defiling slowly snowy poflb of saoshtDe, the^ ^ns
throngli the deep shadow of that old conferring a mstical and ^riaOB*
arch ; a very commonplace proces- refinement npon all, and thezr dkf-
sion certainly, with the nsual crosses, habits qnalifying them famomly ir
the npnal lamp?, the ordinary chant, taking their part in a procrnini i,
and the poor little yellow candles prettier sight conid not he iiiwiiiii' '
melting in the daylight, or puffed the men with their pink tippeto a&i.
oat in a sweeter mockery by the May staggering crosses, who lead Cfae «it
breeze. However, doee -behind the or even the careless prieafa who fa
priestly bearer of the hfjst, to hail the main body, have no chanee aw^
whose coming the crowd subsides the majestic step and bearini? of vts
npon its knees, is by much the most female followers, trained by 6^"^
interesting portion of the train — a water-carrying, though their also-
score or so of Nettuno women in their dance is nndonbtedly ex gratfA, i '
beautiful costume, scarlet or crim- they have no legitimate
son dresses, nobly ignorant of crino- there,
line, falling in long, close, graceful It is somewhat amn^iDg, howeve.
plaits to their feet, with closely-fit- to watch them as the proceasioo ta^
ting jackets of the same colour and its place in the little chorch. EmA
materinl, gorgeously trimmed with individual, as she sinks npoo her
gold and silver lace (as it appears), knees, calmly unfurls her fao^ I^
and glittering in the sunshine. Great ranges her drapery, and, in thu
white muslin aprons, beautifully em- attitude of devotion, looks oo vrd
broidered ; handkerchiefs correspond- dignified composure, faontDg hers^
ing, which are worn round the neck till it is time to get np again and i.i-
like large rich collars, and the pret- low the train once more. The proca
tiest indescribable head-dress— a kind is the same even on oocaj^ions of men
of short cotton scarf, fringed at one individual devotion. The good vo-
end with stripes of colour, and glit- man who comes to church of her ova
tering bars of gold thread, undernenth inclinations to make her owd private
which, over each ear, is introduced a prayers, drops first upon her knes.
bow of ribbon, completes the dress, then sets her fan in motion; tixs
without mentioning the long pendant draws her rosary in ti leisurely com*
earringo, the necklaces of coral, the fortable fashion from her pocket, aad
big gold brooches, and pretty fans, carries on the spiritual exercise and
which add so many decorative par- the physical one at the same momeot,
ticulars to the graceful toilette, which with a steady composure and gra^i^
must be almost as costly as it is graoe^ sufficiently amazing ; so much ss^
fol. Some of the women in this cortege that if one did not see the fan glidio^
have their dresses mn^e of crimson through her fingers on lighter ocea-
Eatin, the rich soft clinging folds of sions, one might suppose that prettj
which suit its fashion admirably ; the piece of vanity was somehow a r^
majoritv are of woollen stuff*; but the ligious implement, and gave force or
resplendent trimming of the jackets, sanctity to the prayers,
and the beautiful needlework of their But the procession passes, the caih
kerchiefs and aprons, would make dies glare back again vn their way to
any fashion costly, with, of course, make another call upon the presid-
the reservation that these articleH of ing saint of anotlier chapel, and the
local co.*itume, seldom worn, and in- draperies are taken down from tbe
variable in form, last oat a lifetime, windows in the Fiasd. l^otkisg re*
1859.] The Sea-^Ude in Us Papal Slates. 481
mains but ft faiot aromatic odour of features of a fbregronnd become pre*
the eTergreen sprigs, brDised on the ctoos, aod the peculiar poise of those
pavem^it, and a whiff of iocense ; bat golden plnmes of broom grow import-
everybody harries to the oezt point ant — when lo I a rustle among the
^here the train is appointed to stop, underwood, a tremnlons qniver of all
as if a religions prooession did not the boshes 1 What is it? Crash in-
pass that same way some hundred to the little thicket come schoolboy
days in the year. They march slowly, footsteps and voices, intent on some-
that venerable tortege, and it is worth thing. Oor artist makes a panse of
"while glancing in to cee the deeora- dismay. Are they birds'-nestiog ? or
tioDB of the other little chnrch to chasing some tiny snake or big lizard ?
which they are bound. Here there Worse than that 1 There they go,
is a flowery carpet spread for them, dragging down the branches, making
elaborately decorative as il approaches wiki scrambly leaps at our precious
the altar, and stretching along almost pennons of broom 1 The next mo-
the whole area of the little nave ; a ment, to the utter amaze of the speo-
carpet, formed of the shed leaves of tator, who is not sketching, and
wild-flowera — the yellow broom, the whose peculiar property is not men-
purple mallow, the scarlet poppy, aoed, the aketch-book is dashed
and other of the commonest wayside upon the grass, and the painter
blossoms—not the flowers themselves, plunges furious into the brusnwood,
but the petals, strewed lightly in a with despairing exclamations, **Ily
tasteful intermixture, or in distinct foreground I'* Down among the
lines and fringes of colour, with the unconscious schoolboys descend the
prettiest efiect in the world ; the upper strokes of his wrath, and the invkd-
portion displaying a golden chalice ers fly before the vigorous English
made of the yellow petals of the threats, of which they do not under-
broom, with appropriate borders and stand a word, and the pantomime,
accessories. To be sure the feet of which is perfectly expressive and
the approaching procession must intelligible, and not to be mistaken,
efface that pretty show in a few mo- But what have they done ? They fly
ments ; but the material is of the in total ignorance of their crime, and
cheapest, and the light petals leave the artist returns with shouts of
no stain behind them ; and it is edi- laughter at the dreadful peril which
fyuig to remark how carefully the has just passed, and his own wrath
inferior members of the procession, and triumph ; but has scarcely re-
entering firbt, avoid disturbing it ; sumed his tools when a mild Fran-
how they push back the little choris- ciscan appears, doubtful and inquir-
ters, and take their own place at the ing, to know what the boys can have
side, and leave the frech glory of the done to excite the wrath of the Signer
flower-carpet for the priestly feet Forestieri ? How the explanation
which follow. Perhaps some of them managed to be made, and how the
have had a hand in its construction ; English painter, with his dozen words
and the children have certainly had of Italian, and the astonished priest,
more than one holiday gathering the who knew not a word of any other
flowers. modern language, succeeded in un-
For thereby hangs a tale — worthy derstanding each other, we do not
to take its place in the anecdotical pretend to explain ; but the good
annals of the landscape art. An art- ^Franciscan withdrew his troop to
ist of our party bad chosen with care other coverts, — where nobody as-
and paius, a day or two before, bis serted the rights of Art, or stood up
poiot of view for a sketch. A very in defence of a foreground, — with
pretty point of view it was, showing, smiling, if* only half-SHtisfled polite-
over a ineturesque foreground of cliff, ness. Here was the sacred purpose
covered with thickets of broom and for which these unconscious little
brushwood, the fortress front of the invaders exposed themselves to Art
little town, with the blue Yolsctans indignant Fortunately, miles of
behind and the blue sea before. The broom - blossoms lay at their will ;
sketch bad made very good progress, and we only looked at each other
and had reached that poiot when the with a laughable association whei»
482
I%0 SeoMe in ike Papal i9toto.
[Oefc.
we saw the cbalioe of goldeo petals
on the Franciscan chapel floor.
Let ns take our way now along the
beaoh, nnder those lofty e\\Ss, with
their waving crest of brooBi<---deep
broad sands, which wonld be ezqai-
site for bathing bat for the quiet
level at which they stretch nnder
the water, so that, to gain a toler-
able depth, yon woald need to pene-
trate half a mile ont to sea— sands
whicb are broken here and there
by masses of indestractible old Bo-
man brickwork, shapeless lintels and
archways, and forlorn storehonses
dug into the cmmbling rock. The
rock looks — (we have not geology
enough to say what it it) — like a yel-
low mass of concrete, closely sown
with shells; and has no sach appear-
ance of sturdy, indestroctible lon-
Svity as those remnants of human
wnr, the steadfast mortar and
diamond - shaped bricks of the old
dwellers on this shore, over which
rnins Nature waves her rank, melan-
choly triumph of vegetation, drop-
ping here and there a broad-leaved,
unprofitable wild fig into the hollow
of some desecrated hnman house, a
thousand years deserted. Along this
whole line the cliffs are pierced and
penetrated by passages, leading no
one knows where, to dwellings of
which not a trace remains, and hol-
lowed out into mimic caves and
grottoes, where once the fiery Yol-
scians cooled their wine and laid up
their domestic stores, but which no
one but a chance bather and the mel-
ancholy winds can enter now. Pass-
ing those strange desolate traces of
the race which is gone — ^that obsti-
nate imperious race, of which neither
time nor storm can obliterate the
footprints — ^there lies the little Porto
d*Anzlo, gleaming bright in the sun-
shine, with its sharp little promontory
of building, its little quay and shlp^
ping, its tiny stir of industry, half
rustical and half seafariqg. Porto
d'Anzio, at this present speaking, has
brightened itself up for a great festa,
and is in a universal flutter of excite-
ment Let ns pass on bevond the
village seaport, to those headlands
opening to the wider sea beyond,
where dark ragged piles, which look
like rocks, but are the handiwork of
man, stand out far into the shallow
water, relics of the impefial mole
which once made a great seapoK of
this city of rnina This very bit d
beach along which we pas8» betwea
those vast vacant cellars open to tbe
sea, and the shapeless masses of tbe
old breakwater, is not roek, bal bride
and mortar, and everlasting artifidal
mass that nothing seems capable of
wearing out; and nnder those cave-
roofe, vaulted and invulnerable, with
their pathetic blocked-ap passai^
which lead to nothing, — ^there, with
the very bricks pick^ oat of iti
steady rectangular lines, — ^tfae hard,
tenacious, imperial mortar pres&res
its obstinate unbroken form as sharp
and clear as any honeyconnb. Look
yonder how they round towards tbe
west, point after point, vrith tbe saise
gigantic lining of deserted hamaa
haunts and magnificent necesBitlee
long since overpast ! — the very
mounds of softer sand interveoiag
between them scattered with ri^
fragments of broken marble, instead
of oommoii pebbles, and gleaming
with a dust of alabaster, and serpeo'
tine, and rosio antieo over all its
natural crystals. Ohristianity had
but begun to breathe its influence
over the world, when the imperial
savage, born in the old YoUcian city,
set his new town upon this rodkj
coast, and dazzled tbe empire with a
restored Antium more splendid than
the first — and the chances are that
the world itself will not outlive those
relics of antique skill and toil. Upou
the height of the low clifl& which are
thus bound and excavated, stretch
broad the winding slopes of a long
succession of downe, covered with
coarse grass and sharp thiMtles, a
bitter, biting vegetation. But walk
warily 1 A step too close npon thai
sudden hoUow may land you in the
lost palace of a forgotten Roman:
a touch too near those wild fig-
branches, and you may excavate and
discover, at the cost of your life,
Apollo's buried temple ; — bat tbe
hard grass pricks at your uneasy
feet, and the deopitful moands mantle,
stern and uninviting, over those hol-
low secrets they carry in their depth.
Here is no grandeur bat tbe sea, and
tbe air, and the sky, which h^s seen
all and made its record. N'othisg
living of the art, the splendoar, and
L8590
The Sea-Me in thi Papal StaUs,
483
tbe wealth which onoe looked glo-
rious oirer those aDwitoeisiog waters
— nothiog bat the stern foandattons,
outliving me aod beaaty — tbe hard,
imperioQa marka of human authority,
and traces of bumaD toil.
While little Porto d*ADzto youder
bresLks bright and smiliog into the
aea, with her little fortress carrying
one guD — a gun of renown, which
ODoe defied an English squadron —
and her little fleet oi lateen sails, her
fishiog- boats, and Neapolitan traders,
aud ber Pope's villa, jellow and im-
portant, like an erection of paste-
board, or a slice from the Crystal
Palace done into stone, presiding
placidly over tbe pleasures of the
festa which agitates the little sea-
port. There goes the procession forth
from the church doors already, under
salute of the great gun, and with
din of bells and flourish of trumpets
from the local band. Forth along
tbe pavement of the quay with the
dead sullen remnants of Hercules'
great temple on one side of them,
and Apollo's buried splendours on
tbe other, march the peaceable fishers
and tradesmen of to-day — bearing
aloft in unsteady state the holy
image of St Antonio of Padua, before
whose sickly wooden smile and bene*
diction all good Christians go down
upon their knees. After all, great
ghosts and phantoms of the imperial
times, how much id he better, this
imbecile, wooden St. Antonio, than
your Apollo and Hercules? They
can only choke up the old magnifi-
cence of your harbours with foolish
attempts to better them— these well-
intentioned processionists and the
priests that ordain their doings— and
will never leave any such trace be-
hind of their lives of ignoble leisure,
as those stern elbows of brick and
mortsr, bristling ftom your ancient
coasts. However, it is still the living
dog that is better than the dead lion
— better because it has still the light
and tbe air about it, and can enjoy
itself, and make tbe best of its poor
little pleasures in this perfectly use-
less and commonplace but amusing
and suDshiny to-day.
When 8t. Antonio has done his
yearly duty as patron saint, and dls-
peoaed his feeble wooden benedic-
tion around him through all the
streets of Porto d'AnzIo, like a fath-
erly and good-humoured divinity —
there are gajer doinp to follow.
One of the vessels in tbe harbour
has a gay little flag set up upon the
end of a greased pole, which projects
over the water from its bows; and
the sea -games are about to com-
mence. In the sloop, which is the
scene of action,' cluster a crowd of
supple, muscular, brown figures,
most primitively arrayed with
short drawers, and no other garment.
1'he man of them who can keep
his footing on the greasy pole far
enough out to snatch the flag, is to
have a purse of scudi for his prize.
The competitors are mostly youths,
fishermen or sailors belonging to
tbe vessels in port, with a swarm
of little amphibious wretches, from
ten years old to fifteen, at present
amusing themselves by diving like
so many fishes head foremost into
the blue water, while the elder and
more serious band complete their pre-
parations. The day is splendid, the
water blue as sapphire, the sunt-hioe
da2zlu3g. Magnificent visitors from
Nettuno in their uniform of scarlet
and gold, Porto d*Aozio women
with gauzy pink shawls over their
dark hair, sea-bathing visitors in gay
toilettes, cover tbe line of the quay
and every available « point of view;
the urchins of the port drop head-
long, like a shoal of silvery herrings,
into the blue water; the sloops in
tbe harbour are in a flatter of flags,
and the spectators in a thrill with
expectation and excitement Then
the competitors begin to make cau-
tious spproach to the slippery boom ;
and for something more than an
hour a succession of ludicrous fail-
ures and plunges into the deep water
beneath kept the audience amused.
It was a comical scene enough cer-
tainly— a few staggering unsteady
steps, a desperate balance of arms
in the air, a drop or a plunge,— one
figure disappearing so close to the
spot where another figure a moment
before had disappeared, Uiat a colli-
sion and crash of skulls in the water
seemed no unlikely accident, — then a
gradual reappearance of the dripping
head, a few vigorous strokes, and a
universal scramble by all the stray
ropes attainable, to regain a place
4B4
The Sea-gide in ihs Papal States.
[Oct
on the deck, end try ODce more. Like
amphibioQS ereatares at play io an
elemeot qaite as natural aod familiar
to them as the firmer ground, those
sopple, elastic figures plunged, scram-
bled, and twisted about each other,
with an agility and daring so com-
mon and equal, and a failure so in-
evitable, that the contest had not
sufficient excitement to keep up its
interest — till at last, the boom of
course getting gradually cleared of
its slippery coating, one lucky fellow
achieved a step farther than the rest,
and managea to snatch the little
pennon along with him on his hun-
dredth plunge. That sport being
over, the water became in a few
minutes alive with boys, amongst
whom the master of the ceremonies
plunged a flock of struggling, fright*
ened docks. To swim like ducks
is very inadequate praise, as it ap-
peared, for the lads of Porto d'Anzio.
The ducks had no chanoe against
the urchins; the flatter of wings —
the long skim across the water, with
a dozen wet heads and gleaming
arms in desperate pursuit— the cap-
ture, with its gobble of terror and
shout of triumph, excited the liveliest
interest among the spectators. One
little fellow made his appearance,
scrambling np a loose rope into a
boat, with three .victims in his arms
— himself looking scarcely bigger
than the shrieking fowls he bad cap-
tured, as be rose dripping and joyous
out of the sea ; and the swarm of lithe,
little, wet half-naked figures swarm-
ing up everywhere, by Uie meet pre-
carious hold to which schoolboy fin-
gers oould cling, was the most odd
sight imaginable. As this ended,
some gay boats appeared a little dis-
tance out upon the bay->a boat race
— save the mark I — of about half of
a quarter of a mile, won by a labo-
rious crew, which could not have
kept up for two strokes with any
wherry on the Thames ; bot as the
ten minutes' performance sufficed to
produce a new variety of dress aod
colours, nobody found any fault with
it. With this the Giuoclii di Mare
terminated ; and the bright- coloured
crowd poured along the quay to the
Piazza, to lose its wits in the excite-
ment of a grand Tornbola^ with a
prize of some hundreds of scodi;
passbg by all the attraetions of the
caf6s, the ices, the gingerbread atalh,
the tMskets of blufihing pink ehemee,
aod round Oiambilli biscaits, for the
greater charm of that desperate bot
pleasant piece of gambling, where
the excitement of the sport most
repay the five hundred snbeeriben^
and only one can gain the priie. A
paper ticket, with fifteen nnmben,
flutters in everybody's hand, ▼aloe
twelve baiocchi— a day's living ; and
there wave the red hangings from the
important balcony, aod the mjatie
numbers come out of the bag, and
show solemn on the great board one
by one, amid the buzz, the eager
strain of observation, the desperate
pricks and pencil-marks of a thou-
sand fingers in the crowd. When
this nnfailrog game and excitement
is over, then is the time for the cafi§s
— for there are still fireworks and
illuminations, as the evening darkens,
to conclude the great feast of 8t
Antonio di Padova, who by this time
has retired into his cupboard bene-
volent and unselfish ; and for another
year will be heard of no more on the
streets of Aozio-^loudly as they hon-
our their venerated patron now.
These are our amnsements in the
Italian vUlaggiatura — amoFements
never failing with all the varieties
of locality and country custom ; for
that would be a strange month io the
southern calendar which did not iend
the name and holy memory of a Saiot
Somebody to authorise a processioD
and justify a tombola. It is safe to
say that something of the kind hap-
pens somewhere in every coontry-side
about onoe in the fortnight ; and
these by no means unorthodox and
blamable festivities, diseonnlenaaoed
by the authorities and firowned oe by
the clergy, like onr mral faira in Keg-
land, but highly laudable and praise-
worthy enjoyments, to the special
glory of the salnta and hononr of re-
ligion; whi^ makes a vast diffiffenee,
as everybody must perceive — a differ-
ence which, perhaps, has somethfog
to do with the more important dif-
ferenoe which exists between oar
national character and that of oor
continental neighboara generally.
Oor pleesores have rarely any sase-
Uon of anthori^, or enoonrageaieBt
of principle ; hot hoUdayi and plea-
59,]
Tks SsO'Me in tht F^tpal SuatB.
485
re-inakiogf are always legitimate,
lid able, aD<i to be eneoorag^d here;
^rbapa safer than work, oertalnly^
fer than thiDkiag, that foolish and
oableeome exerciae proper only to
^bonari and revoIatioDaries, which
i not good for the health of a oon-
snted people. So all the world
muses itself vlrtaoady for the honour
f St. ADtonio of Padaa, and reliffion
9 bonoured in the village tomiola^
iud everybody is at ease.
Alas I not every body. The'* strick-
en deer" most go weep while " the
iiarts QDgall^d play," even in the iDdol-
pent atmoephere of the Papal States,
Thoagh ii is rather the striking than
the Btricken who at this moment call
for cor sy mpathiee. Look at them, poor
lei lows, clustering dark and sullen
like a cloud round their square prison-
window, with its strong iron bars, as
we return in the twilight through
the gate into the solitude of Nettuno,
deserted by every living creature save
a few grandmammas, babies, and re-
piDiitg maids. They have a merry,
idle lite enough on ordinary occasions,
these good fellows behind the grating,
and are served with their after-dinner
coffee by the caffetUre opposite, and
smoke their cigars, and play the odd
cards of the coantry, at the inner
window-sill, in sight of the admiring
public, which makes hourly calU
upon them with perfect apparent
relish of their existence. There is
always a little levee at that prison
window — friends from the country,
picturesque brown lads with bus-
kined legs and sugar-loaf hats, who
have had, or will have their own torn
in that leisurely retirement some
time; honest peasant women, no-
ways ashamed of their friends in
trouble; the gossips of the village,
all and sundiy, not excluding now
and then a passing friar. Why should
not they be countenanced by every-
body? You don't suppose they are
there for stealing, or any such mean
and petty misdemeanour ? No, poor
fellows 1 Tbey have each of them
stabbed bis man, thai is all ,* and the
interest aod sympathy cf the country
natarsUy goes with that picturesque
and suggestive species of misfortune.
Bi^t the poor ladsl they are melan-
choly to-day. An emnty cofftie-cup
t aods on the outer aiU there, pushed
through the bars by the consumer
inside ; but even the eaffetiere has
gone to Porto d'Anzio to enjoy him-
self, and nobody has come so much
as to take the oup away. Nobody
has been there to talk to our virtuous
friends in prison since they witnessed,
with doleful eyes, the whole popula-
tion trooping off in holiday garb to see
the Giuochi di Motet and try its luck
at the tombola, a possibility from
which adverse fste has debarred
themselves. Poor fellows t is it pos-
sible to be otherwise than sorry for
them ? They pick up courage a little
at bight of ourselves, who are among
the earliest of the home-returning
crowd, and one of them touches his
hat mournfully with some idea of
compensation, and a delicate re-
mainder to the Forest ieri that here is
a box for the poor prisoners ; but let
every feeling heart think what must
have been the sufferings of their soli-
tude to-day 1 tantalised by thoughts
of all the fun and festivity going on
BO near them, and gazing out for so
many hours upon the deserted bit of
street sloping under that dark arch-
way. Such honourable culprits, too I
respected by the whole community ;
but justice must be administered,
alas I even by the tender hand of a
paternal government And a town
which h^ a Governatore and a
Priore, and one cannot tell how
many other magistrates, most not be
over- indulgent ; still for their tad
solitude and affliction, when all the
world has been enjoying itself, poor
virtuous lads of spirit, let ns not re-
fuse a sympathetio tear 1
However, here we are at home,
making forcible entrance, Sora Mari-
anna ^ing still behind us, and the
house deserted. Guests, too, coming
after us ; venerable pr«/i, for whom
it is necessary to be well prepared.
Apropos of our prison sympathies,
and of the respectable Magutura of
this municipality, let us iiear our
Franciscan, who is food of story-
telling, delivering hiEQS(;lf of a some*
what tragical little tale, belonging
not to this immediate neighbour-
hood, but to the adjoining country,
not very far away—which, tohl by a
peaceable Italian monk, uncontra-
dicted by Italian auditors, gives one
rather a dismal idea, not to say some
486
Tki S§a*nd4 in ih$ Papal States
[Od
thing of a eUll and shiver, when one
thicks of Jostice aod its ftdmiitis-
trators in this raral ooontry. Sop-
pose OS in our bare little eatiog-
room, not an article of fbroitore or
decoration in the place bat the chairs
we ococpy and the table epread for
oar early evening meal, tvro tali
Koman lamps, some flasks of wine,
and a green bowl of salad standing
for ornament — bat the door open,
with a glimpse of the sea and rising
moon, and the last chorns of the Ave
Maria ringing oot of oar little piazsa.
Aroond all the pictaresqae gloom
of the fortress-village -^ the black
darkness of that gnlf of stairs lead-
iog to the foantaiB, the very spot
for an assassination close by --and
the sarronDding commaoity very re-
spectful and sympathetic with those
excellent yoang men within the bars
of the prison window,— and then
imagioe the good monk with his
bald placid forehead and black sknil-
cap teiliog his agreeable little tale.
** It happened not long ago," said
the holy father, '* and it is very well
known, and I myself have heard it
in several different versions --but of
coarse I have maoy means of know-
ing the troth, and I can answer for
ray own. It was a steward of Tor-
looia, or some other of the great
people who have tfaoee vast farms on
the Pontine Marshes ; he was sent
with a great sam in scudi to pay the
labourers and herdsmen on the farm
— a very prudent man — a worthy
man. He took every precaution,
thitugh they did not turn to accoant.
He was compelled to pass the night
in the town of Braccielo. I know it
very well. I knew the good padre,
who came by his end. Ah, he was
a good man. Torlooia's steward be-
ing prudent, as I say, instead of go-
ing to the Osteria, and taking the
usual risk of travellers, went to the
Governatore, as seemed wise, and
told him of the danari he carried,
and that he feared to be plundered.
The Oovernatore, after commending
his prndence, and thinking it over,
sent him to the house of the Padre
Roberto — a man mach beloved —
where the father received him will*
ingly, and gave him his best cham-
^ ^r. They supped, and all was well ;
the stranger, with his treasure
and his pistols, went to rest About
the middle of the nighty some one
came knocking violently to the
Padre's door; the hoosfskeeper rose
to ask who it was— for the faouee of
a priest must be ever open to the
demands of his flock. It was some
one in the town who would see the
priest, and was dying, said the aiK
swer; npon which, as necessary, the
woman opened the door. But I
must tell you that, before now, the
steward, sleeping lightly, as men do
who carry treasure, was awake and
listening. It was dark — he had no
light— and his chamber was to the
opposite side of the hoase ; but he
could still hear. The next soand
that came to him in the darkoen,
after the unbarring of the door, wu
the sound of a pistol-shot— a soand
one does not mistake vrhen one hean
it in the depths of the night Thii
sound roused the steward to drav*
forth his own pistols, and barricade
his door with the famitore. Then
he heard the good Padre come forth
to ask why he was wanted, and
what the commotion was. Then
soanded another pistol-shot, aod an-
other groan, and the steward knew
he now coald have no hope bnt to
defend himself. Shortly he heard
the steps of the assassins. They knew
where he was lodged, and assailed
his door, which he bad locked and
barricaded, with anv loss of tinia
At a ventare he fired, taking all the
aim he conld from the soandd be
heard,— for he was bold and in de-
spair. Twice he fired, and twice a
groan and a fall showed him that it
was not in vain. When he hid
waited a little, and heard nothiog,
he withdrew his barricade, aod
rushed oat Two men lay theie
before his door.'^
*<And these men?" cried one of
the listeners, eager to forestall the
story.
*« Hush r' said the friar, waving ha
hand, **do yoa think he paused to
look at that moment? He lashed
forth out of the house, leaving, aUs I
the good Father Roberto dead or
dying below, with the poor woman,
besides the robbers, above. He
rushed to the house of the Ooverna-
tore to daim proteetion. When be
had roosed some one to answer hin,
859.]
The Sea-Me in the Papal StaUa.
48T
be OoTernatore was Dot to be found
-he was absent ; tben tiie poor man
astenetl to the Secretario. The
>ecretario was gone also. Great
roable and fear came upon the
»oople, for by this time many were
listnrbed, what with the sound of
: nocking, what with the pistol-
hots, and the people began to un-
lerstand that something had hap-
pened to their good Padre Roberto.
The steward returned to the house
kt last with liffbts and a body of the
ownsfolk. There lay Padre Roberto
lead, and his housekeeper ; and
Lbove-stairs were the two men, one
>f them still living, with muffled
'aces. When they had uncovered the
•obbers, there lay the Govematore
md Secretario ; that was the explan-
Ltion of the mystery. The living
*obber went to the galleys. E' teroy
Mgnor Antonio? You have beard
;he tale as well as I."
Nobody contradicted the monk:
bbere were diverse opinions as to
some of the details; the second
villain being reported by one as an
Inferior priest, instead of the secre-
tary of the Magistura. But the
story stood untouched in all its
facts — a tale horrible enough to
scare a stranger — ^and of a kind
which, told in any other place, by
any other person, would most likely
have provoked more incredulity, if
net indignation. But the ground
was fertile, being broken ; one anec-
dote followed another, if not of the
same description, yet sad enough
and unbelievable enough, consider-
ing how far we are on in the history
of the world. Yet the same good
friar, who told in all simplicitpr this
lamentable incident, mourned m the
same breath over the dreadful inva-
sion of that railway to Naples, which
should shordy pass within sight and
heariuff of this very coast, and abridge
the Pontine Marshes with its iron
highway. Alas for those religious
villages, with their evening echoes of
the Ave MaHoky where one could hear
the sound of the simple folk at their
prayers, as one pondered one's pet
theological difficultv — those delicate,
safe difficulties which the church
permits to her faithful children t The
exoeUent Padre lifted his mild eyes
to heaven in horror as be prognoeti-
oated how the Tillage devoatneaB
would take wings to itself— how the
prayers would cease, and the con-
fessionals fall empty, before the
dread march of civilization, and its
terrible line of rails. He fbrgot
those virtuous municipal authorities
who figured in his own grueioms
tale, as he unfolded these forebodings
to our skeptical British ears; but
the good country priest, with his
limited local horizon and small ex-
perience, was not alone in this odd
ibrgetfolness. And it is nothing
unusual to hear an ecclesiastic of
more cultivated mind and expansive
knowledge, even a man who may
happen to have been bom an Eng-
lishman and to have lived in another
atmosphere than that of a convent,
altogether unmindful of the tales he
himself has Just been telling yon —
tales of family intrigue, or social de-
pravity, or mendicancy incurable;
turn from that theme to proclaim his
alarms over a half-dozen miles of
railway, or an arrival of books for-
bidden by the Index Btpurgatorius ;
and inform you, with unbelievable
simplicity and good faith, of all the
papal expedients for keeping the
devil out of those sacred and care-
fully guarded territories, without so
far as appears, the faintest idea that
the strongest ecclesiastical body in
the world might do something in the
way of fighting and ousting tbe same
devil when he was in. As if he
could only travel nowadays in a rail-
way carriage, that wise old serpent t
as if he could not put up with an
Aw Maria, and have a gentlemanly
admiration of the nicturesque in re-
ligion like his neignbonrs !<— or as if
he had not be^ a very old estab-
lished and well-acquainted resident
in the Papal States, as in every other
quarter, smce before Rome and the
Osssars, before the earliest history or
memory of man !
This sort of life, however, let us
assure all sympathetic readers, is
infinitely more original than that
of Brighton or Scarborough. It is
piquant to get up in the morning in a
state of dramatic and interesting un-
certainty whether yon will be able
to have anything for dinner; it is
delightftil to make your toilette dh-
der a gigantic white umbrella, in a.
VOL. TilllVi.
82
488
Breton Ballads —
[Oct.
crevice of the rocks, sublimely inde<
pendent of the mechanical aid of
bathing-machine ; and, to leap from
physical enjoyments to moral ones, it
IS impossible to describe the wonder-
ful shock and thrilling revolutionary
impulse given to one's preconceived
ideas, by a calm and unimpasdioned
narrative of a murdering Govema-
tore, supplemented by a burst of pious
horror over the miserable little bit
of railway, which creeps along the
base of the Alban hills. Such en-
chanting paradoxes have fallen out
of our way in England; but all
England could not produce a Net-
tuno, a conglomerate of architecture
so original and picturesque, a local
costume so splendid, a life so primi-
tive. That cage of high-spirited young
villains, drinking their coffee and
making their conversation through
the prison window, with an admir-
ing audience round them, filled with
due respect for their courage and
misfortunes, is a novelty refreshing
and original, altogether superior to
our sentimental, occasional sympa-
thy for an intereating murderer ; and
there is a charm in thia whole savage
life, when one has but streDgth «^i
spirit to enjoy it. But savage is tk
charm. Perhaps you can identify the
Italy of the poets iu that wonderfBl
sea, and princely headland — ^in yon-
der imperious ruin of men wtiieh
will not die, and in this brillia&t
tender May, shining and smiliijf
over the grey convent walls, the aa-
cient towers, the face of nacare, and
the records of the past ; bnt all th€
subtle suggestions of refinement aod
poetic splendour conveyed in the
very name of this contradictoTT
country, die and perish in her com-
mon life and visible present exisst-
ence; where there is not even ro-
mantic poverty and want to touch
a natural sentiment of tenderness,
and one^s pity is swallowed np, aad
one's amour propre wbini&icallT
af^onted, to see all vestiges and
possibilities of the better day one
hopes for lost in the savage satb-
faction and competency of a mde
content.
BRETON BALLADS.
• J
tlNO LOUIS TBS XLEVXNTB's PAGS.
Dialect of ComcuiaUe.
[Thosb Bretons whom ambition or desire to distinguish themaelves at-
tracted (li^® ^° Guesclln) into France, bore thither, beneath the b&era
of their Suzerain, their national enmity to the French, which frequently led
to sanguinary encounters, originating chiefly in their aversion for the more
polished manners of the latter ; who, again^ reproached tlie Bretons with
coarseness for preferring the blunt frankness of their ancestors to the cump-
tion of the French Court]
Popular tradition has preserved the following spirited version of an oocor-
renoe which proves that the despotic monarchs of France, in altercations on
the above grounds between their pages, did not scruple to cast into the
scale against the victor's sword the axe of the execati<Mier.
The King's young page in {>ri8on pines, for a page's trick at best ;
For a bold stroke struck this fair young page is a gloomy dungeon's guest ;
There, he knows no change of day or night, on his lonely couch of straw,
And his dry black loaf to moisten the dull ditch-water they draw ;
Nor comes there a soul to visit him, or a kindly message sends,
But with dark rats and hungry mice he's fain to make him friends.
Till it chanced one day to the key-hole chink a faithful one draws near,
And the captive whispers, '^ Jannik I go fly to my sister dear ;
Say my life lies in deadly peril, at the cruel King's decree,
And my heart it would comfort greatly if her I could only see I"
^9.] JShi9 LwUP$ Face, 489
he faithfiil one be liBtens, there Deeds but a word to the wise,
o, leaping into (he saddle, to Brittany he hies;
eagaes an hundred and thirty stretch them 'twizt Paris and where he is
bound,
•at two dfliys and a night to the Breton childe suffice to cover the ground.
!ieath the Dais, at the board presiding, in her gaily-lighted hall,
at the fair Dame of Bodinio, amid the nobles all ;
o pour the wine from the goblet her lily hand was raised,
LS, with startled mien, as he entered in, she on the rider gazed.
Oh, gentle page, what tidings, that your cheek is ashen grey,
Lud your panting breast is heaving high, just like a stages at bay 9"
My tidings, lady, I fear me, will cost thee many a sigh,
»ring sorrow to thy bosom, and tears into thine eye :
'hy brother's life is forfeit, at the cruel King's decree,
Lnd Ms sinking heart for comfort turns only now to thee /"
'be lady*B hand it trembled, and in blood-drops like the rain
*ell the red wine, sad omen I the snowy cloth to stain.
Ho there I grooms, quickly saddle twelve horses for our flight;
f I founder one at every atage. Til be in Paris ere night!''
'he Kind's young page in the mean time to the scaffold, alas I is bound,
Lnd he sighs as be sets his lingering foot on the ladder's lowest round !
' I had reck'd but little of death, if my kindred had been near —
f I had but ftiends around me, and saw but my sister dear I
ilvery day, every hour she'll miss me, and call on her brother in vain —
>h 1 for sight of my sweet sister I and tidings of fair Bretagne I"
Thus murmurs the boy, as, step by step, the ladder he ascends —
^ Would I had heard, before I died, of my country and my friends I" —
3ut '^Hark!" he exclaims, as he stands at length on the fatal platform
high, .
^ I hear the pavement ringing, 'tis my sister drawing uigh ! —
Tis ray sister come to see me I — ^in God's name grant delay 1" —
^ Thy head must fall ere she nears thee," did the cruel Provost say.
(Vliile yet he spoke, Bodinio's dame is asking all she meets,
* Yejnen of Paris! why these crowds that block up all the streets?"
^ 'Tis but the bead of one poor page the traitor Louis takes."
3he gazes up, her brother sees, and through the press she breaks,
Domes just in time his kneeling form, bent o'er the block, to see ;
Leaps, at full gallop, off her horse — cries, '^ Archers ! let him be !
3ne hundred crowns of gold, and of silver too I'll give,
[f ye will hold your cruel hands, and let mv brother live !"
Just then, her brother's severed head falls down the block beside,
^nd, spouting o'er her dabbled veil, runs down the crimson tide.
' I come to ask ye, King and Qaeen, together on your throne.
What made ye seek my brother's blood ?— what evil had he done ?"
^^ In broil, without his monarch's leave, his hasty sword he drew,
And in my court, before my face, my fav'rite page he slew."
^^ Not iK^ithout cause, full well I know." — " Cause still assassins claim."
>« No gentleman of Brittany e'er bore that hateftd name ;
For France I will not say as moch — ^tis known your wolfish brood
Like better far to spill and take, than risk your precious blood !"
^^ Hold, dame ! forbear ! if ye would Uve, home scathless to return !"
^^ I reck not if I go or stay, my brother since I mourn ;
But should all kings on earth say nay, his reasons I will know."
^ Well 1 since his reasons ye will have, Til tell them ere ye go : —
He sought a quarrel with my page, Just for the well-known line,
4M Br4t0n BaOai^^ [Oot
That Brittany, instead of m«), rean only sayage swine I"
^* If that^s a saying fraught with tmth, another hear from me— •
Toa*re hnt a sorry Jester, King Lonis though yon be.
Bnt for that jest, 'twill soon be seen, if yon may not grow pale,
When to my Breton coantrymen IVe shown my blood-stainM reiL
Then will ye see if savage boars onr woods indeed oontain,
When the best blood of fVanoe yonr deed shall caose to flow amain!"
Few weeks had paas'd ; into the oonrt came letters sealed with red —
As read the King, his deep black eyes rolPd fiercely in his head;
Boird like the wildcat's in a trap, as by his saints ne swore,
That, had he known, that hanghty dame had ne'er seen Bretagne more.
'^Ten thousand crowns 1 ten thousand lives T' exclaimed he in his rage;
*^ A pretty price to pay, forsooth — ^for the life of one poor page !"
l^OR.— The family of Bodinio was auoient and distinffQiBhed, as was that of the
John (or Jannik) of the ballad, a pace of Louis the ISeveiith. Be the eaoia of
it accurately handed down or not^ Uie vindictive incuniou of the Bretons into
France, which took place under Louie the Eleventh in 1406, is matter of histoty.
THS OBTTBADXB^S SBTUKIf.
[On the subject of the following ballad (a somewhat hackneyed one, and
one of the few not peeuUar to Brittany) it will be seen that the local
colouring has been shed ; and that while the hero and heroine are striedy
historical personages, the substitution of dialogue for narrative, so oharBOte^
istio of Breton national poetry, lends spirit to the native idmplicity of (be
incidents.]
** Who'll keep for me my ladye deart"
The bold Orusader cries ;
^' Intrust thy ladve dear to me,"
His brother mlse replies.
" Trust her to me ; in secret bower
She'll with m^ damsels stay,
Or sit in hall with lordly dames,
And fare as well as they."
Few days had paas'd, and gay to view
Was Faonet's courtyard fair,
All fiU'd with mounted Red-Gross Knights,
Whose banners streamed in air.
Ere &r had rode that castle*8 lord.
His. spouse had leam'd to weep I
*( Doff those proud robes for hodden grey,
60 fordi! and tend my sheep I"
**0h I brother dear, the sheep to tend,
Alas I I know not how."
** If to tend sheep thou'st never leam'd,
Hy lance shall teach thee now I"
Seven live*long years beside her sheep,
The sad one wept in vain ;
.. At seven years' end, foivot to weep,
And sweetly song agun.
59.3 Tk4 OrmUm'% Alum. 4il
Ab with her songs the mountains mng,
A kxuf ht came ridiQ|f near,
And to ms page the rems he flung,
Criesy '< Whose that yoioe I hear?—
'' That silTer Toice I seven years have past
(Seven weary jem, I trow\
Since in mine ears it sounded last^
Even as I hear it now I
^ Qood-morrow to thee, mountain maid 1
Thy carol sounds so gay,
Metiunks thou hast, to sing so dear.
Breakfasted well to-day!"
''Fared well I have— to God be thanks
For what He gave and took —
Though on a crust I broke my fast^
And dipped it in the broolc"
''Tell me, fair damsel! can I lodge
At yonder lordly hall T
'' Oh, yes ! youll find &ir lodgings there,
Your stoed a knightly stid ;
^ A couch of down will wait your rest^
Such as I once could share,
Ere, banish'd with the flocks to dweU,
I shared the watch-dog*s lairl'*
"^ And where, my child, then, is your spouse ?
Tour wedding-ring I see/'
''My KXNise, my lord, is at the wars, —
HeM fiur boyg locks like thee I"
''If lonff and fair his locks like mine,
Mi^t we not be the same?**
" Oh, yes I you are my love, my lord,
And I Faouet*s dame P
"Leave thou the flocks 1 my halls to reach
With fierv haste, I bum!
Brother! all hul! my ladye's weal
From you I long to learn?"
" Stall fiur as brmve!— Best^ brother, restl
Tour ladye fair has ^ne
To Quimper, to a weddmg feast,
But she'll be here anon."
"Thou liest, wretch! thy sheep to feed,
On mountains lone and bare.
Thou sent* St my dame, in servile weed ;
I
Lo I she stands sobbing there 1 I
" Gk» ! brother cursed, and hide thy shame !
Not one more Ijriug word!
Wer*t not our parents* hallow*d hearth,
Thy blood had stainM my sword !*' !
Ml The Legend of Ban^ aCarroU. [Oct
THE LEGEND OF BARNEY 0 CARROLL.
Out there where the big waves is 1
An' dancin' an* foamin' like mac
\ breakin'
I mad.
On a beautiful warm autumn evenin'
Was strollin* a young fisher-lad ;
For the place where the say is now foamin'.
Was men just as bare as your hand ;
An* where that blue wather is curlin,*
Was only a broad yellow strand.
Well, the fisher-boy, Barney O'CarroU,
Was hot — ^he hem down for a dip ;
An' as he was pedin\ behould you !
He seen a most charmin' young slip
In a state that was mighty pro vokin —
She'd only stepped out of her clothes ;
An' there she was singin', while combin'
Bright hair that flowed down to her toes.
" Blur an agers" ses Barney, "what is she ?
Or where does she come from at all?
Be the mortial. 1*11 ax iv she's marred —
Ah I she isn t— I'll give her a call."
So stalih^ up close to tne coUeen^
He bid her the time o* the day :
When tumin'. she glanced at bould Barney,
An* pop I sne was undher the say.
" She's only a mermaid," thought Barney,
An' pondherin', shoreward he goes.
As he picked up a green cloak, exclaimin',
" She'U surdy come hack for her doihes,^^
" Oh give me my cloak," cried a sweet voice.
That seemed to come up from the wave —
But Bamev ran home Uke a sa^-lark.
The cloak an* his body to save.
That night there was tempest, an* Barney
Put ofif with some lads to a wreck;
But only one beautiful maiden
Bemained of the crew on the deck.
She was saved by the courage of Barney ;
An*, as a reward for her life,
Became, ere the autunm fruit withered.
His fond an' endearin' young wife.
Now an things were thrivin' with Barney,
Not fofgettin' " herself" an' twin boys.
But the fool couldn't keep his tongue quiet;
An' by way of expandin' his joys,
He iould her about the fair mermaid,
An' how he tuh care of her cloak ;
" The story," ses she, " you Ixtaihoon.
Is no more nor a bottle o* smoke.
*^0 that I may lose you this minnit,
But it's thruth that Vm tellin* to you.*
1859.] 7%e Legend of Barney O'CtvrroU, 498
" "Why then, show me the cloa1[," ses the darlin',
" For I'm sure it's a thing you carCt do.**
" Arrab, can't It" ses he ; ** jnst come this way,
An' say did you e'er see the match
For eomplatensss^ an' splendour, an' beanty,
With what Pre above in the thatch ? "
He stepped on a three-legged ereepeen^
An' just where the thatch met the wall,
Tui down what appeared a tov-oaddie,
With Its varnish, an' paintin, an' all :
An' he opened the Hd — when his ^t slipped;
An' «w, he came down on the flure —
Then, I'm tould, that the look that she get him
Was what you might call hill or cure,
" 0 be all the salt waves in the ocean,"
Ses Barney — " Don't curse," ses the wife ;
" For the lime I've to stay with you, Barney,
Let ns have no hot wather^ nor strife :
You have been very kind to me, darlin'—
But thU cloak o' mine you tuh away."
" Oh ! murdher 1" cried Barney, " 'twas you then
That spoke to me out o' the wy."
"Throth It was," ses she: "I am the mermaid
That called to you out o' the wave —
What's more, I'm the beautiful creathur
You hem thro' the tempest to save.
An' as long as my cloak you hep from me,
A mermaid I ne'er more could be."
« Oh I iv I knew that, I'd YiZY^ pledged it,'"
Ses Barney — " Acushla machree I
" You're no mermaid at all — sure no mermaid
Or other maid ever had boys —
Here childher "—he turned for a moment
ConMvirC he heerd a quare noise —
A noise like the boom o' the ocean
When gently it kisses the shore.
1^0 w Barney has pressed to his fond heart
The sweet wife he ne'er shall press more.
*' Farewell, I must lave you, acuehla ;
Don't you hear how they call me away ?"
Ev'ry thread of her green cloak that ininnit
Melted into a wave o' the say /
An' surgin*, an' singin'such music —
No wild harp was ever so sweet —
Came a throop of young mermen an' mermaids,
An' bore her clane off ov her feet I
The nate little cottage had vanished,
An', floatin' away in a shell.
Went herself an' the childher — ^poor Barney
. Could hardly spake more nor " Farewell —
Won't you lave nie one boy for a keepsake ?"
But afore he had said one more word,
Each child left the ude o' the mother, .
An' changed to a lovely ^ay-bird I
494
Sir WUUam HamiUon.
[Oct.
An' foldin' their bright wiogs, an* nestlin'
On Barney's hano^ shoulder, and breast—
Jost as fo they ioor still his.dear yonng ones,
He kissed Uiem ; while fondly he pressed
The sweet gentle things to his sad heart,
An' kissed them again ; then away
With the mother an' mermen an' mermaids
The little birds flew o'er the soy /
^ Why thin, Barney, what ails yon, yon spo^Mm f
An' what's this yon have in yonr fist —
A bottle ! — 09 coorse nothin' in it —
No, nor in this dhudesn that yon've kissed.
Or what (an' the tide makin' swiftly)
Possessed joa to lie on the strand?"
^ I was Uoktn^ at sotMbodf dhrinkin\
An' so / Uks icath&r at hand :
^^Bnt oe all the sthrange sights an' adyentnres
That ever vou liserd — an' they're throe —
I Hen "-—and he rii up and tonld me
The story Pre Jost tonld to yon.
'« An'," ses he, ^ what do you think abont it?"
*' An'," ses I, '^ dhmnk or not, you*re the same ;
An' yonr tale, is not thrae, sore it's pleasant,
An' not at all bad for a ciArmns."
DiTBLiir. J. D.
8IB WILLIAM HAMILTON.
How often do we hear it remarked
that men of eztensiye and a^onrate
emdidon rest npon knowledge ac-
quired from books, and rarely ex-
ercise their own powers in an original
search after truth. Such men may
have a remarkable perspicacity, and
be as distinguished for their quick
apprehension as for their retentive
memory; they understand all they
read and repeat, and are armed at
all points for every species of con-
troversy ; but| if they nnally embrace
any one scheme of philosophy, it
will have been given to them by
others ; they wiU not have elaborated
it for themiiselves ; its unity or har-
mony will not be due to any archi-
tectural or creative skill of their own ;
they will have added no new gen-
era&sadon to those of their prede-
oessors; they will be students to the
last of the works of others. And the
counterpart statement is also so very
frequently true, that those who fed
urged to an independent exercise of
their powers of reasoning, are im-
patient of the toil of acquiring know-
ledge from many bool^ or of aeon-
rately determining what other men
before them have thought and ssid.
Books are chiefly valued by them ss
they give hints or stimulant to their
own minds, and when some huge
folio is closed, they can tell you what
they, by its assistance, have gained
for themselves ; but trust them not
as expositors of the volume itnlf.
Such diyision of labour seems gaoet-
ally to obtain amongst the studioos
portion of mankind. If we are of
the erudite species, we find, or we
imagine, that everything that can be
thoQght has been thought and sud
already ; if we do not swear by any
one master, we pronounce that sil
possible opinions have been long ago
exhausted, and shared amongst ^
Ledwr99 on Metuphpne; by Sir Wiluam HAMaTOM, Bart Edited by the Bcr.
H. L. MAmn, B.D., (Moid, and Jomr Yxmn, M. A, Kdhiboigh.
859.]
Sir WUUam ffomilUm.
496
aaster Bpirits of andent or modem
iterature. We tell the young aspir-
ant for the hoDonr, or the nohle toil,
»f original thinking, that he will only
eprodnoe what alMdy ezifits In form
nore perfect than he can hope to
;ive it; we tell him that Plato has
mticipated his finest discoveries oen-
nries ago— that Leihnitx had deter-
nined this, and Des Oartee had settled
hat, — and that even the despised
«hoolnien of the middle ages had
teen very clearly the distinction he
s harping on, and had stamped it
>n their philosophical vooabolary.
There is nothing for him to do. Each
resh inquirer begins by acting the
nediator between disputants whose
controversy he comes to settle, and
mda by becoming one of the count-
less disputants himself, and helps
still ftirther to " embroil the fray"
— ^if that be possible. The youi^
aspirant, being of modest nature, is
probably reduced to silence, but still
he answen to himself: — ^Mt matters
not what others have done, I must
think it all over again for myself. I
cannot find what I want in Plato, or
Leibnitz, the Schoolmen, or Des
Cartes ; it may be there, but it is
hidden away in comers, or in com-
mentaries. I must discover it in
some other way before I can even
diaoover that it is there ; and I, too,
have the worid before me, and my
own mind — ^I, too, will philosophise.
I may not go so far as Plato did some
centuries ago, but whether far or
not, there is but one mode of pro-
gression by which I can advance at
ail : I must fed the earth beneath my
feet, and move forward by sach in-
ternal energies as Heaven has en-
dowed me with."
Sach division of labour, such dif-
ferences in intellectual character or
power, may be generally observed.
Nevertheless, amongst the highest
order of minds we find extraordin-
ary erudition sometimes united with
powers as remarkable of original re-
search. One of these pre>emineDtly
gifted men has lately departed from
amongst us. Sir William Hamilton
knew, or, to our square of vision,
seemed to know, whatever mortal
man had written, in any age or
language, on the suljects of philo-
sophy. But this marvellous know-
ledge had not deterred him from an
independent course of inquiry, nor
blunted his powers of research. He
combined with accurate and exten-
sive eradition an unabated energy
of thought; and the result is, that
we have, in his speculative writings,
the happy union of strength and
boldness with a singular breadth of
view. He was too well read to omit,
or pass over, any region of inquiry,
and had too vigorous an inteUect to
be contented with recording the ob-
servations of o&ers. He carried the
torch with his own hand, and ex-
plored every recess himself. With-
out professing to do so, he has given
us the most thoroughly eeleetie sys-
tem of any man in Europe.
For that which, above all, dis-
tinguishes the series of lectures be-
fore us is the wide range of philo-
sophic thought they embrace. At
one extremity tiie materialist will
feel the ground taken from under
him, because the traths he .most
insists on are absorbed into the
system of the metaphysician; and
here the physiologist will find him*
self at home, because he will be able
to rise from hia own special know-
ledge of the organs of sense to a
metaphysical theory of cognition,
which he has often pronounced him-
felf unable to do under the guidance
of Sir William Hamilton's prede-
cessors in the chair of Edinburgh.
At the other extremity the Kantian
or Ooleridgian will find that his own
*' high a pfiarC^ road has also been
travelled, and that his own peculiar
modes of thought have not been
ignored. Here those who delight in
the distinction between Understand-
ing and Reasons-meaning by the first
a faculty judging according to sense,
and by the second a Acuity which
is the seuroe of truths of a higher
character than those which are infe-
rences from, or generalisations of,
experience — will at all events diff-
oover that they have a place allotted
to them ; whether or not they mav
be satisfied with that place we will
not undertake to say. On both sides
Sir William Hamilton has expanded
Uie arena of what Is known under
the vague name of Scotch philoso-
phy. Those who, withont disputing
that they are living spiritual souls,
496
Sir WiUiam Siwnilton,
[Oct
very obstinately believe tbat they ore
also living organised bodies, moving
in a world which has marvellously
educated them through the senses,
and which is continually educating
them (through their observing and
recording powers) to farther and
wider knowledge, will find in these
Lectures a scheme of metaphysics
which admits them to hold this their
obstinate faith on an intelligible
basis. Scotch philosophers, notwith-
standing their clamorous appeal to
common sense, had set this plain ob-
stinate faith on so strange and nar-
row a basis, that, to the last, it
seemed rather a concession to the
weakness of man than his great pre-
rogative. Those, on the contrary,
who delight chiefly to dwell on the
a priori truths, or modes of thought,
edtential to experience itself, or who,
while they admit that the external
world educates us, and is still from
age to age more highly educating us,
by its perceived order and harmony,
still assert that there are truths m
their very nature abots those of ex-
perience, enunciated by some inner
faculty within us, of a higher kind
than that which judges according to
sense — will also find that this, their
complementaiT fiuth, has not been
forgotten. We are far from saying
that thinking men of all schools will
be equally satisfied — that they will
meet here and fraternise. It is not
given to any human power to put
forth a scheme of philosophy which
will content all existing parties. It
is sufi[icient for us to notice and ap-
plaud the wide and catholic views,
and the great range of topics, these
Lectures unfold.
Speaking critically, we value more
highly the earlier portion of his ex-
position, in which Sir William Ham-
ilton treats of perception, and of that
trinity of sense, memory, and judg-
ment which enters into every cogni-
tion, and indeed into every state of
consoiousi^ess which can - be sum-
moned up for reflection, — we value,
we say, this portion of his Lectures
more highly than the later parts,
where, under the title of the BeguUp-
tive laeulty^ he treats of necessary
truths not the product of experience.
and fraternises with Leibniti a&d
other German philosophers. We do
not find his statements under tbis
head of Begnlative Faculty either
lucid or consistent with themsdies.
But although be enters here into the
shadow of that obacnre doctrioe
which leads to the attempted db-
tinction between Reason and Under-
standing, we are happy te notio»
that we have the weignt of Sir Wil-
liam Hamilton's authority againsi
those who not only draw a di^n^
tion between these two facolties, kt
who set them at variance ,* dedociog
truths from the Reason which are
contradicted by the Understandiog.
The very end of aU philosophy, as of
all science, is to harmonise our ooa-
victions into one consistent wboie:
he who therefore sets faculty against
faculty, truth against truth, viitaallT
asserts that there can be no phUo-
Bophy, and no truth. Speaking of
those who enunciate the law of can-
sation in one breath, and the next
moment free the will from this lav
by some oonflicting intoition, Ite
writes thus: —
" They say that it is unccxidJtioniSj
given, as a special and poaltiv« lav of
intelligence, that every originatioD ii
only an apparent, not a real commenct-
inent l>iow, te exempt some ph^o-
mena from this law, for the take of on
moral eonsciousnesB^ cannot vafidlrbe
done. For, in the first place, this would
be to admit that the mind is a comple-
ment of contradictory revelatiooa K
mendacity be admitted of aooie of oar
mental mctatet, we cannot vindicate
veracity to any: 'FaLsna in nno.falfv
in omnibua.* Abaoluto scepticism ii
hence the legitimate conduston. Bot
in the second place, waiving this concls-
aion, what right have we, on this do^
trine, to subordinate the positive affi^
mation of causality to our conscioosoetf
of moral liberty! — ^what right haveve,
for the interest of the latter, to derogste
ttom the nnivenality of the foroerf
We have none. If both are eqnillr
positive, we have no right to MeiifiM
to the other the alteroative which ov
wishes prompt ua to abandon.'^
It mivf help to set ns clear with
our readers, if we here at ooce ob-
serve that there is a class of ueoey
♦VoLilp.4n.
L859.]
Sir WiUiam Bamiflffn.
4»7
ATy^ or a prim or inoate trttthg^
Lgainst which we hare no contro-
^ersy whatever. They are such as
ire essential to experience, not con*
radictory, nor contradictory to each
>tber. For instance, the ideas of
Existence and of Space, as we now
»peak of them, are generalisations of
experience, but in order that any
perception or judgment should he
possible, the mind must have had an
Dnate capacity for giving forth these
ideas. It is difficult to shape lan-
^age to suit the'emei^ncy in which
w^e here find ourselves, and different
terms have been used by metaphysi-
cians to designate this original capa-
city. Sometimes we hear of " modes
of thought," " modes of sensibility,*'
" csategories," "laws," "ideas;" but
by whatever name we distinguish it,
there is this innate or original capa-
city to give forth or receive such
ideas as Existence, Space, Time, and
the like ; and beyond this our analy-
sis cannot be carried. We mention
this at the outset, that there may
be no confusion between necessary
troths essential to and one with ex-
perience, and necessary trnths above
and contradictoiy to experience.
These Lectures are far from being,
or pretending to be, a complete ex-
position of a system of metaphysics.
The circumstances under which they
were composed, and perhaps an im-
I)atience of the author in dealing
with elementary or introductory
statements, prevented them from
having the completeness of a system
in which all parts of a great subject
are equally developed. The editors
give us, in the preface, an interesting
account of the manner in which the
lectures were originally written. Sir
William Hamilton was called to the
Chair of Logic in the University of
Edinburgh in the year 1836. He was
at this time in the maturity of intel-
lectual power, in the possession of vast
stores of knowledge, and already dis-
tinguished for his philosophical spe-
culations. The duties, therefore, of
his post could not take him by sur-
prise; and as the appointment was
made in July, and his class would not
assemble till November, he had some
months for preparation. But, as one
might foresee would inevitably be
the case with a metaphysician, these
months were wasted in general sur-
veys of the great topics over wliich he
mig;ht, or might not, extend his lec-
tures— in revolving, in short, what
he should lecture upon, not in writing
anv of the lectures themselves.
When his class met in November, he
had not put pen to paper. " He was
in the habit," we are told, " of deli-
vering three lectures each week, and
each lecture was usually written on
the day, or more properly on the
night, preceding its delivery. The
course of metaphysics, as it is now
given to the world, is the result of
this nightly toil, unremittingly sus-
tained for a period of five months,^
Some additions or interpolations were
occasionally made in subsequent
years, but they were never recast or
materially altered.
We are not surprised, after receiv-
ing this account of their composition,
to find that these lectures are unequal
in excellence, .and incomplete as a
series. Viewed as a systematic or
elementary course for the tuition of
youth, they must be allowed to have
some defects. Sometimes the author
indulges in the spirit of controversy,
where a calm exposition of his own
and of others' opinions would have
been more acceptable and anpropri-
ate ; sometimes he disports himself,
as learned men will do, with a multi-
tude of quotations which might
illustrate the history of philosophy,
but which advance us little in the
subject under discussion. Sometimes
the space is filled up by translated
extracts from French and German
writers. These are never wholly
unwelcome; they are often curious or
novel ; but they very seldom forward
the exposition, or render it more
lucid. Sir William Hamilton appears
to have lacked the patience, and per-
haps the tact and skill, requisite for an
elementary or systematic exposition
— such an exposition as leads from
the simpler to the more abstruse,
neither sparing the student the most
difiScuIt and toilsome heights, nor
failing to conduct him to them by
the most facile tracks which lead up-
ward from the plain.
But notwithstanding these draw-
backs and deficiencies, we do not
hesitate to say that these Lectures are
incompfirably the best mi^ual or
408
Sir WUUam ffamiUan.
[Oct
gnide whieh oonld be plftoed in the
bands of the metaphysical student.
He shonld not, however, require a
quite elementary work ; he should be
aoqoainted at least with the writings
of Sir William*s predecessors, Brown
and Stewart: thns prepared, he will
find in these Lectures the most
advanced thinking of the soundest
and safest school of philosophy. So
far as the matore reader is con-
cerned, we snspeot that even the
very qnalitles which we have noticed
as rendering thpse Lectnres some-
what defective for the purposes
for which they were originally de-
signed, will only render them the
more attractive to him. The di-
gressions of the erudite man, or of
the subtle disputant, are preciselv
what will interest him most. To all
readers who prize sound and earnest
thinking, we recommend these vol-
umes.
In Justice to the memory of the
author, it will not be forgotten that
these Lectures come before us under
the disadvantages of a posthumous
work, not prepared, and not even in*
tended, for publication. Kor, on
the other hand, must we forget to
mention, that nothing has been
omitted which careful editorship
could effect to remedy these disad-
vantages. The learning and in-
dustrv and good taste of the editors
are displayed throughout. Without
any officiousness we have aid given
OS wherever it was possible to procure
it The present publication extends
only to the course on Metaphysics:
two other volumes are to follow, con-
taining the course on Logic.
The term Metaphysics is used in
the title page in its general and
popular sense, as including whatever
appertains to the analyms of the
human mind, or whatever is gen-
erally understood by mental philo-
sophy. More technically speaking,
these Lectnres chiefly concern the de-
partment of Psychologv; but we
think the editors perfectly correct in
retainhig the older and more familiar
name. In the technical language of
some writers. Psychology is sata to
treat of the phenomena of conscious-
ness, of the laws of their recurrence,
and the process of their develop-
n^eQt; while the term Metaphysics
is restricted to certain dSsoosalois on
the nature of Being in itself, of Cwm
or Power, of the Absolute, and other
the like profundities. The distinctios
may have its use to those who ir
engaged in the exposition of idess: it
is not one of a fundamental character.
Metaphysics, in this restricted seme,
cannot be divorced from peychologj;
nor can any scheme of psyobolog
be given which shall not| by impHo-
tion, pass Judgment on these meti-
physical questions. .One writer nuy
be desirous of dismissing from hs
mind, or sweeping from his path,
a class of topics wliicli to him ne
especially obscure, and, under torn
such title as Metapbyaics or On-
tology, he leaves them to be discosMd
by others; whilst those who sre
exclusively devoted to these moR
abstruse discussions are willing, under
the name of Psychology, to diawat
ih>m their care what seems to tfc«ai
a more familiar, more popular, aad
less important class of topics. Bot,
in reality, no one can address hhnself
to either class of topics wiUiont bir-
ine virtually passed an opinion on &«
oUier. When the Psychologist drairs
his distinction between pheDooiefli
and being in itself, he mnst be pre-
pared to justify this disUnotioD,— be
must deal wiui this idea of real
existence, and tell us what it is, ud
how it contrasts with phenomeial
existence. And when the Metapbj-
siciap or Ontologist (if such a word is
permissible), puts forth his views oo
the profound questions of Being and
Power, and what are thought the
dictates of a Reason acting inde-
pendently of the senses, and on alto-
gether a higher level, he too mostba
prepared with some scheme of {»;-
chology which shall be in aooordanoe
with his views. Every thinker jr^
aim at unity or harmony, that »,
the combination of all tiiat is is
the human consciousness into one
harmonious whole. We, for our own
part, should prefer to retain ibr the
familiar term of Mstaohf/nct the
wide signification generally giren to
it, and leave the terms Piyehohif^
and Ontology for such ^visiooaof bi>
subject as any expositor thinki fit to
mase.
In reviewing two volumes such ««
these, of solid matter, and of so vi^«
I860.]
8ir WiUiam ffam/OUn.
409
a range of thought^ we ahonld be
losing onrselyes entirely if we did
not set some distinct limit to the
topioe on wLich we tonohed. Sir
William Hamilton, after a oeneral
disonssioa on the nature of human
oonBdonsnese, adofits the threefold
and temiliar division ef,— '* 1. The
phenomena of Oognition; 2. The
phenomena of Feeung ; and, 8. The
phenomena of Conation, or the Will."
We shall limit ourselves to the first
of these great subjects — that of Cog-
nition or Hnman Knowledge. It is
a subject as vast as it is important,
and we do not promise, or rather we
do not threaten our readers that our
remarks will extend over the whole
of it But we will attempt to follow
Sir William Hamilton through the
heads of his analysis or exposition,
so as to give an outline of his doc-
trines.
It must seem strange to the uniniti-
ated or unsophistioated man that the
battle of philosophy should rage, and
should stul rage, round what seems
to him so simple and undeniable a
fact as the perception, by his hand
or by his eye, of an external object.
But the unsophisticated man no
sooner enters lumself into the task of
phikeophy — ^the task, by analysis and
synthesis, to construct, of his know-
ledge, one harmonious and consistent
whole, in which all the parts shall
oohere—than he too finds there was
a grave difficulty in the sophistry
Hiat he laughed at. If he begins his
account of human knowledge with
the objective^ as he has learned to call
it, with the external world, viewed as
a substantial reality, and then threads
his way from the inorganic to the or-
ganic, he feels himself in danger of
being landed in materialism. If he
starts from the tfitjeetite^ from his
mind or Bgo, viewed as source of his
knowledge, he feels himself being
enthralled in some system of Ideal'
itm. Sir William Hamilton will
point out to lum the best and safest
method, or commencement, — though
we will not guarantee him from all
difilculties, even under the guidance
of Sir William,^^he will show him
that be mast b^fin at once with hoih^
with the object and the subject, with
the sffo and the non^ego ; for both
are at once involved, as two indi»>
pensable terms, in one simple act of
perception.
This is what Sir William has called
f he Fretentatwe theory, in opposition
to the JSepresentative ; which last
proceeds on the supposition that the
mind cannot be immediately con-
scious of anything but its own states,
its own feelings or thoaghts, and
therefore describee the mind as having,
in the first place, some image or idea
of its own, which repretenU the world
to it. Sir William combats this re-
presentative theory, and describes the
sensations themselves, as felt by the
mind in its union with the body, as
the direct objects in our perception.
But mere sensations by themselves
do not form a cognition, or a percep-
tion. With the Beme-gwen is in*
volved also a perception of relations,
an act of judgment, ideas, if you
choose so to cadi them, of Existence,
Space, Time. These together form
what we recognise as the object of
perception.
As the element of Time enters
into every cognition we can call up
before us, and as even the calling it
up for reflection implies an act of
memory, Sir William Hamilton is
justified in saying that the simplest
cognition involves memory also.
Sense, Memory, and Judgment, or
perception of relation, are elements
of the simplest cognition.
We propose to say a few words
under each of these heads. Percep-
tion^ Memory, and Judgment; but
the reader will always bear in mind
how intricately involved the three
topics are, and how especially the
simplest object of perception involves
relation of parts; the apprehension
of which relationship receives here
and in other metaphysical works the
name of Jadgment.
PxBosFTiON. — Sir William Hamil-
ton has been long known, b^ his
annotations to Reid, as an inno-
vator on the Scotch -philosophy, in
its explanation of the primary fact
of our knowledge of the external
world. His controversy with Brown
on the subject is familiar to all
who take an interest in these dis-
cussions. Brown accused Beid of
not understanding the philosophers
whom he criticised ; Sir William
Hamilton acousee Brown of net
500
Sir William Hamilton.
[Oct
understandtDg Keid. We need not
enter into the controversy whether
Reid's system was Fresentative^
or virtaally Bepresentative ; it differs
considerably from that of Sir William
Hamilton, inasmuch as it does not
regard the sensation pltis the act
of judgment, as the primary ob-
ject of perception, but constantly
regards the sensation as a mere
signal to the mind on which it gives
forth its perception, or receives some
instructive knowledge of the object.
Brown put forward a refined system
ot Representation, With no disposition
to overlook the claims of the senses,
he held himself bound to the axiom
that the mind could apprehend no-
thing but its own states. Certain
of these states were recognised as
representations of an external world.
If we asked how we were to be
Certified that they were such repre-
sentations— of things to us other-
wise unknown, — we were referred to
the irresistible intuitive belief of an
external world. But, as Sir William
Hamilton observes, this intuitive
belief says nothing of a Representa-
tion ; tiie intuitive belief is precisely
this, that we have an immediate
knowledge of the external world.
How can we justify our reliance on
this belief at one moment, and our
contradiction of it at another ? How
justify our reference to this belief in
support of a theory which is mani-
festly discordant with it? For we
only believe the external world- ex-
ists because we believe we immedi-
ately know its existence.
This readiness to call in the testimo-
ny of consciousness at one moment,
and to reject it at another, ia power-
fully exposed in the following passage.
And as it is a fault which metaphysi-
cians are under a strong temptation
to commit, we cannot do better than
give the quotation in full : —
"Dr. Brown .maintains the common
doctrine of the philoBophera, that we
have no immediate knowledge of any-
thingbeyond the states or modifications
of our own minds. — that we are only
conscious of the ego, — the ntme^o, as
known, being only a modification of
sel^ which mankind at large are ilia-
si vely determined to view as external
and different from self. This doctrine
is contradietory of tJie fact to which
consciousness testifies, — that tlie object
of which we are conscious in perecptwn,
is the external reality a0 existiag, md
not merely its representation in ^
percipient mind. That this is the fact
testified to by oonseioiuiiess, and be-
lieved by the commoii mom of mao-
kind, is admitted even by those philo-
sophers who reject the truth of t^
testimony and the beliel It ia of no
consequence to us at present what an
the grounds on which the principle o
founded, that the mind can have bo
knowledge of ought besides itself; itii
sufficient to observe that, this priociple
being contradictory of the tcstimooyof
consciousness. Dr. Brown, hj adopting
it, virtually accuses eonseiouaneai of
falsehood. But if coDseiousncss be W»
in its testimony to one fact, we caa
have no confidence in its testimony to
any other; and Brown h*viog hiioielf
belied the veracity of oonscionaoes^
cannot, therefore, again appeal to Uui
veracity as to a credible autnority. Bm
he is not thus consistent. Although he
does not allow that we have any know-
ledge of the existence of an outer worli
the existence of that worid he still
maintains. And on what grounds! He
admits the reasoning of the idealist
that is, of the philosopher who deniei
the reality of the material univerBe,-^e
admits this to be invincible. Hov,
then, is his oonduaion avoided t Simidy
by appealing to the universal belief «
mankind in favour of the existeoce d
external things, — that is, to the aatho-
rity of a fact of consciousness. Bat to
him this appeal is incompetent For, is
the first place, having already virtoallT
given up, or rather positively rcjecteo,
the testimony of . consciousness, vhea
consciousness deposed to our immediate
knowledge of external things, — ^howeaa
he even found upon the veracity of that
mendacious principle, when bearing evi-
dence to the unknown existenee of ex-
ternal things ? I cannot but believe i)^
the naaterud reality exists; therefore,
it does exist, for consciousness does oot
deceive us, — ^this reasoning Dr. Broyn
employs when defending his assertioa
of an outer world. I cannot bnt ht-
lieve that the material reality is the
object immediately known in perceptioo;
therefore, it is immediate!;^ xnown, for
consciousness does not deceive us,— thit
reasoninff Dr. Brown rejects when estab-
lishing tiie foundation of his s^t^o-
In the one csm he mii&ta!ns»— tbifl h^
lie^ becauM irresistible, is true ; in the
other caM, he maiatainsy^-this beiiefi
though irresistible, is false. GonicioV'
I860.]
Sir WiUiam ffamilton.
501
ness is veracious in thfe former belief,
meodaeiotifl in the latter. I approbate
• the one, I reprobate the other. The in-
coasifttency of thia ia apparent. It be-
comes more palpable viien ire oonvider,
in theseoond place, that the belief which
I>r. Brown aaaomea as true rests oii» — is,
in faet» only the reflex of,— the belief
^bich he repudiates as £alse. Why do
mankind believe in the ezisteoce of an
outer world ? They do not believe in it
a« in something unknown ; but, on the
contrary, they oelieve it to exist, o«/y
beeax^e they believe thai they immediately^
kfiow it to exist. The former belief is
only as it is founded on the latter. Of
all absurdities, therefore, the greatest is
to assert,— on the one hand, that con-
eciottaoess deceivea as in the belief that
-we know any material object to exist;
and, on the other, that the material
objeot exists, because, though on false
grounds^ we believe it to exist."*
The mind, says BrowD, can be
conscious only of its own states;
but the mind, replies Sir William
Hamilton, is united to the body,
permeates it, and in this its union,
feels the sensation there where the
nerve is. Our sensations are thus
immediately felt in 8pace^ the rela-
tion of position is felt with them,
and we thus are conscious of our
extended bodies — conscious of their
movement, and of the extension and
resistance of other bodies. Meta^
pbysicians have, in general, held
themaelvea bound not to recognise
the ezisteooe of their own bodies
till they had evolved the knowledge
of them out of the states of feeling
of an inoorporeal, indivisible, spirit-
nal essence. 6ir William Hamilton,
trusting to that conviction of an ex-
ternal world which must be ulti-
mately relied upon, thinks himself
at liberty to look at once at this
homan body, in order that, by the
mind^s union with it, he may be able
to give some account of this irresist-
ible conviction. The immediate ob-
ject of consciousness he finds to be
the sensations in, or at, the extremity
of the nerveS) felt under the relations
of position and sequence — space and
time — which yon may say the mind
gives forth as necessary truths, or
may describe as felt rehitions or acts
of jodgment.
There is not the least approxima-
tion to materialism in the doctrine
of Sir William Hamilton. As dis^
tinctly as he avers an external real-
ity, 80 distinctly does he prochiim
the internal reality, or the spiritual
Ego. The two beliefs are, according
to his exposition, involved directly
in tlie one act of perception. Thus,
the fullest justice is done, if we may
use such tin expression, to the ohje^
tite and the iubjeetive reality. We
are at once a spiritual Ego, in a ma-
terial world.
This is a great advance on the
previous expositions of the Scotch
philosophers. What were precisely
the opinions of Reid, and how far
Brown was really in error in ascrib-
ing to him a form of the representa-
tive theory, we will not undertake to
determine. To us if seems that
Reid, driven in one direction by a
fear of materialism, and in another
by his desire to have the common
sense of mankind upon his side,
never had obtained for himself a
clear intelligible ground on which to
stand. Refusing to see in the sensa-
tion itself one of the two great ele-
ments which constituted a percep-
tion— treating the sensation as a sort
of signal wherein a perception enters
the mind— it was almost impossibFe
for him not to fall into some modi-
fication of the representative theory.
Be that as it may, we may congratu-
late Scotland on having at length
put forth a system of Dualism, in
which the organs of sense play their
legitimate part — a system which may
be a common ground for the physio-
logist and the metaphysician. Every
reader must have felt, both in the
polished pages of Stewart and the
ingenious discussions of Brown, that
there was no harmony between their
teaching and the simplest truths of
physiology. The laws of the organic
being were ignored for fear due hon-
our should not be given to the laws
of the inorganic and immaterial es-
sence which we presume to animate
and to live within it. Now this want
of harmony ceases to be felt in .the
expositions of Sir William llamilton.
Here we are permitted, though spirits,
to walk oa the solid eartii, with solid
• Vol L p. 278.
502
Sir WUliam Eamilian.
[Dei.
bodies. What is given us by the
nerve is allowed to be felt there
where the nerve is. It follows that
the relati4msfeU between the several
parts of an object of perception, or
between several objects of percep-
tion, are themselves objective as well
as subjectite. The relation of posi-
tion is a reality, withont, as well as
within, oar mind. We are spirits;
but we are also organised creatnres,
living in an organised world. We
oonld qnote man^ passages from the
predecessors of Sir WilliaraT Hamilton
(but that we have too mach npon oar
handi*), which woold prove that while
earnestly insistinff on the reality of
tlie external world, and even throw-
ing a patronising glance on the trnths
of physiology, they were in fact be-
wildering themselves and ns with a
species of idealism!*
It will illastrate this tendency to
disparage the senses, and rednce to
the mtnimum what is directly ob-
tained from them (a tendency, how-
ever, which has been bv no means
limited to the Scotch philosophers),
if we take notice of the manner in
which the great organ of siffht has
been treated. That an extended sur-
face could become an object of cogni-
tion immediately through the organ
of vision was resolutely disputed. A
sensation of colour was imagined
which originally had nothing to do
with extension; mere habit, mere
association of ideas,- converted the
impression originally given ns by the
eye into that of an extended and
bounded surface. Both Stewart and
Brown are very distinct in their an-
nouncement of this theory. Both
admit that it is impossible for ns at
present to separate, by the utmost
efifort of thought, colour from exten-
sion, yet both assert that a sensation
which it is impossible to conceive is
the only endowment of the sense of
vision. That we derive from the
sense of touch our knowledge of com-
parative distances, may be very true,
though even here the readineas with
which the young of most animiJi
discriminate distaQoea, leads ns to
Bospect that in the hninan b^ng the
organ of sight is not quite so depen-
dent as is generally supposed oq the
sense of tonch; bat that eztenaoo,
in one direction, that of mere soi&oe,
is not given us immediately by the
eye, or that there ever was a sensa-
tion of colour separable fronx exten-
sion, is what we have always been
atterly unable to believe. It is a
mere hypothesis, and the utter in-
conceivability of a sensalaan of ooloor
separated from extension is saffioieoi
with OS to condenm it What Sr
William Hamilton niiges in the M-
lowhig paragraph rather iU^miwmtm
this inconceivability, than adda any-
thing more to the argnment. He
shows that the e<MnpariiQn b^ween
anv two colours could take place
only in space. Those who deal with
inconceivable sensations, would pro-
bably suggest that there were incon-
ceivable modes of comparing them.
Sir William says : —
" It can easily be shown that the per
oeptioQ of colour involves the peroep-
tion of extensioQ. It is admitted that
-we have by sight a perceptioa of «►
lours, consequently a perception of ths
di^erenoe of colours. Bat a pereeptioii
of the distinction of colours neeessarfly
invoWes the perception of a discrimuiat-
ing line; for, if one eolowr be laid be>
side or upon another, we only distiii-
Sish them aa different by Derottriag
ftt they limit eaeh other, which limi-
tation necessarily affords a breadthkss
line, — a line of demarcation. One co-
lour laid upon another, in £act| gives a
line returning upon itself that is, a
figure. But a line and a figure are modi-
fications of extension. Tne perception
of extension, therefore, is necesaarily
given in the perception of eolonra.''f
We will add, too, that this exten-
* Brown, speculating on infinite extension and infinite divisibility, i ^
"What we term a body, however minute, is a multitude of bodies^ or, to speak
more exactly, an infinite number of bodies, which appear limited to us, inJeed,
but may perhaps appear in their true character of infinity to beinn of a higher
order, who may be able to distinguish as infinite what onr limited senses aUow
us to perceive only as finite. They are one, not in nature hut in our ihcughL^ The
unity and harmony of all these Jfntfot does not exist^ then, in the worid ilsdi^
only in onr minds. Beinn of a higher order would have, it seems, the marvel-
Ions privilege of seeing infinite atoms where we see order, form, and organiaatieii.
t Vol. it pi 165.
1859.]
Sir William Hamilton.
608
HI on cannot be originally felt (as Sir
W. Hamilton in one passage implies)
as touching the organ of yision. The
wish to find in all our sensations
a modification of toncb leads him
to this supposition, i It may be ori-
ginally felt near the eye, but snrely
ODtside the eye — not on the retina,
"where it must be felt to rentier the
analogy complete between the sense
of vision and the sense of touch— or
rather to justify the reduction of all
our senses to modifications of touch.
The various sensations as given us
by the nerves, and as related together,
form the primary objects of our con-
sciousness, as Sir William Hamilton
has well explained ; but these sensa-
tions must be accepted in the most
faithful and simple form in which
# we can apprehend them: nothing is
gained by falsifying their nature in
order to approximate them to the
sense of contact.
A question may be asked, whether,
• in perception, the mind proceeds from
minute parts to build up a whole,
or rather descends from some large
and vaguely embraced whole to an
examination of the minuter parts.
We think that it descends to the
more simple and minute by analysis;
that is, that there is a certain medium
of largeness and complexity which
may be described as first in order of
time. Sir William gives the weight
of his authority to this view. He
pats the question thus: — ^^ Whether,
in Perception, do we first obtain a
general knowledge of the complex
wholes presented to us by sense, and
then, by analysis and limited atten-
tion, obtain a special knowledge of
their several parts; or do we not
first obtain a particular knowledge of
the smallest parts to which sense is
competent, and then, by synthesis,
collect them into greater and greater
wholes?"
The second alternative is that
which has been most favoured by
analytic writers. Having conducted
^eir analysis to the minutest dis-
ttnctions in our knowledge, it was
natural to commence their synthesis
^from these. But it does not appear
'tl&t nature proceeds in this manner:
the most minute distinctions, or parts,
of our knowledge are not those which
▼OL. LXXXTI.
88
are first apprehended. Slight degrees
of difiTerence in sensations, small dis-
tances between the parts affected,
require, we find, a practised atten-
tion in order to be appreciated. Be-
sides which, the impressions we first
receive are those of the last com-
plexity; we seize upon some whole
as thus presented, and know it first
in this its entirety before we take
cognisance of the separate parts. To
adopt the illustration of our author,
we may know the face of our friend
as a whole — may be "familiar with
its expression, with the general re-
sult of its parts;" but when' we
would analyse this object that lives
so vividly in our memory, .when we
would '* descend from a conspectus
of the whole face to a detailed exa-
mination of its parts,'* we may not
be able to determine 'what is the
colour of the eyes, or the form of the
lips.
We must refer to the work it-
self before us for a fuller defence
and explanation of the Preientattee
theory of Perception as distinguished
from the Bepresentative, Of course,
no foreign body can be known to us
but by its effects on us; but what
Sir William maintains is, that it
is precisely these efiects which
are the immediate object in our
cognitions; the soul linked to its
organism feels in that organism
the efiects produced on it by other
bodies. Meanwhile, in every cog-
nition, whether of our own or of
other bodies, there is the invari-
able term of the Bgo— the I of all
consciousness — ^without which no
consciousness is conceivable. "We
may therefore lay it down," says our
author, "as an undisputed truth, that
consciousness gives as an ultimate
fact, a primitive duality; — a know-
ledge of the Ego in relation and con-
trast to the Non-ego; and a know-
ledge of the Non-ego in relation and
contrast to the Ego. The E^^o and
Nonego are thus given in an original
synthesis, as conjoined in the unity
of knowledge, and, in an original
antithesis, as opposed in the con-
trariety of existence. In other words^
we are conscious of them in an in-
divisible act of knowledge together
and at once, — but we are conscious
604
Sir William HamilUm,
[Oc£
of them as,. in themselves, different
and exolnsive of each other/**
We acoept this acoouot of percep-
tion as the clearest which metaphy-
sics has hitherto given as. We are
certainly incapable of summoning np
the simplest perception, without at
the same time being conscious of
object and subject — the non-ego and
the ego. But we must remark that
in the mature human being this ego
never do€% represent simply the one
term in a solitary perception. Such
solitary perception can never be re-
called. Memory, or the sense of past
and continuous existence, is insepar-
ably combined with this ego or per-
sonality : it is the / that ha$ lived,
that is no'w living thus or thus. The
personality, as we are conscious of it,
IS only fully developed by memory.
Memory. — If a philosophical writer
wished to choose some one point, or
some one faculty of the mind, from
which to survey all our mental opera-
tions, he could not do better than
take his stand on the memory. Here
our percepUons first become a verita-
ble knowledge; here those compari-
sons or felt relationships which are
involved, as elementary parts, in all
our perceptions, can be repeated, can
be named, can be classified ; Irom the
memory we can look backward to
tbe simplest sensations, and for-
ward to the widest generalisations
of science or p! ilosopby. A full dis-
sertation upon Memory might very
legitimately embrace the whole do-
main ^of thought — that is, the whole
phenomena of the mind might be
advantageously explained by their
reference to this great faculty; for
all that we popularly call thinking,
is either memory or based on me-
mory.
There .stiU exist some curious ques-
tions concerning the memory, which
our psychologists have not satisfac-
torily answei^ed. Some of these will
be found more fully discussed in the
present Lectures than in any book at
least in English literature. Others
are rapidly diitmissed. Upon the
whole, we should have to repeat
here what we have said of the entire
Lectures : the exposition is not com-
plete or always satisfactory, but it is
nevertheless the most oofmpreiMsscTT
and the most instrnctiTe to which v%
could direct the student of inetaphjao.
The analvsis of Memory whi<4 as-
William Hamilton presents us vLm
-^into the subordinate facilities ct
Retention or Goniservation, Bep*^
duction, and Representation — ^wois.
to our apprehenaioii, a acnnevtac
ehimsy appearance. It encombccs
the groun(l with aseless or vaes^
verbal distinctions. The one &ct i=,
that we reproduce or represent tbie
perception of the senses: what u
Retention but another ezpres^oo ts
this power to reproduce? an4 vbat
can Reproduction mean bnt a power
to represent? Memory is an act d
the mind, or of the mind in oonjooe-
tion with the brain : this act is re-
peated according to certain laws, si^ ,
its repetition no doubt depends os
certain conditions of the niind aai^
brain ; but the fact of repetition ac-
cording to definite laws is all thai
psychology has to recognise. Re-,
tention is merely a metaphorical ex-
pression significative of a oontinooie
power, on all fitting times, to repes*
the same act. Knowledge has no
existence except in tbe act of know-
ing. Bnt we must quote Sir WS-
liam^s statement.
" Through the powers of External and
Internal perception we are enabled U»
Bcciuire lufurmation — expenence; hot
this acquisition is not of itself independ-
ent and complete ; it suppodes tl>at w«
are also able to retain the knowledge
acquired, for we cannot be said tu gci
what we are unable to keep. The fiacultj
of acquisition is, therefore, only realised
through another &culty — the Realty of
Retention or ConaervatioD. Here we
have another example of what I hav«
already frequently had occasion to eug-
gest to your observation, — we have two
faculties, two elementary pheBomena,
evidently distinct, and yet each depoBd*
Ing on the other for its realization. With-
out a power of acquisition, a power of
conservation could not be exerted ; and
without the latter the fonner would be
frustrated, for we should lose as fast as
we acquired. But as the faculty of Ac-
quisition would be useless without the
faculty of Retention, so the faculty of
Retention would be useless without the*
faculties of Reproduction and Repr
• VoL i p. 292.
1868.1
Sir WUHmn SamiUan.
505
tation. Thmi tk» nrnd retained, beyond
the sphere of eonoeMNHaesa, a treuary
of knowledge, would be of no aYail, did
it not possess the power of bringing out^
and of displaying, in other words, of re-
producing and representing, this know-
ledge in consciousness. Bat because the
faculty of Consenration would be fruit-
less without the ulterior faculties of Re-
production and Representation, we are
not to confound these faculties, or to
view the act of mind which is their joint
result, as a simple and elementary pheno-
menon. Though matually dependent on
each other, the fSsoulties of Conservation,
Reproduction, and Representation, are
governed by different laws; and in dif-
ferent individuals are found greatly va-
rying in their comparative vigour. The
intimate connection of these three facul-
ties, or elementary activities, is the cause,
however, why they have not been distin-
guished in the analysis of philosophers :
and why their distinction is not pre-
cisely marked in ordinary language.*^ *
We are at a loss to see the pro-
priety of the subdivisions here intro-
daced. It may be true that the sim-
ple fact of Reprodaotion is not the
only one we have to take notice of
in a fall explanation of the memory.
Hoiw, for instance, the reprodnoed
image becomes associated with the
past, may require explanation. Bat
this sobdivision refers only to the
one general fact, that we have tbia
power of reprodaotion. This fact,
or power, is merely expressed under
different terms. What is Representa-
tion but another word for Reprod no-
tion?—not perhaps a word of quite
so wide application, because in some
oases, as in the memory a verbal
proposition, reproduction would be
felt to be a more appropriate term
than representation. Sir William
Hamilton says that two men may
remember the same incident, but the
one represents it to bis mind more
vividly; but both men do, in fact,
. represent it to their minds; this is
only saying tnat there is a difference
in the vigour with which it is repro-
dnoed. And what, again, is Reten-
tion or Conservation, but this very
fact of Reproduction viewed as a
power, or habit, a quality more or
leas permanent? We speak fami-
liarly of retaining knowledge, but
what we retain is the power of repro-
ducing it. Sir William Hamilton .
would be the first to tell us that it is
merely a convenient metaphor when
we speak of memory as a store-house
or treasury of ideas ; no one supposes
there can be any such thing. There
may be permanent conditions of the
But»tance mind^ or of the cerebral
organ on which such power of repro-
duction depends — but speaking as
psychologists, we can onl v take notice
that such a power or habit exists.
It is open to the physiologist to de-
termine, if be be able, those cerebral
conditions on which memory depends.
But a similar inquiry could not be
prosecuted with regard to modifica-
tions of the ens or substance we call
mind. In our present state of know-
ledge there is but the one fact of
reproduction, and when we say that
a man retains his ideas, this is merely
a convenient mode of asserting that
he can again and again reproduce
them. Sir William Hamilton says —
'* In the first place, then, I presume
that the fact of retention is aamitted.
We are conscious of certain cognitions as
acquired, and we are conscious of these
cognitions as resuscitated. That, in the
interval, when out of consciousness, these
cognitions do continue to subsist in the
mind, is certainly an hypothesis, because
whatever is out of consciousness can only
be assumed ; but it is an hypothesis which
we are not only warranted, but neoee-
sitated, by the phenomena, to establish.
I recollect indeed that one philosopher
has proposed another hypothesis. Avi-
cenna^ the celebrated Arabian philoso-
pher and physician, denies to the human
mind the conservation of its acquired
knowledge ; and he explains the process
of recollection by an irradiation of divine
liffht through wnich the recovered cog-
nition is infused into the intellect" f
Was it really necessary for our
eradite philosopher to introduce to
us here the Arabian Avicenna, with
his ** irradiation of divine light ?" We
do not find that the alternative
lies between Sir William Hamilton
and Avicenna. The fact of retention
is indisputable; but can we mean
anything more by retention, than the
repetition, from time* to time, of
a given act ? A muscle retains the
♦VoLil,p.205.
t Ibid. p. a09.
^(?
Sir William HamitUm.
(Oct
power to more ; wer do not say that
a series of movements are retained
in the mnscle^ Sir William also ob-
seryesy tbat in popular language we
distinguish between a retentive and
a ready memory, or one that repro'
duoes with rapidity. This is only
lajing that in some people the repro-
ductire power endures tonger than in
others : in some it is rapid and evan^
e8,cent. In general, the persistent
memory depends on the strength of
the original impresaion, or the effect
of attention originally paid; whilst
the readiness of memory, or the Tiya-
eity with which onr ideas chase each
other, is but one phase of the energy
of life. We see in old men bow slow
the movements of mind and body
generally become. Some people are
old men all their lives.
We have said that it lies altogether
ont of the limits of human inquiry
to enter into the conditions of the
hnman mind viewed' &» an objective
entity. We have no other concep-
tion of the mind than as tliat which
Is conscious, and the aualjsis i)i the
phenomena of consciousness is all
that can pertain to the psychologist.
Take away extension from matter
and there is nothing ; take away con-
sciousness from mind and there is
nothing. The physiologist may legi-
timately speculate on those condi-
tions or modifications of the brain
that are necessary to memory, or for
peculiar habits of memory, but no
similar discussion, as to the modifica-
tions of the mind, lies open to the
metaphysician. Sir William Hamil*
ton, however, does not acquiesce in
this, which has been "the ordinary
conclusion of his predecessors. He
thinks that in order to explain cer-
tain phenomena of memory, and of
association of ideas, it is necessary,
as far as we are able, to take account
of the unconscious modifications of
the mind. It is a curious specula-
tion, and as it is rather novel in our
country, though, we are assured,
familiar to the Germans, we shall
take a glance at it.
But first we must carefully draw
the distinction between this hypo-
thesis of unconscious modifications,
and the well-known and very current
hypothesis that maAy states of ct>n-
sdousnefls pass so rapidly and slightly
that they are never recalled or repro-
duced, and therefore the next instant
are to as as if they had never been.
We cannot speak of tbem^ for we
have not remembered them; we
merely conclude, from the circum-
stances of the case, that they took
place. When, in popular language, we
speak of "sensations" of which ire
were not ** conscious,'^ we do not, and
cannot mean that the sensations
were not felt (for this wo&ld be a
manifest contradiction) ; we mean
that we are not conscious now of
having felt them ; that we sever re-
merabeied them, and that they were,
the instant after, as if they never had
been. We know that the elock
struck, and we know that we did not
hear it, or hear it for the purpose of
knowing now that it struck } and we
conclude that, in these cases, there
was a sensation produced, but so
slight and evanescent as to make no
impression on the memory. Meta-
physicians have availed themselves
of a conjecture of this description,
applied to thoughts as well as sensa-
tions, to explain certain phenomena
of association of ideas ; states of con-
sciousness that pass so rapidly they
cannot be recalled, may yet introduce
other states which can be remem-
bered and reflected on.
This very generally received hypo-
thesis Sir William Hamilton rejects,
and prefers to introduce ns to modi-
fications of the mind altogether un-
accompanied by consciousness, bat
which serve as links in the chain
with those which are so accompanied.
Now it appears to us here that we
are attempting to walk where there
is absolutely no ground to tread on.
The mind is united with the body;
we say there aie unconscious condi-
tions of the brain necessary to the
function of memory, and we wwy
conclude that the mind in some way
participates in such affections of the
brain even when not conducting im-
mediately to consciousness. Bat
still we must rest, after all, at these
modifications of the brain, for they
are the only unconscious phenomena
in the operations of thought we can
form any conception of. We do but
materialise the mind when we at-
tempt to regard it as the subject qS
Buoh modifications.
18S9.T
Sir WUHmn HamiUon,
Wl
Sir William Hamilton vas amongst
the first who drew attention to the
fi%nificance of certain oorions eases
of cerebral disease or cerebral excite-,
ment: those in which some abnor-
ra&l condition of the brain is f(4 lowed
by an abnormal actirity atld power
of mind or memoir* The radest ob-
eerration had tanght ns that old age,
and many forms of ill health, affected
the memory prejadicially ; these carl-
oos cases where people in certain
stages of fever remember what in
other times they were utterly inca-
pable of recaDing, demonstrate that
An abnormal activity of the brain
may be accompanied by an abnor-
mal activity of the memory. Thns
m^e have a doable proof given as that
there are certain physical conditions
or functions of the brain indispens-
able to the memory. Oan we, in this
direction, seek farther? And t^any
hypothesis is requisite, would it not
be sufficient to say that the functions
of the brain which are connected
with conscioosness are not always
carried on with an energy adequate
to produce consciousness in the mind
— whose sole known attribute i$ con-
scioosness? Such operations of the
brain, not themselves producing con-
seiouffliesa, may lead to others that
do.
But the reader will wish to see Sir
William Hamilton's own statement
of an hypothesis which may perhaps
bo somewhat novel to him. It is in
the first volume, and where treating
of consciousness in general, that the
sabject is fully discussed.
"I pass now to a question in tome
respects of stil) more proximate interest
to the psychologist than that discussed
in the preceding lecture ; for it is one
which, according as it is decided, will
determine the character of oui^ explana-
tion of many of the mo»t important phe-
nomena in ttie philosophy of mind, and,
in particular, the great phenomena of
memory and association. The Question
I refer to is, whether the mind exerts
energies, and is the subject of modifica-
tions, of neither of which it is conscious.
This is the most general expression of a
problem which has hardly been men-
tioned, far less mooted, in this country ;
and when it has attracted a passing no-
tice, the supposition of an unconscious
action or pataion of the mind, has been
treated as something either unintelli-
gible or absurd. In Germany, on the
contrary, it has not only been canvassed,
but the alternative wnieh the philoso-
phers of this country have lightly con-
sidered as ridiculous, has been gravely
established as a conclusion which the
phenomena not only warrant but enforceL
The French philosophers, for a long
time, viewed the question in the same
light as the British. Condillac, indeed^
set the latter the example ; but of late a
revolution is apparent, and two recent
French psychologists have marvellously
propounded the doctrine, long and ge-
nerally established in Oermany, as some-
thing new and unheard of before their
own assertion of the paradox.
** This question is one not only of im-
portance, nut of difficulty ; I shall endea-
vour to make you understand its por^
port by arguing it upon broader grounds
than has hitherto been done, and shall
prepare you, by some preliminary infor-
mation, for its discussion. I shall first
of all adduce some proof of the fact, that
the mind may, and does, contain far
more latent furniture than consciousness
informs us it possesses. To simplify the
discussion, I shall distinguish three de-
grees of this mental latency/'*
The first of these degrees of mental
latency is that ordinary retention of
our knowledge which we have already
canvassed. We know a science or
language at all times, and not only
when we are making u«e of our
knowledge. In our author's own
words, " the possessiof^s of onr mind
are not to be measured by its present
momentary activities, but by the
amount of its acquired habit?.'*
These acquired habits, then, are the
first degree of latency: that is, there
is some latent condition of mind or
brain on whicli these habits depend.
The second degree of latency is
where the mind '^contains certain
systems of knowledge, or certain
habits of action which it is wholly
nneonscious of possessing in its ordi-
nary state, but which are revealed to
consciousness in certain extraordinary
exaltations of its powers." For evi-
dence of this, we are referre<l to the
class of case^ we have already alluded
to, where knowledge is revived in
fever, or delirium, or somnambulism,
which apparently had become extinct.
•Vol I p. 888.
508
Sir WimUm HamUtm,
[Oct
Sir WiUiam iweB rather Imrgt vordi
when he speaks of ^^ systems of know-
ledge and habits of aotion" being re-
Tived under snch oircnmstaDces ;
nevertheless, the facts are cnrions
enough and significant enough to de-
mand oar attention. After making
due abatement for that exaggeration
of statement which invariably attends
upon novel and marvelloas facts, even
where sdentific men are our witnesses
(for the imagination excited by the
'wonderful sees more than was ever
presented to the senses), this class of
cases demonstrates that a startling
exaltation of iome of onr powers
may result daring an abnormal state
of health. We apprehend that in no
snch oases the whole intellectual or
mental being is improved — there is
some more dan compensating weak-
ness. A man repeats verses in his
fever, and cannot recognise his friends
who are perhaps standing by and
wondering at this unosoal display of
memory. Bat, however remarkable
sach cases, we cannot need two ex-
planations of them. Involantary
reminiscences, involantary trains of
thought^ as little gnided by will, or
porpose, as oar dreams, may well be
remitted to the brain as their im-
mediate prompter. Its operations
prompt them in the conscious being,
the mind. The brain acts here like
an internal sense. And though we
have in these cases extraordinary
eeompZdi, we have no new law or
operation, cerebral or mental. In
ordinary memory a slight impression
on the senses may, after a long in-
terval, be anexpeocedly revived. It
is a matter of degree. So, also, in
what we call a state of health there
are different degrees and, varioos
oaoses of cerebral excitement, and a
cap of coffee may do for ns, to a cer-
tain degree, what a fever does in a
far higher degree.
The interesting case which Cole-
ridge made so extensively known by
recording it in his Biographia Litera^
ria^ is quoted here. A young girl who
had formerly lived with a learned
divine, whose habit it was to walk
about the house reading aloud his
favourite authors, Greek, Latin, and
Hebrew, fell ill of a fever. It was
many years since she had lived with
this divine, nor had she been known
in her health to repent aoy of the
learned words she ha/d beard ; vet in
her delirium she was ^ince^dy
talking Latin, Greek, and H^rew Id
very pompous tones, and with roost
distinct enunciation.*' The iostuiee
is extraordinary ; but as no experieDoe
has enabled us to set & limit to tb
powers of memory — as we cacDot
say how slight an impreason may l«
revived, or at how long jui interval-*
we have no new law presented to vs,
we have simply an act aooomplidied
nnder the excitement of fever, wbicb
could not have been acoompIislKd
without that excitement.
The third degree of latency is that
about which our question is raked—
modifications or operations of tk
mind not resulting in consciousDess—
of which consciousness is not (ts b
generally understood of operatwns of
the mind) the sole exponent.
"The problem, then, with regard lo
this c1a64 is, are there, in ordinary, men-
tal modificatioDB — Le. mental acUrities
and paasivitiea—of whieh we are uoeoo-
8eioua,ba]t which manifeac their existeace
by effects of which we are coaaeiontr
Of course we cannot directly knov
that of which we are nnoonsdoos,
but we may infer the existence of it;
the supposition may be necessary in
order to explain the existence of what
we do know. But here, how are we
to conceive modifications in ao im-
material substance ? It may be said^
that if we refuse to accord such mo-
difications, we shall be oompelkd to
attribute so much to the modificadoDd
and operations of the brain, as to
drive us towards materialism. Bat^
on the other hand, if we introdooe
any conceivable modification in the
mind, we must assimilate it to a mate-
rial substance. Let ns see some of
the grounds from which our ingenious
aathor infers the existence of these
unoonsoious modifications.
" Let ua take oar firat ezaiaple ivxa
Perception — the perception of extenai
objecta — and in that faculty let ua com-
menoe with the aenae of eight. Kov,
you either already know, or can be at
once informed, what it ia that hu ob-
tained the name of mimmtim vidbil^
You are^ of course, aware, in geoeral
that viaioQ ia the result of the np o!
light reflected from the aarfkee of oh-
jeota to the eye ; a greater n\imber of
1869.]
Sir WUliam Bamilton,
609
rays is reflected from a larger surface ;
if the superficial extent of an object,
and, conse<^ueDtly, the number of the
rays which it reflects, be diminished be-
yond a certain limit, the object becomes
invisible; and the minimum vi^bile is
the Bmalleat expanse which can be seen,
which can consciously affect us, which
we can be conscious of seeing. This
being understood, it is plain that if we
divide this minimum vifibUe into two
parts, neither half can, by itself, be an
object of vision, or visual consciousness.
They are severally and apart to oon-
sciousness as sero. But it is evident that
each half must, by itself have produced
in us a certain modification, real though
unperceived ; for as tlie perceived whole
is nothing but the union of the unper>
ceived halves, so the perception, the per-
ceived affection itself of which we are
conscious, is only the sum of two modi*
fioations, each of which seyerally eludes
our consciousness.***
"Each half mast by itself have
produced in us a certain modifica-
tion.^* Bat each half of a minimum
visibile will not have produced a sen-
sation of light. This is not a case of
the mere division of matter or mo-
tion. A special sense U not affected
at all, as soch sense, but by a certain
impulse. It is a proceeding worthy
of an ancient sophist, to continue ilm
division of this impnlse, and claim fur
the halves any effect whatever on the
nerve of sense. A certain minimum
of heat explodes gunpowder; half
that heat does not prod ace half an
explosion ; so far as explosion is con-
cerned it effects nothing, though it
may have some other effect on the
gunpowder.
So with regard to the next instance
that is mentioned, the minimum au-
dibile
" There is a sound the least that can
come into perception and oonscioosness.
But this minimum audibiU is made
up of parts which severally affect the
sense, but of which affections separately
we are not conscious, though of their
joint result we are. We must, therefore,
here likewise admit the reality of modi-
fications beyond the sphere of conscious-
neiB.''t
Here a specific effect produced by'
many vibrations following with a cer-
tain rapidity is distributed or parted
araongBt the individnal vibrations.
Having determined the fewest, faint-
est, slowest vibration that will pro-
dnce the sensation of sound, it fol-
lows that vibrations fewer or fainter,
though they may affect ibe ear me-
chanically, will not affect it at all as.
organ of sense, and of course will pro-
dace no effect on the mind tbroagh
that organ.
" It sometimes happens that we find
one thought rising immediately after an-
other in consciousness, but whose conse-
cution we can reduce to no law of asso-
ciation. Now, in these cases, we can
generally discover, by an attentive obser-
vation, that these two thoughts, though
not themselves associated, are each asso-
ciated with certain other thoughts ; so
that the whole consecution would have
been regular had these intermediate
thoughts • come into consciousness be-
tween the two which are not imme-
diately associated. Suppose, for instance,
that ABC are three thoughts — that A
and C cannot immediately suggest each .
other, but that each is associated with
B, so that A will naturally suggest B,
and B naturally suggest C. Now, it may
happen that we are conscious of A and
immediately thereafter of C. How is the
anomaly to be explained 9 It can only be
explained on the principle of latent mo-
difications. A suggests C, not imme-
diately, but through B ; but as B, like
the half of the minimiim vi»ibile or mini'
mum audibiUf does not rise into con-
sciousness, we ore apt to consider it aa
non-existent."t *
We doubt if the laws of assodft-
tion are so determined as to authorise
us to adopt any hypothesis for ex-
plaining an apparent anomaly. But
of the two hypotheses we should pre-
fer the more commonplace one of the
supposition of states of consciousness
that have left no trace in the memory
to this of the half of a minimum eogv-
tdbiU, ^^Mr. Stewart supposes that
the intermediate ideas are for aa in-
stant awakened into conscioasneas,
but in the same moment utterly for-
got; whereas the opinion I woald
prefer," says Sir William Hamilton,
^^ holds that they are efficient withoat
rising into conscioa^ness." We think
Mr. Stewart^s is the more intelligible
explanation.
Bat we cannot proceed further with
YoL L p. 849. t 1^1^ P- ^^' t ^^^^ P* 362.
510
Sir WtUiam ffamUton.
[Got
this carious topic, and indeed must
leave several interesting questions
touching the memory hehind us, and
pass on to the next great element of
cognition.
JroGMKNT. — We must again re-
mind our reader that an exposition
of ideas fireqnently requires us to
mention !n an order of time things
which are coexistent and inseparable.
In every memory, and in every per-
ception, there is involved some judg-
ment, some feeling of relatioosbip, of
space, or time, or similarity, or con-
trast. In the. earliest cognition we
can summon up, there are related
things ; and if we trv^ in our philoso-
phical analysis, to thmk some mini^
mum of matter, we still find that we
have parts and a relation of position.
80 far is it from being true that
we never think of more tlian one
thing at a time, that, in fact, we can-
not think of any one thing, without
relating it to some otiier. All its
qualities consist of such relations.
This Sir William Hamilton very dis-
tinctly states when, after treating of
the presentative faculty (Perception),
and the representative faculties (Me-
mory and Imagination), he proceeds
to treat of the Judgment or Reason,
which he divides into the Elaborative
and Regulative Faculties. It is thus
he describes what we popularly call
Judgment or Comparison.
"The faculties with which we have
been hitherto eogaged, mav be regarded
a« subsidiary to that which we are now
about to consider. This, to which I gave
the name of the ElaborativeFaculty — ^the
faculty of Relatious— or Compariaon —
constitutes what is properly deiiuminated
Thought It 6up[)0Bes always at least
two terms, and its act results in a judg-
ment ; that is, an affirmation or negation
of one of these terms of the other. You
will pecoUeot that, when treating of Con-
sciousness in general, I stated to you
that Consciousness necessarily involves a
judgment ; and, as every act of mind is an
act of Consciousness, every act of mind
consequently involves a judgment . . .
3o far from Comparison or Judgment
bein^ a process al wavs subsequent to the
acquisition of knowledge (through per^
ception and self-consciousness), it is in-
volved in a condition of the acquisitive
process itself. . .
"In opposition to the views hitherto
promulgated in regard to Comparison, I
will show that this faculty is at work in
every, the simplest act of mind ; and
that, from the primary affirmation of
existence in an original act of conscious-
ness to the judgment contained in the
conclusion of an act of reasoning, every
operation is only an evolution of the same
elementary process— that there is a dif-
ference in tne' complexity, none in the
nature of the act; in shorty that the
various products of analysis and syn-
thesis, of abstraction and generalisation,
are all merely the results of Comparison,
and that the operations of Conception, or
Simple Apprehension, of Judgment and
of Reiisoning, are all only acts of Com-
parison in various applications and de-
grees"*
We are quite prepared to acquiesce
in this wide generalisation of 6ir
William Hamilton's. In all our know-
ledge— in all our reasoning— we see
a similar act of judgment exercised
on simpler or more complex tenns.
But we find it essential to take
notice here, that if we regard Com-
parison or Judgment, not only as a
process subsequent to the acquisition
of knowledge, but "involved as a
lings under tliis neaa or judgment
We must not only include what is
popularly understood as Comparison
(where the properties of two bodies
are compared), but that elementary
faculty — that fundamental law, or
innate idea, as it i^ sometimes called
— which, in the first instant, makes
us cognisant of the property. For
instance, when we compare two
bodies as to their magnitude, there
must be, beside the act of compari-
son, the fundamental ideas of exist-
ence or space. Whatever we choose
to call it, which makes us fur the
first time cognisant- of the ivlation
of position, nmst be included in this
act of Comparison or Judgment.
The distinction of these two ele-
ments in the one act of judgment may
at first sight appear a needless subtle-
ty ; but it is from overlooking it that
we expose ourselves to the innumer-
able subtleties and perplexities of the
old controversy about innate ideas or
a priori judgmen ts. These fundamen-
• Vol i. p. 277.
1850.]
Sir William Hamilton,
611
tal Ideas or modes — as space, exist-
ence, time — render all experience
possible, and yet are known to us
only in that experience. Metaphy-
sicians have generally preferred to
assign these two elements of the
one act of judgment to separate facul-
ties; Sir WiUiam Uamilton classes
Ezifitence^ Space, Time, amongst the
necessary truths of his Regulative
faculty. We have no opposition to
make to this blaasifioation ; we would
only observe that, in point of fact,
they are inseparable from the act of
judgment, or a perception of rela-
tions, to perceive the relations of
position and of sequence, is to have
the ideas of space and time, and they
enter the mind in no other way.
We may now be said to have all
the elements before us of a complete
cognition — sense, memory, and judg-
ment. Each object of cognition bears
various relation with other objects;
new groaps of these objects are per-
petually being found through memory
or imagination, and new relations be-
tween these groups are perceived.
Langnage intervenes with it« mar-
vellous assistance, and the generalisa-
tion of senses, or those which bear
the name of social, moral, and poli-
tical truths, take their place in the
human mind. Nor is knowledge
limited only to the senses, or gener-
alisations ultimately founded on the
senses : wo can- infer nmoh. Ilaving '
established certain laws « of nature,
we can infer unseen causes from
known effects ; we can infer for the
future of man and the human soul
purposes yet unrealised.
Have we reached the termination
of our analysis, or is there yet some
source of knowledge overlooked ? Sir
William Hamilton has one remaining
division which we have only par-
tially taken into our summary — that
which he denominates the Regulative
Faculty, Here we have arrived at
that other end of the scale where,
as we said, our author fraternises
with Leibnitz, and approximates to
what is loo6t;ly described amongst
us as the German school of philoso-
phy. At this point it will bo well
to extract the tabular view of Sir
William Hamilton's classification of
our faculties of cognition : it will be
seen how far we have travelled with
him, and what of the journey remains
to be taken.
' 1. Presentative
2. Conservative
3. Reproductive
4. Bepresentative
6. Elaborative
6. Regulative
{External i— Perception.
Internal -« Self-consciouBness.
^ Memory.
\ Without will ^ Suggestion.
*) With will t^ Reminiscence.
wmm Imaginatiun.
^ Comparison, — Faculty of Relations.
^ Reason, — Common Sense."*
It will be seen at a gfance that
the five first of these, and a portion
of what is included in the sixth,
have been embraced by us under the
heads of Perception, Memory, Ima-
gination, and Judgment. Under the
liead of Judgment, we took notice of
those fundamental ideas, or modes,
c>r laws of thought, which are essen-
tial to all comparisons, which render
all experience possible, but which
^ve were unable to separate from the
act of judgment. Besides these, are
there any other "necessary trutlis"
which we -are bound to recognise
fuid set apart under the title of the
Kegolative Faculty ?
We will here quote the briefest
passaije we can select in which Sir
Williftin Hamilton describes and dis-
tinguishes these two departmerts or
faculties — the Elaborative and the
Regulative— -into which be has divid-
ed what is popularly known as the
one faculty of reason, judgment, or
understanding :—
" The Elaborative Faculty has onlv
one operation, it only compares — it fs
Comparison— the faculty of Relations.
It msy startle yon to hear that the
highest function of mind is nothing
higher than comparison, but, in the end,
I am confident of convincing you of the
paradox .' . . GkneraliaatioD, which
Vol. il p 17.
512
Sir William ffamilton.
[OoL
is the result of syntbesis and analysisy
is thus an act of comparison, and is pro-
perly denominated Conception. Judg-
ment is only the comparison of two
terms or notions directly together : Rea-
soning only the comparison of two terms
or notions with each other through a
third. Conceptiou or Generalisation,
Judgment and Reasoning, are thus only
▼arious applications of (X»mparison, and
not even entitled to the distinction of
separate Faculties. . . .
**This is thought, strictly so called ;
it corresponds to the Aiavoia of the
Greek, to the Diteursui of the Latin,
to the Verstand of the German philoso-
phy ; and its laws are the object of logic.
"But in the sixth and last plaee, the
mind is not altogether indebted to ex-
perience for the whole apparatus of its
knowledge — its knowledge is not all
adyentitiouB. What we know by expe-
rlenee, without experience we should
not have known ; and as all our experi-
ence is contingent, all the knowledge
derived from experience is contingent
also. But there are conditions in the
mind which are not contingent — which
are necessary — which we cannot but
think — which thought supposes as its
fundamental condition. These cogni-
tions, therefore, are not merely gener-
alisations from experience. But if not
derived from experience, they must be
native to the mind. . . . These na-
tive,— these necessary cognitions, are
the laws by which the mind is governed
in its operations, and which afford the
conditions of its capacity of knowledge.
... On the power possessed by the
mind of maniresting these phenomena,
we may bestow the name of the Regu-
lative Faculty. This faculty corre-
sponds in some measure to what, in the
Aristotelic philosophy was called Node,
— vo^ {intellectiMj ment), when strictly
employed, being a term, in that philoso-
phy, for the place of principles — the
I0CU8 prineipiorum. It is analogous,
likewise, to the term Becuon^ as oc-
casionally used by some of the older
English philosophers, and the Vemunft
in the philosophy of Kant, Jacobi, and
others of the recent German metaphy-
sicians. It is also nearly convertible
with what I conceive to be Reid's, and
certainly Stewart's, notion of Common
Sense."*
If now we turn to the 88th Leo-
tare, headed The Regulative Faculty^
we shall find a more cbniplete enu-
meration and account of these neces-
aary truths — ^we shall find that the
list of Uiem not only embraoes those
which we have already described, ba
enential to experience, but others,
which, if not generalisations from
experience, might, at all events, be
taken for such, and are by many con-
bidered as sucii.
" The derivative cognitions are of our
own fabrication; we form them alter
certain rules ; they are the tardy resalt
of Perception and Memory, of Atten-
tion, Reflection, Abetractioo. The primi-
tive cognitions, on the contrary, seem to
leap ready armed from the womb of
reason, like Pallas from the head of Ju-
piter ; tometimeH the tnind places thetn at
the comiiuncemetU of its operatiffHs, in
order to have a point of support and a
fixed basi^, without which the opera-
tions would be impossible; wmetimet
theiiform^ in a certain sort, the crowning
— c(/nsummaii<mj of all the inteUeehtfol
operations. .... The primitive and
general notions are the root of all prin-
ciples— ^the foundation of the whole edi-
fice of human seienee. . . .
" Leibnitz is the first by whom the
criteriou of necessity — of the imposu-
bility not to think so and so — was esta-
blished as a discriminative type of oar
native notions, in contrast to those which
we educe from experience, and build op
through generalisation. The enounce-
ment of this criterion was, in fact, a
great discovery in the science of mind;
and the fact that a truth so manifest,
when once proclaimed, could have lain
BO long unnoticed by philosophers, may
warrant us in hoping that other dis-
coveries of equal importance may still
be awaiting the advent of another Leib-
nitz."t
We shoiild readily receive this cri-
terion, if the application of it could
have been agreed upon. Ideas or
beliefs, which are manifestly euential
to all experience, and are thus in
reality one toith experience, we can
as readily receive as necessary truths
of the Regulative Faculty, as under
any other description. But when
the necessary truth is described as
"sometimes crowning" our intellec-
tual efforts, and when we find at-
tempts made to determine phiioso-
phi<»d disputes by an appeal to a
^^ necessary truth," we begin to feel
that we are treading on- very inse-
cure ground. The moment we extend
the list beyond such fundamental con-
ceptions (like existence, space, and
• Vol ii. p. 16.
t Vol. a p. 862.
1869.]
Sir William Hamilton.
613
timeX a9 are necessary to any know-
ledge whatever, we find tbat the
^^neoeesaiy truth '^ becomes a sub-
ject of controyersy. Some admit,
some reject J and, owins to the ad-
vance of science, what has been as-
serted as a necessary troth in one
age, has been deserted as a mere pre-
judice in the next. It was once a ne-
cessary tmth that a body cannot act
but where it is. The doctrine ^f at-
traction or gravity has reconciled as
to the idea of bodies acting on each
other at a. distance. If tne pheno-
mena of gravitation shonld be re-
duced (by the interposition of a subtle
ether, and the application of our the-
ories of electro magnetism) to a form
of motion by impulse, we may go back
again to the old ^* necessary troth."
Every strong conviction seems to
certain minds impossibie to contra-
dict, and thus may always aspire
to the rank of a necessary truth.
Sir William Hamilton classes the be-
lief that the total amount of matter
does not increase or diminish in the
universe amongst necessary truths,
which surely is a result of obser-
vation, and a troth which should be
limited to the sphere of observation.
On the other hand, he describes the
belief in GK>d as a truth of ioference,
which by many men would be placed
in the first rank of necessary truths.
This subject has, of late, been discuss-
ed very ably by Mr. Whewell on the
one side, and )(r. J. S. Mill on the
other. The valuable ^ discovery " of
Leibnitz does not seem even yet to be
recognised by all philosophers.
But what is peculiar to Sir Wil-
liam Hamilton in his treatment of
this part of his subject is, that he
divides these necessary truths into
two classes, those of a Positive Ne-
cessity, and those of a Negative Ne-
cessity. This last class he refers to
what he calls a principle of weak-
nesi or impotence. The mind comes
to a point where it meets two con-
tradictory propositions which admit
of no middle term, which are mu-
tually destructive of each other, yet
of which one must be true.
Some course must be taken out of
sheer necessity; but this is a nega-
tive necessity — the necessity of an
alternative, not the necessity of a
Tiositive truth. As Sir William
Hamilton dwells upon this distinc-
tion with something of the fondness
of an original discoverer, and as it
has been lately brought rather con-
spicuously forward in certain theolo-
gical discussions (relating to our con-
ceptions of the Infinite), it is impos-
sible for us to pass it over in silence ;
although it seems very clear to us
ti)at if there are such contradictory
propositions as are here described, we
have before us amply a case of neeei'
sory ignoraneey not of necessary ♦
truth. So far as speculation is con-
cerned, and unless some human inte-
rest or desire gave its weight to one
of the two propositions, there would
be sii.nply a suspension of judgment,
and no belief or conviction, and cer-
tainly no knowledge, at all.
" It is affreed that the equality of ne-
cessity is t£at which discriminates a na-
tive from an adventitious element of
knowledge. When we find, therefore, a
cognition which contains this discrimi-
native quality, we are entitled to lay it
down as one which eould not have been
obtained as a generalisation from expe-
rience. This I admit But when philoso-
phers lay it down not only as native to
the mind, but as a positive and immedi-
ate datum of an intellectual power, I de-
mur. It is evident that the quality of
necessity in a cognition may depend on
two different and opposite prmciples,
inasmuch as it may either be the result
of a power, or of a power! essness, of the
thinking principle. In the one case it
will be a Positive, in the other a Nega-
tive necessity." •
After giving some instances of the
Positive necessity, as the notions of
existence, the intuitions of Time and
Space, he continues : —
*^ But besides these, there are other
necessary forms of thought which, by all
philosopuers, have been regarded as
standing precisely on the same footinp^,
^which to me seem to be of a totally dif-
ferent kind. In place of being the re-
sult of a power, the necessity which
belongs to them is merely a consequence
of the impotence of our faculties.'^
And then he proceeds to state some
instances of this ^^ Contradiction And
Excluded Middle." But firs{, we are
► Vol ii, p. 866.
514
Sir William Hamilton.
[Oct.
not told why experience should not
be a sufficient guide to the recogni-
tion of a limit to our knowledge, or
to the recognition of these contradic-
tions; and, secondly, we do not feel
that he has made out his cases of
contradicting propositions. We do
not find, for instance, two contra-
dictory propositions as to the Infinite
or the Eternal.
As Sir William Hamilton's philo-
sophy was brought forward by Mr.
Mansel in his Bampton Lectures to
support a rather remarkable line of
reasoning, * we must beg that a dis-
tinction be drawn between two very
different statements which our meta-
physician has made relating to the
subjects of the Infinite and Absolute.
The one we admit, the other is what
we are at present disputing. That
every cognition must exist of two
terms, at least, and a felt relation,
appears to us an evident and import-
ant truth ; and that therefore the
Absolute or Unconditioned cannot be
a direct object of human knowledge,
we think, must be admitted. This
law of our thought Sir William
Hamilton ^ennnciated with angular
force in his review of M. Cousin,
afterwards republished as nn Essay
on the Unconditioned, He there
shows that the Infinite cannot be
known, per. w, in a positive sense.
Our positive conceptions are neces-
sarily of the Finite. The infinite is
only known in relation to the finite.
Draw any circle, large or small, there
is always an infinite space beyond it
— aq infinity which embraces the
circle itself. But the other state-
ment which he has made, in conjunc-
tion with this, and which is more
especially dwelt upon in these lectures,
is of a quite different and very dis-
putable character — namely, that we
have contradietory notions of the
infinite forced upon ns. We find
limit or imperfection, not contradic-
tion. And indeed how can Sir Wil-
liam Hamilton make his two state-
ments consistent with each other?
He says, in tiie one statement, ttiis
and this only is your notion of the
infinite ; he says, in the other state-
ment, that two opposite notions hsTe
an equal yalidity.
" Now, then, I lay it down as a lav
which, though not generalised by philo-
sophers, can be easily proved to be true
by its application to the phaenomena :^
lliat all that is conceivable in thought
lies between two extremes, whieh^ u
contradictory of each other, cannot both
be true, but of which, as mutual contra-
dictories, one most. For example, wt
conceive space — ^we cannot but eoneeiTe
space. I admit, therefore, that spaee in-
definitely, is a positive and neeeasaij
&>rm of thought But vhen. philoaophen
convert the fact, that we cannot bat
think space, or, to express it differentlj,
that we are unable to imagine anything
out of space — ^when philosophers, I iay,
convert this fact with the assertion, tbst
we have a notion, — a positive notion, erf
absolute or of infinite 8pace,they assume,
not only what is not contained in the
phfenomenon, nay, they assume what is
the very reverse of what the phienome-
non manifesta It is plain, that ^»aee
must either be boundea or not bounded.
These are coBtra4ietory alternatives; <»
the principle of Contradiction, they can-
not both be true, and on the principle
of Excluded Middle, one must be true."f
It has been often said that our
knowledge and our being lies between
two infinities and two eternities — the
infinitely great, the infinitely small,
the eternal post, the etemaf fntnre.
We look out on both sides with a
conviction that there i$ no limit.
This is all the conception of infinity
we can possibly have. Bnt the doc-
trine that our knowledge lies between
two contradwtions is quite another
and most fallacious statement. Where
are the contradictions? Are they
such as are really left to ns as the
last result of earnest inquiry, or are
they the product of a logical dexterity
taking adFantage of the undeniable
obscurity of the subject? We have
never had much respect for these
ingenious antagonisms or '^antino-
mies " of the reason. With regard to
Infinite Space, Sir William Hamilton
himself tells ns that we can have no
positive conception of it; we think
* In the review of Mr. ManseVs lectures ifi our July number we were unable,
from want of space, to enter into these peculiarities of Sir William Hamilton's
Philosophy. Perhaps the following remarks may be allowed to supply the defi-
ciency, f Vol il p. 868.
1869.]
Sir William Hamilton.
615
of a oirde perpetaally enlarging, and
always haviog a mthoutsxiiSi a ^nthin ;
this illitnitable beyond is our only
infinite, and it is jast as clear to ns
whether the oirole we ima^ne be
three feet in diameter, or whether it
embraces all the known stars. Bat
after having taught ns this, it is
mere sophistry to say that the oppo-
site proposition of a **boanaed
space" is equally valid because we
cannot in a positive nibnner repre-
sent to ourselves the *^ unboonded."
*^We are altogether unable,'* says
Sir William Hamilton, ^* to conceive
space as bounded— as finite : that is,
as a whole beyond which there is no
other space/* We all admit this in-
stantly, nor can there be any contra-
dictory proposition brought forward
to shake our conviction. What is
stated here as such is no contradic-
tion. ^^On the other hand," con-
tinnes Sir William, " we are equally
powerless to realise in thought the
possibility of the opposite contradic-
tory; we cannot conceive space as
infinite, as without limiti. Yon may
launch out in thought beyond the
solar walk, you may transcend in
fancy even the universe of matter,
and Vise from sphere to sphere in the
region of empty space, until imagi-
nation sinks exhausted; — with all
this, what have yon done ? Tou have
ne^er gone beyond the finite, you
have attained at best, only to the
indefinite, and the indefinite, however,
expanded, is still always the finite.***
What have we done ? We have done
all that, when contending for the in-
finite space, we ever professed to do.
We have shown how we might travel
in thought for ever and for ever, and
never tind a limit ; we have shown
that every limit implies a beyond.
It is thus that, under Sir William
Hamilton's instruction, we defined or
described our notion of the infinite.
Our circle may widen for ever, and
there is always an inexhaustible be-
yond. You may call this beyond at
each moment the ind^niU, if you
please, because our oonceptions can-
not embrace the inexhaustible; but
this conviction, that, from the nature
of things it is mexhaustible, remains,
and this conviction constitutes our
♦ Vol. a p. 870.
notion of the infinite. It is no con-
tradiction to say that *^^ we cannot
realise in thought " the unbounded,
if by realising in thought be meant a
representation in the imagination, for
it is precisely this acknowledged im-
possibility of presenting to ourselves
a last boundary, that constitutes our
rational conviction of the infinite.
We realise it in thought as such ra-
tional conviction.
As with Space, so with Time:
two contradictory propositions are
conjured up before us which in fact
are not contradictory. " We are al-
together unable to conceive Time as
commencing.** This expresses the
conviction of every one of us, and it
constitutes our definition of a past
eternity. Let us pkce ourselves in
what .epoch we please, there is always
the same immeaiuraibility behind
us and before. It is not a great
intervaly because an interval has a be-
ginning and an end. Take what in-
terval you wiU, there is at both ends
Erecisely the some immccuuraoility
efore and after. What is the con-
tradictory proposition ? ^^ On the
other hand, the concept of past time
as without limit., — without commence-
ment, is equally impossible. We can-
not conceive the infinite regress of
time ; for such a notion could only be
realised by the infinite addition in
thought of finite times, and such an
addition would itself require an eter-
nity for its accomplishment.*'! But
it is precisely this acknowledged
impossibility by any addition of
finite times to reach a beginning of
time, or to approach the least nearer
to such beginning, that constitutes
our definition of eternity. This im-
possibility stands there as a truth of
experience or inference. There is
no contradiction to it If we pro-
fessed to have a conception of eter-
nity so that the mind's eye could em-
brace it, then indeed we should be
opposed to contradiction.
Sir William Hamilton adds: —
^*The negation of a commencement
of time involves, likewise, the affir-
mation, that an infinite time has, at
every moment, already run : that is,
it implies the contracfiction, that an
infinite has been completed." Sir
t Ibid. p. 872.
51«
Sir William ffamiltan.
[Oct 1859.
William himself could very easily,
had he chosen, have solved the riddte
he has here placed before ns. We
have seen it put more simply, thus :
There was a past eternity forty years
ago ; therefore, at this moment, there
is fin eternity plus forty years. The
puzzle is made by proposing to add
to the immeoiuraih. Every event in
tihie has precisely the same relation
to eternity; it has definite and very
different relations to other eeents.
The two relatolnships should be kept
distinct. The forty years cannot be
measured off from eternity any more
than forty feet could be measured off
from infinite f«pace. Intervals of
time imply a beginning and an end ;
and only such intervals can be made
longer or shorter. The same riddle
might be put with regard to infinite
space. You might measure forty
feet from A to B, and then say, that
looking ft*om A^ there was an infi-
nity pku forty feet. But, in fact,
pofj^tion, or measurable distance, is
only a relation between two finitee.
Each finite object bears the same re-
lation to infinite space, whatever re-
lation it has to other finites. ^ The
ancient sophist could prove thait mo-
tion was impossible, or non-existent,
so long as he could fix attention ex-
clusively on the relation of each ob-
ject to infinite space; it is only the
relation of object to object that
gives position, and consequently that
change of position we call motion.
In like manner one might prove that
the sequence of events was impossible
if, instead of looking at the relation
between the two events, one could
fix the mind on the relation of each
to eternity.
Placing ourselves, therefore, under
the guidance of Sir William Hamil-
ton himself, we cannot admit that,
in our notions of the Infinite and the
Eternal, we are exposed to this. cruel
sport of contradictory propositions,
each having equal claim to our as-
sent. We admit his aooonnt of these
notions, and are happy to find that
he produces nothing valid against
them. Nor do we hold that the tm-
posdbility of conceiving the Infiinte,
or the "Eternal, in any other way
than he has described, is in the feast
adverse to any intelligible doctrine
of religion. If we form the concep-
tion of God, as Creator, we must
necessarily conceive of Him as l»ff«-
lation to the IJniversei One does
not see how anything is gained by
the vain attempt to 'apprehend Him
as the Absolute, Again, we say that
the universl exists in the mind of
God as thought The idea of infi-
nity, then, as applie<l to the mind of
God, eannot be otl^er than the same
idea as gathered from the nnivene
itself. We know the universe as in-
finite, we do not know the infimte
universe; we know God to be in-
finite, we do not know the infinite
Gk)d. No one ever asserted that we
cannot know the universe at all, be-
cause we cannot know the whde,
because we know there is an impos-
sibility that we should ever know it
in its infinity.
That this doctrine of truths of a
*^ negative necessity'' does not remaia
idle in the system of Sir Wilfiam
Hamilton, ia shown by this, that be
ultimately resolves into a truth of
this order Our idea of Causation. This
subject of Causation he has dis-
cussed at some length in these Lec-
tures, and we had proposed to oar-
selves to follow him in his investiga-
tions of one of the most intercitiiig
problems of philosophy. But oar
space is exhausted : what we wished
to say on this topic must wait some
future occasion. We ooght perba)N
to congratulate ourselves tiiat we
have been able, in so short a ooffl-
pass, even in this imperfect manner,
to give some account of Sir Wfiltam
Hamilton's doctrines of Cognition.
Those who have the requisite kisore
will hardly fail to peruse these lec-
tures themselves. They are foil of
thought; there is mnc^ to disootf
and to quarrel with; much to le-
ceive, and to be instnicted by; tbof
are, in every way, a most acoeptabte
addition to our philosophical liten-
tare.
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BLACKWOOD'S '
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. DXXIX. . NOVEMBER, 1859. : . Vol. LXXXVT.
* • ■ CONTENTS.
The French o^ Queen Mary, . . •- . • • • 517
Vaughan's Revolutions in English History, 537
The Luck op Ladysmede. — Part IX., . . • . . • .549
Captain J. H. Speke's Discovert o^ the Victoria Nyanza Lake, ^
the supposed Source of the Nile. From nia Journal. —
Part III., .......... . . 565
' A Week in Florence, . . . . : . . ... . 583
The Idylls or the Kino, 608
On Allied Operations In China, .... -^ . .627
The Future or India and her Army, ^3
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LEONARD SCOXT & Co.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. DXXIX.
NOVEMBER 18«». Voi-LXXXVL
THS 7BKNCH ON QJTEXS VAST.
Whetheb it be owing to an im-
pulse commnnicated by the snccess-
fnl labours of Miss Strickland, or to
some other canse, French aulhorship
and editorship have lately been pro-
fusely dedicating their services to
Mary Qaeen of Scots. The literature
they have favoured us with, besides
being divisible into good and bad,
consists partly of rhetorical declama-
tion, which belongs in a great mea-
sure to the latter category, and partly
of original research, productive of
new facts and view?, which consti-
tutes, beyond doubt, the more valu-
able part of this literary harvest.
The able but bitter inquiry by M.
Mignet, which, after appearing frag-
mentally in the Becue des Deux
Mondes^ was embodied in a separate
narrative. Is now some years old,
and hardly belongs to the more re-
sent series to which the present obser-
vations are directed. From the pro-
lific pen of M. Dumas we have a
volume of his successive Orimeti Celi-
bres, with the title of Marie Stuart^
im using enough as a piece of pictur-
esque reading, but not suf3oiently
important, either for its novelty or
my other merit, to deserve length-
ened criticism. Lamartine has also
published a volume with the same
irief title — a volume of which those
Evho are the greatest admirers of his
VOL. Lzxzn.
84
genius, and take the warmest interest
in his checkered fortunes, will be
disposed to say the least. He takes
his facts' and his tone avowedly from
a somewhat ambitious volume, of
which we shall presently have more
to say, termed HieUnre de Marie
Stvart^ by J. M. Dargaud. But far
more valuable, as the result of pro-
found historic research, is the book
by M. Oh^ruel, with the title, Marie
Stuart et Catherine de Medicie^ itude
hiatorique enr les Relatione de la
France et de VEeoeee, The merit of
having produced the most valuable
oontriDution among these French
tributes to the memory of our Queen
will lie between this book of Oh^
ruel's and another called Lettree de
Marie Stuart^ public acee turn-
mairesy traduetionsj notee et foe-
eimiley by that indefatigable archao-
logist Jean Baptiste Alexandre Theo-
dore Teulet. His volume is intended
as a supplement to the collection by
Prince Xabanoff, with which the
reader either is or is not acquainted.
This venerable member of the select
drole of Russian grandees, claiming
descent fh)m the pristine Rurik,
stands conspicuous as a living illus-
tration of the fascinations of our
northern Cleopatra. It is related
among the triumphs of Ninon de
PEnclos, that she had lovers among
618
The French on Queen Mary.
[Not,
tbe contemporaries of her grand-
obildren, one of them, according to a
qnesdonable legend, turning out to
be ab actoal descendant in that de-
gree. Bat the fascinations of Mary
present to ns a far more potent testi-
mony in a living lover, wbo loves
and most love on, as some of tbe
sentimental songs say, dovirn into the
third century after that in which the
object of his passion breathed the
breath of life. The Prince has spent
a great portion of a long life in the
fanctions of a knight-errant, vindicat-
ing the spotless hononr of the lady
of his love. If it has not been his
lot to pat the spear in rest against
the caitiff maligilers, or to knock on
the shield hang outside the gate of
the castle where the object of his
vows lies captive, he has performed
the drearier, if less dangerous, task
of ransacking every library in the
world for evidence of the innooenoe
of his peerless lady, and has published
the result of his labours in seven
dense octavo volumes. They are a
curious and valuable collection, but
rather dryish on the whole ; and
though the price of the volumes is
rather high, we have little doubt that
they have been paid for by many
more people than they have been
read by. The Prince's labours were
not directed to the end of discover-
ing the truth — that was already fixed
and indubitable as divine trntn ; he
sought in his humble devotion only
to collect and record the documents
calculated to illustrate it, and bring
it home in its full lustre to careless
or obdurate hearts. Accordingly, he
rejected from his collection as spuri-
ous, and in a manner blasphemous,
those documents which, in the view
of the impartial, throw doubt on the
purity of his bright particular star.
M. Teulet observes with a sort of dry
sarcasm, " C'eet la sane doute une con-
vietion aueei nneh'e que reapeetable ;
malheureutement tout le mande ne la
partage pae;^"* and he remarks very
justly, that to those acquainted with
the Prince Labanoff it is c^uite un-
necessary to explain that be is a com-
plete stranger to the volume issued
to the world for the purpose of com-
pleting his collection.
There is, in fact, a sort of Quixot-
ism in H. Teulet himself, and one
cannot help being amused by tbe
enthusiasm for historical accoiBcy,
which has set the one collector and
editor to dog the steps, as it were, of
the other, and supply his rejections
and omissions, in order that the world
may know the seal truths. There is
no getting off witli a fond hallucin-
ation, or a well -pleaded one-aaded
theory, while there are archsologiGil
detectives to track our steps in this
fashion. The two editors are not
only honest, but disinterested, each
in nis own peculiar way. To the
affluent and distinguished Prince the
cost of printing seven volumes fur
an unappreciating public would be a
trifling addition to the sacrifices made
by him in his laborious aean^ over
the world for their contents. At Uk
same time, any man, master of tbe
abilities and industry embarked on
the supplemental volume, might
surely, bad he desired it, have foacA
a more profitable and a more dis-
tinguished method of employing them.
H. Teulet represents a race of archae-
ologists, for whose solid and Talnabk,
but not conspicuous laboursi, the
world cannot be too gratefuL In
Scotland we owe him much. Hs
edited for the Bannatyne Club two
enormous volumes of atate papov in
the French archives bearing on tbe
affairs of Scotland during the six-
teenth century — ^volumes wliidi will
change the aspect of tbe bistory of
the period in the hands of whoever
may next write it. He is tbe editor
also, if we mistake not, of a volDme
of letters on Scottish affairs from tbe
suceessive ambassadors sent by Philip
U. of Spain to the court of France —
a collection which we woald find (d
little service but for bis considerate
abridgments in clear modem Frendi
of the old Spanish letters. The toI-
ume by M. Tenlec more espe<»ally
under notice on tbe present occasion,
consists chiefly, but not entirely, of
those documents specially bearing on
Queen Mary, which he had previously
printed in these unapproacbabie vdt-
umes.
One would naturally say, at first
thought, that the a^r of Queen
Mary had been over-written long
ago : that there was nothing new to
be discovered or said about it in the
present generation. Not so, bow-
1859.]
Th^ t^reMh on Quem Uoftf^.
519
ever. Mi<s Btricklaod has discorered
much that is new; so has Prince
Labanoff; so, too, have M. Tentetand
M. Gh€rae1. It is one of the remark-
able powers of true archeeological
science, that it should enable us to
be acquiring more and more of the
truth abont great events of the past,
the farther we are marching away
from them through the lapse of ages.
We can not only prune away the
lavish overgrowth of fable which the
carelessness and credulity of interme-
diate historians have permitted to
cover up the bare truth of early his-
tory, but we can even correct the
errors and fiUj up the deficiencies of
contemporary narrators. We can not
only prove the early British his-
tory, from so great a pen as Milton's,
to be steeped in fable, but we can
correct and fill up Bacon's annals of
Elizabeth — the history of his own
age, written by its wisest son. Look
at the history of that brilliant scholar
Buchanan — not a mere student, but a
practical statesman. The early part
is all fable, moulded to the political
purposes of the writer. But even of
contemporarv matters — events pass-
in under bis eyei, as it were,
how much do we now know of
which he was Ignorant ! Kor is it of
less advantage to the cause of truth
that we can sometimes correct both
his and other writings where their
errors are rather wilful than acd-
dental.
The labours of our French friends
bear partly on actual events within
Scotland, but in a great measure on
the relation of these to foreign affairs.
Of the purely Scottish portion we
shall perhaps be able to give some
rather odd illustrations ferther on;
the foreign department is far the
more valuable. To have a proper com-
prehension of the wondrous events of
this period in Scotland, we must look
at them not merely at home, but
from the centre of European peptics.
It will be well to be thoroughly satu-
rated with a knowledge of the contem-
porary history of France. It is
there that we shall find, on a lai^ge
scale, systeniatised and classified, we
rules of action and the code of mo-
rality which, ramifying into this
country through the French connec-
tion , have seemed so startling and
anomalflus. The crimes and Ibllies, so
astounding when seen in isolated
Scotland, cease to astonish, as the
chemical phenomena of a travelling
charlatan cease to aatonish the adept
who has gone through a course of
study in a university laboratory. If
Catherine of Medici were a little
more studied, we should have less
difficulty in dealing with the pheno-
mena of the life of Mary Stuart. Kot
that the one had a resemblance to
the other; they were as unlike as
l^e profound teacher and the careless
easy pupil. Nor were the marvellous
criminality and licentiousness which
then infested the French Court in-
digenously French, any more than
they were indigenously Scottish;
they did not spring out of the origi-
nal character, for distance, of those*
French hearty brave Goiaes of Lor-
raine. They were brought over
straight from Italy, and industriously
propagated, producing a harveat
which must have fully satisfied the
fondest hopes of the importers.
The quantity of slaughter ever
crossing these pages makes one so
familiar with such phenomena, that
Scotluid becomes far less of a sham-
bles than her history, studied alone,
would make her. Besides the great
haUuA of St. Bartholomew, ^ere
are the two Guises, father and son,
Eicked off; then the murderer
imself, Henry III., making room
for the King of Kavarre, who also
is to be assassinated; and there
was the little vacant area which
the Queen-mother kept around her
by the quiet removal of more obscure
victims. One wonders at the nerve
of t^e people who could subsist and
^^ sleep o* nights^' at such a Court.
Hie most careless observer must
be struck by the success attending
all attempts on life in that age, when
compared with later times. Even in
France, where they might be sup-
posed to manage such things best,
how manr abortive shots have been
fired at Louis Philippe and the pre-
sent Emperor of the French. In the
sixteenth century your assassins
seemed scarcely ever to miss a shot ;
thev were more used to practice,
their consciences gave them little
trouble, and they did not go to their
work clumsily uncertain, and half
620
The French on Queen Mary,
[KOT.
crazy with ezoitemeDt, like the re^-
olde assasBin of the present day.
And by the way, this reminds ns
in passing that a cnrions view is
thrown oat by these French writers
on one of the cleverest feats of this
kind which the age produced — the
shooting of the Begent Morray by
Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh. No
reader requires to be reminded of the
picturesque particulars of that deed.
There is a well-known romantic story
abont Hamilton being instigated by
revenge on account of the fate of his
wife, turned out of her house on a
winter night with a new-born
babe. This stoiy is not well authen-
ticated, and there is reason for be-
lieving that Hamilton acted as the
executioner of a doom pronounced
on Murray bv his enemies in solemn
conclave. The arrangement was a
common one in those days; it was
the Hhape in which both Hizzio and
Darnlev were doomed to die, the
latter naving been, of course, a more
formal transaction than the removal
of the Italian fiddler : the documents
connected with it were indeed care-
fally revised by counsel learned in the
law. Well, to the point abont
this affair of the shooting of the
Begent. In a long letter, full of
other and seemingly far more import-
ant business, written by Maiy to
her trusty counsellor Archbishop
Beaton, who acted as a sort of am-
bassador for her in France, there
occurs a casual passage which may
be thus rendered.
" As to what you write to me from
my cousin of Guise, I would wish
that so worthless a creature as the
person referred to were put out of
the world, and it would give me
satisfaction if some one belonging to
me were the instrument, but still
more if he were hanged by an execu-
tioner as he deserves. You know how
I have this at heart, and how I dis-
liked the understanding held with
him by my uncle the Cardinal of Lor-
raine, which I would willingly have
hindered had it been in my power ;
but to interfere in this matter, where
I have no right to direct, is not my
affair. That which Bothwellhaugh
has done, has been without my com-
mand, but ^ ^eel under obligatioxi to
him, and all the more so than if I had
been in the plot I wait for the ao-
counts which ought to be rendered kA
my dowry, that 1 may ad|jast my es-
tablishment, in which I shall not for-
get the pension to this Bothwell-
haugh.*^ And then the lett^* passes
on to more important though leas in-
teresting political affairs.
Prince Labanoff has printed tiiis
letter in his collection. It probably
contains nothing to astonish a Bib-
sian — nor is it anything but a natu-
ral letter to those who have read
much in the correspondence of the
period. Kiss Strickland also cites
it fairly — ^a remarkable instance of
her candour and honest dealing,
since there are people in this splene-
tic age who would think it inoHi-
sistent with the gentleness^ purity,
and magnanimity arrogated to the
character of Queen Mary. It wiU be
observed that there are two affiun
spoken of in this cursory passage —
the one, an assassination aatisfaeto*
rily accomplished; the other, an as-
sassination to come off. \¥ho was to
be the victim of the latter, and whas
follower or sulgect of hers would
she fain have seen the instmment?
M. Dargaud at once answers both
questions, and is followed by ¥.
Lamartine. The person it was de-
sired to put out of the way was the
Admiral Ooligny, the great leader of
the Huguenot cause, who subse-
quently cost his enemies so mi»:h
trouble on the night of St. Bartholo-
mew, lest one, whom it was of such
special consequence to slay, mi^t
escape in the general confusion, ^y
these authors it is set down wi^
equal distinctness, that Bothwell-
haugh was the destined assassin.
M. fiargaud, indeed, gives a dialogue
with an agent of the Guises^ in which
Bothwellhaugh is made to say that
he avenged his own cause and Scot-
land's— ^that his carbine is not at the
service of every prince, or even mon-
arch, who desires it — ^that he is a
Hamilton, not an assassin. For all
that there is no authority — yet
nothing is more likely than ^at
Golignv might be the intended vic-
tim, while the context of the letter
* Labamovf, iii 864.
1859.]
J%e Frmuh en Qitem Marf^
621
seems to pdnt to Hamilton as the
exeoQtioner. At tiie same time
there are old traces of a rumour that
Hamilton had been solicited in
France, where he sought refbge, to
repeat the feat performed so effec-
tively in Linlithgow, and that he
had indignantly rejected the pro-
posal. The coincidence is curious,
and it would be a yaluable contribu-
tion to our history could some one
discover the missing link which
would complete the episode.
What we have said of it might be
counted a wasteful digression, if the
present were a systematic review of
the French books before us, or an
attempt to digest and arrange their
materials. These are, in &ct, a great
deal too afSuent and varied to be ex-
hausted within moderate space, and
the present notice of them is pro-
fessedly casual and unsystematic.
Were we to follow out M. Dargaud^s
treatment of it, we would have to
tell of the mysterious awe with
which, at Hamilton Palace, he beheld
the identical hackbut with which the
deed was done, and would have to
join issue by explaining that, having
also seen the weapon referred to by
bim, notwithstanaing an inscription
on it engraved in brass by some emi-
nent mcS:er of door-platcM, our belief
is that it was constructed by some
Brummagem rifle-manufacturer about
the period of the American War, or
perhaps a little later. But reserving
for notice further on some of the
special lights which this author has
thrown on our country and its his-
tory, let us in the mean time cast a
glance at the larger issues brought
out by the collections edited by our
French friends.
The most valuable service of these
volumes is, that they bring forth,
though still but in an imperfect and
fragmentary shape, the very close
connection between the fate of the
Queen of Scots and the marvellous
events which in her day reconstruct-
ed the map of Europe. It was an
age of great revolutions— of rises and
falls of empires — of the disruption of
some, and the consolidation and en-
largement of others — and all this
mighty drama went on with this
young Queen of a small northern
country, idmost as much the centre
and pivot of the whole as the hero*^
ine of a romance is the centre of all'
its versatile and marvellous combin-
atioDs. It mattered not that in her
self- will and impulsive attachment
she threw herself away, as heroines
will, first on a scamps and secondlv
on a scoundrel — the one an unequal,
the other a decidedly low marriage.
It was destined, as if by the despotic
will of the author of a romance, that
she should be unable to move with-
out carrying the whole elements of
the plot with her ; and even these
wretched marriages had their influ-
ence on the development of the great
events of the sixteenth century. Let
us give but the briefest glance at
the conditions by which the accom-
plished young beauty was surround-
ed, and it becomes at once obvious
how much for Europe and the future
rested on her destinies.
It was not alone her possession
of extraordinary beauty and mental
ei, even accompanied as they were
the more potent gift of an irre-
sistible sedoctiveness, that gave her
the influence referred to, bat the
manner in which these fine bourt
cards were played. They happened
to be in the hand, or rather in the
several hands, of a house which
counted within its own family circle
a group of the most accomplished,
daring, and successfal political game-
sters of the day. The fortune which
made Mary the daughter of a Guise,
put a character on the events of the
time. Had she been the daughter
of her father's first wife, poor gentle
Madeleine of Yalois, of a far higher
house than that of Guise — namely,
the royal family of France itself—
whatever destinies might have await-
ed her, it is not likely that they wonld
have been so high. It was not the
greatness of her mother's family —
they were far below the Stuarts in
lustre— but its characteristic of being
a pushing rising family, that gave
her name its wide influence. Dnring
that period and for some time later—
so late, indeed, as the construction of
the Prussian kingdom — the regal
duchies which fell into the hands of
clever ambitions families had a way
of expanding into kingdoms and
empires. The King of France repre-
sented but a Duke of Paris, and the
522
His Ifh'ench on Queen Mcfry.
pToT.
« Czar a Doke of Hascoyla. It seemed
dear to contemporaries that the
Guises of Lorraine were to aggrandise
themselves into a royal house. Tbey
fdl by their too eagerly grasping at
a great crown, and the ambition that
overleaps its sell. Their aim was to
rule France, and how near they were
accomplishing that obiect we can
only now judge bv looking back on
that age by the light of the present, in
which the experiment which was then
made, but failed, has been successful.
What the^ Buonaparte dvnasty has
done for itself, was in fact pretty
nearly anticipated by the dynasty of
Guise. It is extremely interesting
to compare, at the two extremes of
such a stretch of time, conditions so
unlike in their mere external and in-
cidental characteristics, yet possess-
ing so much unity in their real
essence. There was the same rest-
lessness and fickleness among aJU
classes of the French people, the same
vibration between anarchy and ab-
ject submission, the same insane do-
termination to drive the one principle
uppermost for the time to its most
relentless conclusions; and what is
more to the point, the same thirsting
for a leader brave, strong, relentless,
and successful. Since the tide turned
against Francis I. — since the date of
the battle of Pavia, we may say— the
French were losing conceit of the
house of Valois. They did not satis-
fy the national craving for brilliancy
and success, for the satisfaction of
which Frenchmen will at once cheer-
fully abandon their liberties. France,
indeed, was waning in the eyes of
Europe before the rising influence of
Spain and England, the great repre-
sentatives of the two contenaine
forces of the age. She thus continued
in imminent peril of revolution, until
Henry IV. gave the crown the lustre
of heroism. Immediately aflerwards
Richelieu handed over a well-drilled
territory to Louis XIV., by whose
brilliant career of victories and un-
just aggrandisements the lease was
effectually renewed, and the Revolu-
tion postponed.
Le Balafrfi, or the Scarred, the
head of the Guises, bad in the period
of weakness and despondency per-
formed the one redeeming achiev-
ment which was glorious to his
countrymen, !n the capture of Calais
from the English. He was the most
popular man of his day, and he knew
how by a subtle diplomacy to make
that as well as every other element
of his strength tell. There can be
no doubt that he was the sapreme
guiding spirit in that bold moTement
by which the precious infant was
spirited out of Scotland, and carried
far beyond the reach of Henry VIIL,
and the influence of his pjans for
uniting England and Scotland under
his son and her. The next gr^t stop
was her marriage with the Danphin.
Fortune favoured them mightiJy at
one stroke, when Montgomery poked
out the eye of Henry IL ih the tilt-
yard. A member of the house of
Guise was now Queen of France.
It does not seem probable that then
they looked to sovereignty in Franoe.
They were but increasing their power
by every feasible means that ofRsrdL,
and the displacement of their nieee^s
husband was not to be so defined.
Indeed, it is not likely that the Ba-
lafr^ himself ever thought of the
throne of Franoe. It was on his more
unscrupulous and restless son ^at
that consummation of their power
seems to have dawned.
To the world in general it seemed
as if all this fabric of power had
toppled down at once with the death
of the poor feeble Kjng of France.
Qaeen of France and Queen of Scot-
land— ^the two things were as far
apart in power and brilliancy as the
palace from the cottage, and the latter
now only remained. To these restless
and ambitious spirits, howeyer, the
game was by no means up. The
court card was still in their hanck to
be played again; and though they
lost the fortune that seemed secured,
there were others even greater within
the range of possibilities. No time
was lost before their busy brains were
at work devising a new alliance. The
several available monarchs imd heir»
to throoes were scrutinised. Den-
mark and some of the smaDer German
states were lightly passed over by an
eye that looked ever upwards, and at
last rested on the supreme pinnade
of European 'power-^the Spanish em-
Clt was there that whatever
ce lost had been gained. It was
the empire whose monarch b(M»ted
186».]
2%6 Jn'^nch &n i^rtMtti Mcn^»
538
that the sun nerer aet on liis domin-
ions. As Lis ambassador Don Ferdi-
nand de Mandosa put it, " God was
snprerne in heaven, but the Kinfi^ of
Spain was sopreme on earth.'' He had
brought under his feet the independ-
ent states of Spain, sn&tcbed rortn-
gal, ruled the greater part of Italy ; and
though the Dutch were then worldng
ont their independence, they were,
in the eye of Spain and the greater
part of Europe, merely a handful of
rebels struggling in a swamp, and
earning for themselves condign pun-
ishment. He crushed the Moors, and
in the conflict afterwards crowned at
Lepanto, he had proved himself the
champion and protector of Obrtsten-
dom against the domineering Turk.
To preserve a full impression of the
mighty position of Spain under
Philip II., it is necessary to keep in
remembrance the traditional ambi-
tion of the great continental powers
to be the centre of a revived Boman
empire, such as that which Charle-
magne established for a reign. Spain
seemed marching on to this high
destiny. France was thrown out in
the misfortunes of Francis I. Ger-
many, though nominally in posses-
sion of the OsQsarship, had not
throughout her scattered states con-
centrated power to give it vitality.
The greatness of England was of
another kind — ^a fresh growth, to-
tally apart from the remains of the
imperial system, and supported by
the separate vitality of its ener-
getic, free, industrious people. Thus
the Spanish monarch had no effec-
tive rival in the ambitious course
which he was slowly but cunningly
and resolutely, pursuing; and when
he finally succeeded, his would be a
greater empire than ever Roman
eagle soared above; for bad there
not been found a new world on the
other side of the Atlantic— the yet
undeveloped empire called the "In-
dies''?
What a position, then, for these
ambitious princes of Lorraine, could
they get their niece with her posses-
'sions of Scotland and her claims
to the succession of England, made
queen of Spain ! With such sources
of influence in their hands, it would
go hard but that the head of the house
of Lorraine ruled in France, be it as
Mayor of the Palaee, as deputy of the
Emperor of Europe, or as actual king.
Accordingly a marriage was projected,
and all but concluded, with Don Car-
los, the heir to the Spanish crown.
The prelect suited admirably with
the ambitious notions of Philip II.
In fact, like the Guises on the deal^
of King Francis, he had just lost
by death the hold he had on Eng^
land by his marriage with Henry
VIII.'s daughter, Mary; and here
was another available in its place;
for with all the Roman Catholics
there was no doubt that Queen Mary
of Scotland was the true heiress of
the throne of England, and that the
overthrow of Elizabeth the usurper
was to be brought about by Provi-
dence in its own good time, with
such judicious aid from the sword as
Philip was able and very willing to
supply.
There was a dark and subtle spirit,
however, which in close quarters
might come to be more powerful
than the Guises or the King of Spain
either, set dead against ^e match.
This was our friend Catherine of Me-
dici, the mother-in-law of Mary. The
motives of this terrible woman have
been an enigma to historians. And
yet there is a view of them simple
enough, which tallies pretty well with
the facts of history; it is, that she
had no scruples of any kind, and let
nothing stand between her and her
object. If lies could accomplish her
object, tell them ; if life were in the
way, ont with it, by bullet, steel, or
poison, as may be most convenient,
considering time and purpose. Her
policy was an engine to be kept go-
ing, though nothing but human blood
should be available for working it;
and as to the nature of her policy, —
it was not that of despotistn or of
liberty, of the Church of Rome or of
freedom of conscience, but the enjoy-
ment of self-centred power. It seems
to add a new shade to one of the
darkest pictures of human wicked-
ness, to say that the author of the
Massacre of St Bartholomew had no
fanaticism or religious zeal in her;
but BO it was. As to Philip he was a
thorough bigot, who consoled himself
on his deathbed by reflecting on the
numbers he had put to death, and
the quantity of human agony he had
624
The Fr&neh on Queen Marff.
[Not.
iaflioted, for the sake of the Ohnroh ;
bat as to his rival in bloodshed aod
cmelty, she would have beoome a
Hugaenot or a Mohammedao could
it have served her purpose. In fact,
hers was jost the Italian ethics — ^the
el^ics of the Borgias and Oencis —
exhibited on a wide field, and guided
by a tenacious will.
She had no love for Mary Stuart.
The day on which she, the mother of
Uie king, had to give precedence to
the young beauty who had become
reigoiog queen, stamped its mark on
her black heart. Mary stung the
dowager occasionally with her sar-
castic tongue; for few were better
adepts at uiat dangerous accomplish-
ment which torments and makes
enemies. For all its illustrious his-
tory, the house of Medici was an
anomaly amonff the feudalities, from
having founded its wealth and power
on commerce instead of rapine, and
it lay open to sneers as not legi-
mately regal ; hence Mary called her
mother-in-law tbe fiUe de Marchand
— a sneer which Catherine committed
to her dangerous and retentive me-
mory. She was pretty freely accused,
indeed, of having shortened her son^s
life, because she thought she would
have more power were he out of the
way; and no doubt she was quite
capable of the deed. The only thing
in which she showed any of the con-
fiding weakness of mankind was in
being a devotee of astrology and
divination ; but these, if they were
supernatural, yet were agencies put
in the power of man, which she
might turn to her own immediate
purpose, and which were therefore
jbr more to be respected than the
religion which belonged to another
world, in which she could not com-
mand obedience.
Well, Catherine was against the
Spanish match, for the obvious rea-
son that it would render the power
of the Lorraine Guises preponderant
over that of herself and her sons. She
was indefatigable in carrying her
point M. Oh^reul has published
some of her letters on the afi&ir to
the Bishop of Limoges, the French
ambassador in Spain. Strange docu-
ments they are, subtie almobt to un-
intelligibility, full of ingenious sug-
gestion and eager pleading, with a
shadowy half-hidden nnder-oorraiit
of menace. It was difilenlt to bring
very powerful arguments to bear
against an arrangement so advant-
ageous to both the parties concerned.
She tried to make out that it woold
be extremely detrimental to the Ca-
tholic cause, because, if her hand were
weakened by the superiorly of tbe
Guises, it would be the Hogoenot
Kinff of 19'avarre, and not she, who
womd really obtain the chief influenoe
in France. She endeavoured to work
through King Philip^s confessor, and
several of his confidential adviana.
Her daughter was PhUip^s third wife
— ^to her the most plaudble argu-
ments were addressed. It was pro-
posed that Don Carlos, instead of hav-
ing Mary, should be married to tbe
younger sister of his stepmother,
the Queen of Spain. Thus that Qneea
would have a sister with her, and
her position would be streDgtheoed
by an alliance with the heir to tbe
throne, on whom her own personal
claim as his stepmother would be
but small. Catherine even endeav-
oured to move Queen Elizabeth to
her ends by presenting to her a pro-
spect no doubt sufiicientiy alarming,
both for the cause of Protestantisni
and her ovm personal interest. But
how Elizabeth could have acted in
the matter save through the influ-
ence of Murray, afterwards the Re-
gent, on his sister, is not very dear.
The match, however, was defeated.
People so unscrupulous as Catherine
are very successful in accomplishing
their ends. She had in her employ-
ment a countryman of her own, one
Bianci or Blanc, as the French
annalists call him, an expert oonfec-
tioner, who got the title of Qoeen
Catherine's poisoner — that being the
function by which he was reputed to
gain his living. A powerful effect
would be produced on the mind by
such a thought passing over it as
— "well, if I push her to the wall,
that woman will poison me.'* From
whatever c8Ui»e, however, she had
her way on this occasion, and one of
the most brilliant of the dreams of
ambition was dispersed.
So ends the first act ; but tbe tra-
gedy in which tbe King of Spain, tbe
Lorraine Guises, and Queen Maiy,
continue to be the chief oharacteni
IS69.]
7%s French 9n Queen Marp.
586
is not yet acted oat The first ca-
sualty is among the Guises, Mary
has not long endured her dreary ban-
ishment to her own kingdom, when
a despatch arrives telling her how
the brave Balafr6 has been murdered
by the fanatic Poltrot. The blow is
a severe one. The uncle and niece
bad an abundant fund of common
sympathies. Both were princely, not
aJone by descent and conventional
rank, but by the original stamp of the
Deity, which had given them nugesty
and beauty in externals^ balanced by
bravery, wit, geniality, and high spi-
rit as their intellectual and moral
inheritance. She was proud of the
great warrior and the wise statesman
who had guided her youthful steps
to greatness, and he was proud to be
tiie parent and instructor of the most
fascinating princess of her age. It
was just after his death that the
dark days of Mary came upon her.
The son who succeeded to him was
destined to a lot even more conspi-
cuous than his father^ for it was
with him that the crisis of the fa-
mily's career came. With Mary her
maternal house still kept up a close
intercourse, but personally their rela<
tion had widened. They were cousins
now, not uncle and niece, and their
intercourse was rather diplomatic
than affectionate. Upwards of twenty
years have passed, and preparation is
made for the chamber of execution at
Fotheringay, yet still the chief per-
sons in the drama are the same. A
whisper arises and passes over Eu-
rope, Is a King of France, a de-
scendant of St. Louis, a grandson of
the great Francis, going to permit his
sister-in-law, who wore the crown,
and yet bears the title of a Dovrager
Queen of France, to be put to death
like a felon? Certainly not There
is a certain Monsieur Belli^vre ac-
credited to the Court of Elizabeth,
for the purpose of bringing her to
reason, and stopping any attempt at
Tiolence. He seems to have acted
in some degree like the consul who
quoted Bynkershook and Puffendoif
and Grotius, and proved from Yatd,
Ac ; and in the text of the inviolabil-
ity of princes, he quoted Cicera and
referred to Mark An ton v, Mntius
Scffivola, and Porsenna with such apt
diplomatic scholarship, that de Thou
thought these speeches to Elizabeth,
as repor^ by the speaker, worthy
of being incorporated in full in his
great History. But in reality Belli6vre
bad a wondrously difficult part to
perform, and his big classic talk was
all intended to blazen over and hide
his real helplessness. Had the King
of France determined to act? — ^that
was the critical question. He had
come to no such determination, or
rather he had determined, if such
a term is appropriate, not to act,
and Elizabe^ knew it. His object
in the embassy was to hide his real
abandonment of his sister-in-law from
the eye of Europe. The ambassador,
however, bad personally too much
chivalry for such a task. When he
was done with his classical citations,
at a long personal interview he at
last distinctly threatened Elizabeth,
should she persist, with the venge-
ance of the French government. The
virago fired up at this; she put
it sharply to Belli^vre, had he the
authority of the King her brother
to hold such language to her? Tes,
he had, expressly. Well, she must
have a copy of this, under the am-
bassador's own hand. If Bellidvre
gave her the genuine instructions
communicated to him, they would be
found but faintly to warrant his
brave words of defiance, for after
some rather nnchivalric proposals for
adjusting the affair without the neces-
sity of a beheading, they contain a
vague sort of threat of resentment if
they be not adopted.* Elizabeth, after
the tragedy was over, wrote a jeering
letter to King Henry about this
threat, showing how lightly she es-
teemed it — ^if not, indeed, showing
that there was a common understand-
ing between them on the point. Af-
ter the execution, which was sup-
posed to take everybody by surprise,
the next question was, whether the
King of France would avenge it M.
* "Si U Beine d'Angleterre do les met en aucune conuderation, mais veut faire
proced«r 4 IMz^cution do si rigoureuz et si extraordinaire jugement, il ne se
pourra qu*il ne i*en ressente conmie de chose qui PoffeDse fort particuli^remenf —
Chsbuxi., 165.
696
snC Fr^Mm (rti Qw$l% MO/f^,
[Not.
Oh^ruel, Trho has the Inner history of
the French part of the affair ready
to his hand, says the country was
filled with cries of vengeance. He
selects as the key-note of this senti-
ment the words in which it was
echoed by TEeossais Bloclvwood :— >
^^Le Boi, parent et hean-irdre de
cette dame, laissera-t-il son menrtre
impuni? il ne sonffrira jamais qne
cette tache d6shonore son tr^ illas-
tre nom, ni qne telle infamie tombe
snr le royanme de France."* Bat he
was Jost going, with his own hands,
to drop a darker blot on his iTlns-
trioQs name. M. Gh^ruel notices tibe
significant little fact, that when
Renand de Beanrne, archbishop of
Bourges, preached a fttneral sermon
on Queen Mary, in which he called
her relations, the Guises, ,/W^tf« (20
guerre^ or thunderbolts of war, he
was required to suppress this expres-
sion when he published the sermon.
The questiqn between the Gnises and
the hoQse of Yalois was coming to
an issue ; within a few months after
the execution of Mary, the first war
of barricades was fought on the
streets of Paris; a month or two
later the Duke of Guise was mur-
dered in the King's audience-cham-
ber, and the family broken. Henry's
Inkewarmness to Queen Mary had its
practical explanation — he was not
going to commit himself against a
powerful monarch like Elizabeth,
either to frustrate or to ayenge the
fate of a member of the detested fa-
mily doomed by him to destruction.
The drama is not yet entirely
played out. A sreat scene remains
before the curtam drops, in which
Spain has to play a part; it has been
dictated by the departed enchantress,
and is the last, as it is the grandest,
instance of her power. The history
of this affiur, as now pretty well filled
up by the documents printed by the
Frenchman, is extremely curious,
both for the minuteness of the par-
ticulars, and the vastness of the his-
torical events on which they bear.
It will be remembered that, in her
latter days, Queen Mary rested her
hopes on the King of Spain,
feeling that, unless her cousins the
Guises were successftil, she need ex-
pect nothing from f^ftiiee, and eon-
scions, at the same time, that eoim-
tenanee' and help from Spain would
be the meet nowerful means of ao-
oomplishing their success. Accord-
ingly, with marvellous perseverance
and adroitness^ she kept op a close
correspondence daring her ioapriflDn-
ment, with Philip H., and every
new document discovered renders it
clearer than ever that it was at her
instigation chiefly that Philip under-
took the iuTasion of En^bmd.
Mary left behind her a last wiB,
which Ritson the antiquary said be
saw, blotted with her tears/ in the
Scottish Oollege at Paris. It was,
like her ostensible acts, a monument
of kindness and generosity, performed
with a moum^l dignity becoming
her rank and her misfortunes. All
who had been kind and fiuthfbl to
her, high and low, were gratified by
bequests, which were precious relies,
more dear than the riches she could
no longer bestow. "The names,"
says Miss Strickland, ** of her absent
servants who were held captive at
Ohartle^, including Mrs. Ourle, Bas-
tian, his wife Margaret, «kI their
children, were not forgotten, al-
though her means of paying the
legacies she devised were rat£er of
a visionary nature, consisting ebiefiy
of the proceeds left by her twenty
vears' law-suit, this having at la^
been decided in her favour, together
with the arrears of her dower pen-
sion for the current year, wbioh ahe
earnestly beseeches the King of
France to pay, for the sake of her
poor destitute servants.'*!' The funds
were slender, it is true, yet ^e
legacies were paid. She bad issaed
another will of a more important
character, which, with her papers, was
seized at Ohartley on the oocasioB
referred to by Miss Strickland. This ,
will contained such strange and om-
inous matter that it was deemed wise
at once to burn it; and lest there
should be any donbt that it was
effectually destroyed, or any sos-
picion that its purport had gone
abroad, Elizabeth burnt it witii
her own hands. It gave its warn-
ing— ^it showed the enemy — It should
go no farther on its miachlevoos
* Quoted, CniEuiL, p. 1*71.
f Qtieenf of Scotland^ vol. viL p. 481.
18W.]
ns FrerM on Quien Marff,
5«r
pa^ ; BO thought Ceci! and his
mietrefls. But they had to deal with
one not easllv baffled in the accom-
plishment of her fixed designs. She
confided her testamentary requests
verbally to two different persons, on
whose fidelity she could rely. Her
executor was the King of Spain. The
nature of these bequests had not been
entirely concealed. James himself, in
his lubberly schoolboy-Uke complaints
about his mother, showed that be
knew about them. They now make
their appearance in the shape of a
statement of the reception which the
King of Spain gave to the testamen-
tary injunctions. If we are to sup-
pose— which we are at liberty to do
— that they were utter falsehoods,
invented by the persons who pre-
tended to be intrusted to the King of
Spain, there is, at all events, this
much of fact in the whole afiair, that
the King of Spain believed them to be
genuine, and acted on them fhlly and
emphatically. It is the record of his
BO acting that we now possess.
Gk)rion, Queen Mary's French phy-
sician, was one of the recipients of
this deposit. He was commissioned
to convey to the King of Spain her
desire tibat he would nay certain
debts and legacies, ana ^tribute
pensions and other rewards among
her more fkithfnl adherents. As to
the debts and the smaller recom-
penses of services, the Queen ap-
pealed to his religious feeling, on
the ground that to leave the world
without the prospect of these things
being paidjpressed heavy on her con-
science. Tne sums of money abso-
lutely named in these requests were
considerable ; and in asking that the
pensions of the English Catholics,
including the Earl of Westmoreland,
Lord Pa^et, Charles Arundel, Charles
Paget, Throckmorton, and Morgan,
might be continued, she evidently
drew upon a liberal hand. Philip
appears not only to have unhesitat-
ingly met the larger and ostensible
demands thus made on him, but with
a religious zeal to have sought out
the more obscure objects of Mary's
good -will, that he might rigidly per-
form her injunctions to the utmost
&rthing. One great injunction still
remained— it was that, notwithstand-
ing^ her death, he would not abandon
his enterprise on England— an enter-
prise devised in the cause of God,
and worthy of a true Catholic king.
This bequest also, as all the world
knows, the King of Spain did his
best to carry into effect. There were
some little subsidiary services to be
performed by him when he had ac-
complished it. Mary's account with
the world had a debtor as well as a
creditor side. If the King of Spain
could reward friends, it was also
hoped that he would be in a position
to punish enemies : her last request,
therefore, was, that when once mas-
ter of England, he would not forget
how she had been treated by Cecil,
Leicester, Secretary Walsmgham,
Lord Huntington, Sir Amyas Paulet,
and Wade, the clever Secretary of
the Council, who had discovered the
designs of Spain by putting the firag-
ments of a torn letter together.
While the French physician bore
to the King of Spain what might be
termed the burdens and obligations
of the testament, it was commis-
sioned to other messengers — being
the Queen's two faithful attendants,
Elizabeth Curie and Jane Kennedy
— ^to intimate what may be called
the beneficial portion, which was no
less than the bequeathing to the
King of Spain the crowns of Scot-
land and England, in the event of
her son James continuing obstinate
in his heresy. It is with almost
ludicrous gravity that M. Teulet
says, •* Philippe 11. accepta sans
h&iter les charges d'une suc^^ession
qui lui ofirait des Eventuality si
avantageuses," Advantageous even-
tualities indeed — ^but, as they proved
to the executor, calamitous realities.
Within eighteen months after the
death of Mary, the Armada was in
the Channel. It was the last grand
explosion of the ancient crua&ding
chivalry — an expedition to restore
tlie CaUiolio Church to its supremacy,
and at the same time to carry out
the dying wish and avenge the
wrongs of an injured woman and a
holy martyr. The great actual drama
is now completed, and it is wonderful,
with what a close contiguity in time
its long-suspended issues complete
themselves. Early in the year 1587
Queen Mary is executed ; in the
summer of the ensuing year the Ar-
628 '\
The JFreneh on Queen Ma/ry,
[Not.
mada comes forth and is destroyed.
That winter the Duke of Gnise is
murdered and his family crashed ;
and again, before another year passes,
the perfidious perpetrator of the deed,
Henry TIL, is murdered by a Popish
fanatic, who thus clears the throne
for the leader of the Refonnation
party.
From this great epoch history
starts afresh with new actors, who
are to bring out a new deyelopment
of events. The mighty empire of
8pain from that period collapses like
the bankrupt estate of an over-san-
guine trader, who haa risked all his
capital on some great adventure end-
ing in shipwreck. A powerful little
colony of industrious Protestants
rises up where her yoke has been
thrown off in Holland. France is no
longer Id the hand of the Guise or of
the Medici, but is ruled by one who,
if he dare not be Protestant, will at
all events be tolerant. In the bal-
ance of the Earopean powers, Pro-
testantism, if not predominant, is at
least made secure. But what is not
the least important fruit of these
rapidly-succeeding events, and cer-
tainly for us the most interesting, is,
that from that epoch begins the vir-
tual, though not the nominal, amal-
gamation of Scotland with England
in one country, having the same en-
mities and the same friendships. The
long histoxy of the French alliance,
with all its interesting and even
endearing associations, was now to
come to a close for ever, and Scot-
land, bidding adieu to the chivalrous
and hospitable stranger with whom
she had sojourned in many a path of
common difSculty and danger, was
to return to the people of kindred
blood from whom unfortunate events
and evil deeds had so long severed
her.
The light thrown upon the later
history of the Scoto-French alliance
is one of the most instructive and
attractive portions of these French
collections ; and amidst the many
recollections of rivalry and animosity
which are so apt to be recalled when-
ever we review tlie past of France
and Britain, it is pleasant to find
Frenchmen keenly interested in
bringing to liffht the acts of mutual
friendship and support which bound
at least one portion of the Britash
empire to a dose frkndBhip with
their country.
On the origin of this allianoe nradi
historical nonsense has been written.
The ordinary books which go back to
our earlier history tell us of an alli-
ance, offensive and defensive, between
Charlemagne and Achaius, king of
the Scots. Gharlemagne was not a
man to make such alliancea, even 2&ad
he found an Achaius at Holyrood,
with a secretary for foreign affairs,
and a well-arranged diplomatic ser-
vice, instead of having a vagne idea
that somewhere in the northern parts
of this island there were one or two
rough chiefs, ruling over each his
own wild tribe of Celts or Scandin-
avians. The French alliance arose
in far later times, and its object is
immediately obvious to all who pay
a little attention to the tenor of oar
history. When the ambitaooa Nor-
man monarchs of England made their
attempts on the liberty of Scotland,
foreign aid was of course valuable for
the protection of those liberties after
the£ were restored under the bann^
of 'bruce. On the other band, to
France, always at war with England,
nothing could be more important
than to have an ally at the door <^
England, to give her battle, and keep
her at work within her own island.
The bargain was very well fnlfilled.
Scotland did keep England effeciu-
ally at work, and many a time saved
France by turning the armaments
prepared against her upon a tough,
tormenting, and profitless enemy at
home. Matters went well with this
league until there came to be a great
inequality between the two frien^
and their union was like that of the
giant and the dwarf. France, from
its position, was a power ever en-
larging itself; Scotland was neces-
sarily stationary. In the time of
Henry V., adversity pressed heavily
on the French, and they gladly ac-
cepted as a great boon the services
— the protection it might be rather
called— of the hardy adventnren
who went to find their hated ene-
mies of England on the plains of
France. Nor was .France ever un-
grateful or ungraciona to the Soots
individually. She opened her purse
liberally and kindly to them, petted
and caressed them, and indeed en-
dowed them with privileges and im-
1859J
The Freneh on Queen Mary.
629
mnnities wliioh their own people
must have beheld with envy. As
Prance increased in central power,
however, by the jonction of the great
fief^ her territorial intercourse with
Scotland assamed a tone which the
prond northern could ill bear, even
if he personally enjoyed — ^as the ma-
jority of course did not— some private
advantage from the august alliaDce.
There arose a party sternly opposed
to their country becoming a province
of France; and it seems probable
that it was their determination to
accomplish an emancipation from
such a fate that made the Reforma-
tion so rapid an affair as it was in
Scotland. Indeed, from the docu-
ments which have been more lately
brought to light, it appears that
these apprehensions were Dy no means
groundless; for when Mary became
the wife of the French king, there
was evidentlv very little intention
among French statesmen to preserve
inviolate the separate independence
of the crown of Scotland. On the
contrary, they had fellen into a way
of speaking of Scotland rather as a
possession than an ally— as some-
thing which the French monarch had
to dispose of; and had the Scottish
people been supine, the supposition
would have strengthened, until it
would have been thought as prepos-
terous to question Scotland's belong-
ing to France as it now is to question
the supremacy of the British sceptre
over the Orkney Islands. In fact, as
M. Teulet's documents show, it was
once matter of serious consiaeration
whether Scotland should be an ap-
panage, to be enjoyed by a second
son of France. Contemporary with
such things was the regency of Mary
of Guise, and its employment of
Frenchmen in the high offices of
state, while all the* bitterness thus
created was sedulously fostered by
emissaries from England.
Scotland was indeed then suffering
under the proverbial evil of being at
the mercy of two friends, the one
pulling to the right, the other to the
left. Of the labours of Queen Eliza-
beth's emissaries in Scotland. Throck-
morton, Walsingham, Sadler, and
Bandolph, we nave fUl accounts,
which have been well ransacked and
instructively commented on. But
the no less interesting negotiations
of the French emissaries in Scotland
have hitherto been little studied;
nor, indeed, could they easily have
been so until they were gradually
brought forth from their hiding-
places in foreign libraries and public
offices by the zeal of the archasolo-
gists of France. They are not less
mteresting from the glimpses Avhich
they afford of the designs of France,
than from the picturesque descrip-
tions which they contain of events
which it is profitable to see from as
many sides as possible, and which
certainly often acquire a new shape
and character when seen through tne
eyes of the accomplished and acute
foreigner employed to report on them
to the Guises, or Catherine of Medici.
The most remarkable in accomplish-
ments and wisdom of these French
ambassadors, Michel de Castelnau de
Mauvissidre, was alike conscious of
the importance of the Scottish alli-
ance, and of the almost hopelessness
of recovering it. After a lively de-
scription of the miseries of the country
when tortured in the terrible wars
and plunderings of Morton, be says,
" Je suis et serais toigours d'opinion
qui'il n^y a nuUe alliance au monde
que la France doive avoir plus cb^re
que celle de oe petit pays d'Ecosse.*^
Castelnau was one of the really
great men whose eminent labours,
wasted on tough and hopeless mate-
rials, can only be estimated by close
inspection. As M. Ch6ruel well ob-
serves, we will find more of the true
spirit of the actions of tbe day, and
the men engaged in them, in his
letters and memoirs, than almost any-
where else. He was one of those
statesmen whose fate it is to struggle
for great ends, which their masters,
the heads of the government, will
not back through with the necessary
energy. As M. Ch^ruel says, he had
in the interests of France to fight
Elizabeth in Scotland, and Philip
of Spain in the Netherlands. His
memoirs show that he beheld with a
grave sorrow, partaking of despond-
ency, the exterminating spirit and
blooay deeds of both the parties, the
* Cbxkoel, p. 111.
630^
I%e IVewh 0n Qusen Mary.
USof.
Leagoe and the Hagnenots, wlio each
straggled in his own oonntry, not
merely for existence but for mastery ;
and his experience of this rude con-
test gi^es an air of practical wisdom
and staid sagacity to his remarks on
onr own quarrels, which, fierce as
they were, nold altogether a smaller
space in the world^s history than
the contemporaneoas quarrels of the
French. Hence he narrates some of
the most marvelloos incidents of
Scottish history^ with a quiet distinct-
ness, which, instead of subduing,
rather tends to give power and em-
phasis" to the narrative, when it is
felt throughout that it is by an on-
looker deeply grounded in a practical
knowledge of similar events. He it
was who came to Britain charged by
Catherine of Medici with two ma-
trimonial missions — whether they
were sincere or sarcastic, let him tell
who can. In the one, she proposed
to the austere Elizabeth an alliance
with Charles IX. of France, then a
boy of thirteen. Whether Catherine
knew it or not, the virago had that
peculiar weakness when anything
matrimonial was proposed, that she
would pli^ with the su^^tion as
long as it would keep alive without
serious discussion. She remarked
cleverly enough to Castelnau, that
the King of France was both too
great and too little a match for her
— too great in his power, too little
in his youth. But she did not let
the affair drop off for some time,
writing herself to Catherine, and
otherwise bandying it about in ^ man-
ner sometimes bordering, but never
tranf^gressing on, the serious.
His other matrimonial commission
was to offer Mary the Duke of Anjou
as a husband. It was not very well
received, and he observed in the
beautiful widow the haughty and
restless spirit of her uncle the Car-
dinal. She was angry, he thought,
with the court of the French Regent
for having come between her and
the match with Don Carlos. While
it was in her mind to make an
ambitious match, she would have
none but a truly great one, and she
freely spoke of Don Carlos's younger
brother, who was subsequently of-
fered to her, as the selfish fortune-
seeking beauties in fashionaUe no-
vels speak of detrimental second
sons. To drop from the heir of the
Spanish empire to a prince with
neither dominions nor prospects, was
not a destiny to which she could re-
concile herself. Tet it was while Mary
was dealing in this way with a second
offer of the same kind, that the acute
diplomatist saw growing in her boeom
an attachment for a far more obscure
youth, whom his mother the Countess
of Lennox had brought ap veiy
oddlv, having taught him fix>m hs
yonth to dance and play on the lote.
The man of the world was puzzled
somewhat by this phenomenon, and
looked for an explanation of it to a
caase deemed in his day, among sen-
sible men, a very practical one— he
thought that there was some influence
(oTenchantemenU artifieieli in the pas-
sion of Mary for Darnley. Of the sad
and tragic events which followed be
was a careful observer, and in some
respects indeed he was an actor in
them, having frequently to attempt
the vain task of the peace-maker.
La Mothe F^n^on, an ancestor of
the great bishop, is another Frendi
diplomatist whose papers contain
interesting vestiges of the history of
the period. He it was who was re-
ceived, after the massacre of St. Bar^
tholomew, at the court of Elizabeth
with a solemn and ominous gloom,
which had more effect on him than
all the virago's furious scoldings. He
was a personal friend of Queen Mary,
holding a kindly interoonrse with
her in her captivity. It was from
him that she commissioned the cosdy
foreign tissues which she empk>yed
in her matchless needlework ; and be
performed for her many other little
services. Some of the letters re-
lating to such matters are a refiwh-
ing contrast with the formidable
documents an^ng which they aiv
scattered.
Casual mention pf Castelnau and
F^ndlon may be found in our ordi-
nary histories. In these the reader
will probably look In vain for any-
thing whatever about Charles de
Prunel^, Baron of Esneval and Yi-
dame of Normandy. Tet he was sent
to Scotland on a mission so o-itioal,
that, as far as externals go, the sub-
sequent fate and historr of the
British empire might be atid to tan
1859.]
Tke I^enA <m. Qwrn Mary.
,681
on its resnlte. He was sent over to
Scotknd ia the oiitioal year 1565 to
make a last effort to contlnae the
ancient alliance of Scotland and
France. Now, doubtless, it may be
jastly said that such a mission waf>,
vhen weighed Hinong the events of
the worUVs history, a mere formal
trifle, since the march of events
towards an amalgamatioD with Eng-
land had already doomed the French
alliance. Still, we poor human crea-
tures must note the tendency of
human progress by its outward ele-
ments: a Imttle here, a negotiation
there, a royal death or marria^, are
incidents fonning landmarks m his-
tory. Were it merely as the part-
ing scene between two old national
friends, the last effort to keep up the
friendship of France would have its
interest;. But in reality it was a
mission of real practical import-
ance, since it put the question to
issue, as lawyers say, which was
to fix the destinies of Scotland, and
in a great measure those of Eng-
land. That such a mission shouid
pass unnoticed by historians, and
wait for centuries to be spoken of,
is one of the illustrations of the
truth that the tendency of history is
not fully seen by contemporaries;
the importance of many events has
to be fixed by the posterity which
sees the development, and can pro-
portion to each other the relatire
importance of the several parts.
The instructions to d^Esneval urge
on him with reiterated emphasis the
support, or rather the restoration, of
^^ I'antienne amyti€, alliance et voisin-
ance qui ont tocyours est^ entre la
France et TEscosse." The tone of
the document partakes somewhat of
the patronising spirit which had
characterised the French treatment
of her ally for some half a century.
The ambassador is not merely ac-
credited to a sovereign prince; he
has to do with the people too, as if
he were sent from a superior autho-
rity entitled to ac^ust their relations
to each other; and he is directed
to use his influence to bring the
people to obedience, and a proper
sense of their duty to their sovereigo.
This effort was made at a juncture
when the Fk^enoh goyemment could
not affi>rd to quarrel with England,
and was in mortal terror of the Guises
at home. It came upon King James
at that ticklish time when his mother
was in imminent danger, and yet
when there were strengthening in
his favour the chances that, if he
behaved well, and committed no
piece of folly, he would some day
be king of England. In the whole
affair, as in all others, he behaved
like an exaggeration of a heartless,
greedy, grasping schoolboy, snatch-
ing at whatever he could get with-
out caring for consequences. He
had half-authorised emissaries at the
courts of France and Spain, itnd at
several other [ilaces — Romanists who
could not obtain actual diplomatic
credentials, and whose acts he could
disavow if he thought fit ; nor was
it at all to his inconvenience that
these zealous men were apt to
go far beyond the bounds of his
dubious verbal instructions, since
that gave him the better excuse
for repudiating their proceedings,
when it was necessary. Not a year
before the mission ot d^Esneval, the
Lord Seton, the ardent uncompro-
mising supporter of 3fary, and Ca-
tholicism, appeared at the French
Court, commissioned, as he main-
tained, by the actual ruling power
in Scotland, to ask certain aids and
concessions from France, lie pleaded
that the old league should be restored,
and that France, like an honest faith-
ful ally, should rescne the Scottiiih
Queen from her captivity. Among
other stipulations were the restora-
tion of the Scottish Guard to the
full enjoyment of those privileges in
France which they had bought with
their blood, the payment \>y Franco
of a body of Scotsmen serving in
Scotland — ^a very unreasonable-look-
ing proposal— and certain privileges
of trading. These proposals were
coldly received; all tiiat Henry III.
would give to the juvenile Solo-
mon was a pension of twenty thou-
sand livros, which M. Chdruel, who
has seen the brevet granting it,
supposes was very ill paid. This
embassy, whatever was tlie author-
ity for it, took place a year before
Esneval^s to Scotland. There had
been great changes in the mean time,
which, if they rendered Hary^s con-
dition more dangerous, hod increased
682
The Fnnek en Queen Mary,
[Not.
the chance of her 8on*8 conoession to
the throne of England. The same
series of events — ^tbe fall of Arran,
namely, and this league with Eng-
land— alarmed the Court of France,
hy pointing to the total extinction
of the French aUiance; and it was
hence that d'Esneval was sent to
offer as mach of the rejected Scottish
demands as France conld afford to
give. It will he of coarse remark-
ed that, in all these matters, there
were longer heads at work than
those of the youthful King; hut
the i(i8tincts of his selfish, narrow
lieart taught him to co-operate in
them. He could, if he had thought
fit, have broken through all the diplo-
matic trammels surrounding him, and
struck a blow for his mother^s life.
He had no conscientious principle to
restrain him from such an act, tliough
he had a strong dislike for Popery on
the ground on which he hated Presby-
terianism — because it interfered with
the will of kings. His ruling prin-
ciple was well enough expressed in his
remarks to Gouroelles — interim am-
bassador in the absence of d'Esneval —
that he liked his mother well enough,
but she had threatened, if he did not
conform with her religious views,
that he should have nothing but the
lordship of Darnlev, like his father
— that she must drink the ale she
had brewed — ^that her restless ma-
chinations had nearly cost him his
crown — and he wished she would
meddle with nothing but prayer and
serving God. The chief figure in this
group of selfishness, meanness, and
cruelty, has to be supplied in Queen
Elizabeth. seizing and committing to
the dungeon an unfortunate who had
fled to her for protection— grudging
her the expense of suitable clothing
and food in her captivity — ^iosnlting
her religion — wanting to get some-
body to assassinate her, and at
length, when the wished-for death
could not be brought about without
the forms of law, pretending that
she desired it not, and endeavouring
to throw on others the blame of the
deed.
And yet how wonderfully has all
this, which seems so foul and un-
seemly in romance, tended to one of
the most wonderfol and blessed of
historical developments I Let us sup-
pose King James, under the generous
impulse of youthful heroism, drawing
the sword in his mother^s cause, and
France, with chivalrous devotion,
sending her armies to avert iosolt
and cruelty from one who had sat as
a queen on the throne of St. Louis.
Let us imagine Queen Elizabeth, in-
vested with the natural instincts and
impulses of her sex, kindly disposed
to a persecuted sister— yielding to
the impulses of her heart — marrying,
and leaving a progeny behind her.
Had the dark annals of the age be^
thus brightened, the glorious history
of British power and progress would
have remained unwritten. With
how much longer waiting — ^thron^
what series of events — ^the two king^
doms would have fulfilled their
natural destiny and come together,
are speculations in the world of the
unreal which can reoeive no definite
answer. We only know that^ bow-
ever it might have otherwise oome
to pass, the beneficent conclusion
arose out of acts of baseness, selfish-
ness, and cruelty, as a tree grows
fh)m decay and putrescence. £v^
what remained of good and gentfoos
customs among these unworthy
powers, the kindly old French sl-
liance, was doomed to eztinctioD.
The Frenchman who has brought to-
gether the curious notices of its pro-
gress and termination which have
elicited these cursory remarks, after
having noticed the faint resnscitatioD
of a French interest in Soottiah
aff&irs when the Covenanters appealed
to Louis XIII. against Oharles I.,
concludes his task in the foHowing
appropriate and pleasing terms:—
" L'Ecosse s'est de plus en plus ideo-
tifi^e avec PAngleterre, et, il fant
bien le reconnattre, tontes deux y
ont gagn^. L'Eoosse a re9U en com-
pensation de I'ind^pendanoe na-
tionale, une puissante impulsion;
Industrie, sciences, litt^rature, {rfiilo-
sophie, tout y a prosp^r^. Une sage
regularity, une observation patients
et ing^nieuse, une probity prover-
biale, unt remplac^ la loyantd nn pen
sanvage, le fanatisme puritain, h
fougue indisdplin^ dies andens
Ecossais. De son c6t^ PAngleCerre
a conquis la security : tranquiue dans
son lie, elle a pu porter an loin son
activity guerridre et conunereialei
9.)
Thi Frefuk d» Queen Mary,
533
Uoe altlanoe de moios p<mr la France,
ooe proyiDoe de plos poor TAogle-
terre, im\k le resnHat d'aoe poli-
tiqDe toar k tonr faible on paasionD^,
fiuatiqoe on iDdifH&reDta*'* In itrict
propriety, the import of these re-
narks Bhonld have soggested the
uetamornhoaiB of FAngleterre into
GraDde Bretagne before their cooola-
eion ; bat where there is bo mnch that
is honest and generous in sentiment,
it woald be invidions to critioise the
nomenclature too closely.
The most valaable portion of these
French books consists, as we have
hiotedi in their foreign department
We must have a word or two, before
ooDcladinflf, on their handling of in-
ternal affairs in Scotland ; bnt we
warn our readers that these words,
if not entertaining, have certainly no
pretensions to be instructive, so that
the searcher after nsefol knowledge
will find nothing in thera to his pur-
posa GtenenUIy speaking, these
anthers might have been saved a
good deal of useless inquiry, and
several inaccuracies in its results,
liad they paid more attention to the
oarefully filled pages of Miss Strick-
land's narrative, which, however
people may diflfer in opinion about
her conclusions, is a marvellous
monument of earnest research, de-
veloping itself in exact, and at the
same time, picturesqne detail.
The pro/essed antiquaries, 'let us
remark, such as M. Tuelet and M.
Oh6rnel, are generally correct in
their nomenclature. They are ac-
customed to records, and to the ren-
dering of the words in them with
precision. Those who^ writings
profess dash and originality are not
8o accnntte. There seems in gene-
ral, indeed, to be a peculiar ioaptness
in the French mind to comprehend
foreign institutions, and aconratety
to ose a foreign nomenclature— be H
for institutions, persons, or places.
All the anecdote-bo<to swarm with
the mistakes— uttered in a very posi-
tive manner— which have been thus
committed. Indeed, a sort of national
self-Bofficiency teaches our neighbours
to carry their verbal variations out of
the category of mistakes, and set them
op as standards, there being a French
way, and a purdy native way, of
naming every place and person. We
have a few national variations, but
they are rare. We are content to
say Paris and Boulogne with the
French ; but they must say Londrss,
and for Edinburgh their old name
was Lblebonrg. No one travelling
in Fhinoe ever heard his name pro-
nounced by eondwteur or dauanier
as he offers it, and as it is spoken
at home. We are reminded of this
national peculiarity by M. Dargaud
when he gives his brilliant descrip-
tion of the marriage of Mary and
Damley, where the Queen is served
by " Les Comtes Atholl, Sewer, Mor-
ton, Oaver, et Crawford." We might
attribute the appearance of the Earls
Sewer and Oaver to extremely care-
less correction of the press, were it
not that some other manifedtations
of M. Dargaud's acquaintance with
the time and people of whom he
writes raise a strong suspicion that
he may not even now be aware that
on that occasion Atholl perfDrmed
the part of Sewer, and Morton of
Carver. There are surely not many
British readers of French books
who would suppose that a maiin
d'hotd is a personage like the Master
of Bavenswood, or that a chefde cui-
sine indicates the chief of sonae Qallic
dan ; although, by the way, per
contra, there is a story of a poten-
tate of the North having his card
printed off for a visit to Paris as that
of the Chef de Clandonochy, or some
such name, and in consequence re-
ceiving the honour due to an ex-
perienced cook.
M Dargaud is more seriously at
sea when speaking of the miseries
encountered by Mary at Tutbory.
He mentions, amonff other incidents,
that one evening she saw the mnr-
dered body of a faithftil member of
her own church dragsed out of a well
into which he had been thrown for
his fidelity ; and one morning she
found that a priest had been straogled
in a chamber adjoiniog to her own.
These were not the shapes in which
tyranny was usually practised even
in the tyrannical age of Elis«ibetb.
Madam Cottin wrote a novel or ro-
mance called Maivina, laying the
TOU, LXXXVI.
• Chbbtjxl, p. 175.
35
634
The French on QfrMn Mary,
[Nov.
scene in Britain, and, so far as we
remember the plot — it wonld be
too troablesome to read the book
over again for the present occasion —
the chief incidents of it are, that a
fascinating French widow is prevailed
on, with much entreaty, to give her
hand to an English duke ; that his
relatives, angry at the trUaalliatiee,
prevailed on the attorney- general to
issne a writ of habeas corpus, nnder
the authority of which the yonng
dnke is transported to a colony in
the West Indies, while the aadacions
partner of his guilt is thrust into
a dnngeon in the lord-lieutenant's
castle. (It does not occur to the au-
thoress that here are the occasion and
circumstances for a veritable habeas
corpus). And there is no way of lib-
erating the heroine save by the dex-
terity of a devoted physician, who in-
curs in his task the risk of that feudal
vengeance which is bo terrible in this
aristocratic oonntry.
Did it ever occur to you, reader,
to figure to yourself John Knox in
Parliament? If not, you will find
his position there set down by M.
Dargaud, who, after the manner of
Platarch, compares him with other
eminent members, noticing his pecu-
liarities in debate, and in a prettily
turned sentence balancing his wisdom
and his ardour against LethingtOD*8
easy eloquence and knowledge of
foreign affnirs, and Morton's audacity
and dexterity in domestic intrigue.
What a pleasant thing all these
balanced sentences and comparisons
would be, were it not from facts
standing behind which make non-
sense of them. Knox is a character
difficult for a Frenchman of the nine-
teenth century to deal with, though
be took his lessons from a Frenchman
of the sixteenth — namely, Oanvio,
whom we call, from his Latinised
name, Calvin. There are many
marvellous statements about hia
personal habits, for which it would
be difficult to find authority; and
which, indeed, make one wonder in
vain where the author could have
got his hint of them. It is some
comfort to feel assured that the char-
acteristics of the following, which we
do not venture to translate, must
have been sugsested by the habits of
^he Cieltic seer, in the Lady
of ike Laib.<^<<Tou8 lea soirs Uds
tard, il s*eodormait au bruit d'nne
cascade de la montagne. La diote
harmonieose et monotone de oette
grande nappe d*eau pouvait seule
calmer I'agitation formidable de ses
pene^es"— (p. 193).
" Couched on a shelTe beneath Its brink.
Close irbere the thundering torrents sink.
Booking beneath their headlong swaj,
And drinled by the ceaselew spray*
Midst groan of rock and roar of stream.
The wtaard waits prophetic dream."
M. Dargaud, in a pilgrimage to Scot-
land, grounded himself as well aahe
could in subtantial and apparent
facts, for the purpose of enabling him
to write his bold personal sketcbea.
The materials he had to deal witli in
the instance of Knox were meagre
and unpromising enough; however,
he made good use of them. There
was the '* statuette da docteur,*
which he saw in the High Street —a
well-known piece of rude carving by
some ambitions mason, who intended
to symbolise Moses. There is littk
suggestive in this statuette ; but a
picture in Holyrood is pronounced to
be the veritable " docteor imperieox
et terrible de Fid^e nouvelle," and foi^
nishes an object of much eloqaeot
raving. Any picture in Holyrood
professing to be a portrait of Knox,
can only be one of the many pieces
of rubbish collected there for the
benefit of ignorant tourists. Or
course, M. Dargaud saw the interest-
ing^ stain on the old floor, which has
miraculously survived ita buruiog by
Oromweirs soldiers. He throws hu
whole force on this phenomenon in a
separate line, " Ce sang est reste in-
efidoeabie."
But M. Dargaud met with won-
ders in Edinburgh denied to the
eyes and ears of the common herd
of tourists, lie gives a succinct ac-
count of the manner in vhich
Darnley was put to death before the
house of the Kirk-o-Field was blown
up to conceal the deed. This ac-
count is carefully colled from the
traditions which he collected "an
pied de l^oglise expiatoire b&tie sor oe
fun^bre lieu" — the expiatoiy church
built on the scene of Damley^s mur-
der 1 The statement suggests oneaaj
suspicions as to the stories that vbaj
be palmed ofiT upon confiding toQri>ts
1859.] The Frmck on Queen Jilary. 586
in flneh show^towos as Edinborgh. the precaaUon to pat on tbe'^soople
It 18 proverbially known that the et imp^D^trable cotte de mailles," the
inhabitants of a conntr^ have an work of Henry Wynd, the celebrated
extremely imperfect notion of the armoarer of Perth. This coat of
coDditions under which Btraogers see mail mast be abont as imaginary an
and feel it. The citizens of a town article as a sermon by the celebrated
know littie of the charges and ao- hypocrite Tartofib, or a cameo from
commodatioDS of the inns, and are the collection of the Count of Monte
diffident in passing judgment on Ohristo. If we are to have history
them when asked to give connsel to founded on such materials, it were
strangers. For all. that is generally well to put the right tradition in the
known, there nuy be a peculiar raoe right plaoe. So when we have Queen
of guides or valets de place among Mary at Hamilton with her fol-
us, who trot out the susceptible lowers, after her escape from Loch
stranger. We have a suspicion, that Leveo, displeased with their in-
in the tourist districts very wonder- activi^, she resolves to raise them
ful thioffs pass current in this man- by one of those ^'symboles familieres
ner. But the guide who so far au g6nie des peuples du Nord.*' Ao-
fatbomed the French historian*s ap- cordiogly, she sets before the assem-
petite and discretion, as to show him bled barons a dish prepared by
the expiatory church on the scene of her own royal haods. The cover is
the death of Darnley, must have been lifted, and behold — a pair of spurs I
an honour to his profession. M. Dar- Universal applause and enthusiasm
gaud is an ioveterate hunter after follow — the .war-cry is sounded, and
traditions, and finds them in the all leap to the saddle to conquer or
moat unpromising ground. Thus, he die for their Queen. Everybody is
found among the cottars of the conn- familiar with this as a Border legend,
ties of York, Derby, Northampton, of the method which the good wife
and Stafford a well-preserved de- took to remind her husband of an
scription of Queen Mar^ riding along, empty larder. There is a certain
sorrounded by her maids of honour, license, perhaps, to be permitted to
and followed by the ferocious dra- an author of rhetorical and popular
goons of Elizabeth. He might about tendencies, who is speaking of a for-
as well go to the coast of Kent and eign oonotry, and is apt to get in*
gather an account of the appear- veigled between the real and the
AQce and costume of Julius Cssar on ideal. There are things coming near
the occasion of his celebrated land- his own door, as a Frenchman, bow-
ing in Britain ; and perhaps M. ever, of which so ambitious a writer
Dargaud .would say, like Meg Dods, might be expected to knew more
'* And what for no ?" than he seems to do. Doubtless the
Tradition is a pleasant enough pretty Hoes beginning —
thing in itself, but a very slippery "Adieu pJaisant pays de France,
material for making history oL In Omapatrie,
a country where people read, it is La plus ch6rie,"
generally nothmg else than a bad were long attributed to Queen Mary,
version of the last popular printed and cited as critical evidence of the
account of the affair, if it be not impossibility of her having written
Hself entirely founded on some work oUier things so far lower both in
of grenius. In the neighbourhood of morality and genins. But a French
Loch Katrine the whole series of in- writer ought to have known that
cidents in the Lady of tite Lake hav« the piece was written by Meunier
got as substential a footing as any de Qaerlon, a clever miscellaneous
traditions have anywhere. Scott has author of the middle of the last
peopled our country with new trea- century.
sures of this kind of lore. Our au- It were a pity that these petty
thor, with his powerful digestion, has criticisms should find their way to
swallowed not a little of it Thus, the author, and distorb him — he
we are told that the Regent Murray is on so good terms with himself,
would not have been pierced by Amazed, apparently, at the success
Bothwellhaugh's bullet had he had of his book, he thinks it due to the
536
Th€ Frendi on Queen Mary.
[Not.
world to tell its history from the
germ. It nuronted odo rainy day, it
seems, in the year 1846, when the
author, drlTen for shelter into a
book-stalL asked for the Letters
of MachiaTelli, and, not obtaining
them, was obliged to take the best
chance volnme which presented it*
self, and thus seoared one which
we take from his description to be
Tytler's Vindication qf Queen Mary.
Hence his literary destiny was fixed
for a term. He made the voyage to
England and Scotland. He explored
the collections, the mnsenms, the
ancient portraits, the rare engra?-
iogs, the traditions, the ballads, the
lakes, the sea and its shores, the
mountains and pUins, the fields of
battle, the palaces, the prisons, all
the ruins, all the sites, and all the
innumerable traces of the past— the
enumeration is the author's own,
not our travesty of it He then ex-
plains how lifeless all history is with-
out topography ; and thus, with
much simplicity, sets the reader on
the watch to find whether his own
topography is quite accurate. We
begin with Mary, a happy child in
the island of Inch Mahome, in the
LiUce of Menteith. That she enjoy-
ed the national ballads and legends,
and listened with delight to the pi-
broch, "sorte de m6k)die guerridre
ex^cut^e sur le oornemeuse," is a state-
ment which it would be difficult to
disprove were it worth while; but
the auUior, when he describes her
bounding over the rocks at early
dawn, is at once contradicted by the
fact that the ida&d is a bit of mea-
dow as flat as a carpet. There is no
doubt a great contrast, especially in
these davs of tne^raining, between
the fruitful plains of the lowbods
and the highland Grampians. Bat
the author's vivid picture of QneeD
Marv's enjoyment of the eootnst
in the northern tour ending in the
battle of Gorrichie is utterly thrown
away, since in the eoune of that
jom*ney the country she passed over
IS an almost continuous track of
bleak, low, uniform aceUvitiea. The
neat allusion, also, to the Qoeeo^
encounter with Bothwdl, at that
very Oramond Bridge where her fa-
ther had so singular an escape, b
equally thrown away, sinee, if we
admit the adventure with the Quid-
man of Ballanffieoh to be matter of
history, the {uaoe where Bothwc^
met the Queen was not there^ but
at Fountain Bridge, a saborb of
Edinburgh.
These are triflmg matters^ it nay
be said—but if an author sets up
topogr^hy as so essential a part of
history that he boasts of having
made great journeys for the purpose
of achieving it, he mav as wdl
make it accurata Pernape aone
readers may say it is not worth white
examining, in this fashion, audi a
book as M. Dargaud*s must be. But
the fact is, that the book has its
merits. It has a great fund of elo-
quence and picturesquenees, and hn
achieved for itself a name in France.
Farther, the work has been the text
of another and a greater author, for
whose genius and fiste we .have so
much respect and svmpathy, that
we forbear saying what we m^ht
say about his contribution to the his*
tory of our country.
185d.]
Vaughan's Rewduthns in Bnglisk History.
637
VAUGHAN'S BSVOLUTIONS in ENGLISH HISTORY.
What are called philosophioal hUh
tories are, and will be, on the increase.
By philoeophical are meant histories
that concern themselves with the peo-
ple and the nation more than the in-
dividaal king or governor, and dwell
more especiiuly on those wide caoses
which advance or retard national
prosperity, quite independently of
the action of the monarch and the
minister — which indeed moald, or
produce, the monarch and the min-
ister themselves. Bat we mnst not
imagine that this is an altogether
novel manner of writing history, or
that kings and emperors, and the
chiefs of the repablic are to qait the
stage, and we are to be occupied only
with abstractions and generalisations
on the undistinguished multitude and
the ^eat classes into which a people
is divided. It is quite right that
more attention than has been hitherto
paid should be given to those great
movements in which a whole people
participate, or which are so generallv
shared that they do not distinguish
any one individual from the throng.
The most important movements in
society are of this description — as
the gradual progress in industry and
wealth, or that gradual enlighten-
ment and extension of knowledge
which the man of genius or extra-
ordinary power advances, but which
he also, in the first place, shares, or
he would not have been the man of
genius, nor have exerted any .influ-
ence on his contemporaries. It is
right that we should look attentively
at all those movements which the
whole hunfan race may be said, in
fitting circumstances, to manifest;
for thus only shall we get a correct
idea of the great course, the wide
general current of history ; thus only
shall we understand the providence
of God, as displayed in the progress
of human events. Fix your regard
exclosively on kings, or courts, or
military conquests, and history ap-
pears a game of chance : a fit of the
gout may dismiss a minister, and
decide the question of peace or war
and all that may depend on this.
But when it is seen that there is a
steady under-current which, sooner or
later, makes king and minister and
conqueror subservient to itself, his-
tory is reinstated In its dignity, and
we are able in some measure to trace
here, as in the rest of the creation,
the operation of great and beneficent
laws. But although this is most
right and indispensable, it does not
follow that the old biographical mode
of writing history can be dispensed
with. Individuals who, sharing any
general movement of the mind, have
gone farther than the rest, and be-
come the ty^ and guides and
leaders of their age, must always
retain their conspicuous place in his-,
tory ; and the prime agents of what-
ever great thing has b^n donet must
inevitably hold the chief place in the
narrative. Such men, whether in the
realm of thought or of action, are
not only the great agents of progress
or of change, but the world is best
studied in them. In them are seen
revealed the obscure, unspoken, un-
acted sentiments of the great multx-
tttde. Moreover, it is surprisingly
little that history would have to
record at all, if it confined itself to
the general movements of society
as displayed in the mass of mankind.
How stealthily proceed the great
movements of industry and public
opinion I A people is visited and
described as rude savajres, painting
their naked bodies, living in huts,
unable to construct a lareer dwell-
ing even for their gods, and involved
in miserable wars, which have no
other object than that of mutual de-
struction. Two or three centuries
elapse, and the curtain rises again
upon the same people : they are de-
cently clad, are buildmg houses and
ships, are engaged in commerce, are
growing corn and exporting it Tou
ask what produced the change. Some-
times you are referred to a specific
cause — as intercourse with a more
RemhkUona in EngUsh History,
of Rtcft'»
By Robert Vaugh an, D. D. Vol. I. " Revolutions
538
Vaughan*§ Retclutums m EnniiMk Bktewy.
IKOT.
ftdranced people; bat, in the cod,
joo Lave to fall back npon the
geDeral energy aod activity of the
hamao being, the promptioga of de-
sire, the want that is the mother of
jDveotion, and the new deaire that
aprings up even from the cew inven-
tion, and which condocta to still
greater activity and to new modes
of iodostry. There would be veir
little history if yon coold abstract it
from biography.
Dr. Yaoghan, who dbtingni&bed
himself long ago by Lis Life of
Wifdiffe, and who has since dtstio-
guish^ himself by many excellent
criticisms in th» periodical he so
ably coodacts, the Brithsh Quarterly
Heview, will not need to be reminded
by us of the claims of biography,
altboDgh in the present work be has
adopted what we have called the
philosophical type of history. Oar
remarks are made for the reader
rather than the writer of history —
for the stndent who, if he would
attain an effective knowledge of his-
tory, mast learn to generalise widely,
and also to enter as minntely as pos-
sible into the lives of the great actors
in the past. The two modes of study
should be conducted together, and
will be found mutually to aid each
other. In his present work Dr Yaughan
ioteads to group together the leading
facts of English nistory, eo as to revea^
at a glance, the progress of the na-
tion. A work of this kind cannot
be superfluous, if it Is worthily exe-
cuted; and the honourable position
which Dr Yaughan has earned for
himself in both theology and litera-
ture, gives us a guarantee that this
will be the case. The specimen be-
fore us we have read with interest
and improvement. We should par-
ticularise^ the ecclesiastical portion of
the history as being executed with
especial care, and as remarkable for
the spirit; of justice and liberality it
displays. In his preface he says: —
*' The question to which this work is
designed to present an answer is —
What is it that has made England to
be England? My object is to con-
duct'the reader to satisfactory con-
clusions in relation to this question,
by a road much more direct and
simple than is compatible with the
laws to which the fai&torian usually
conforms himself when writiDg the.
general Jiistory of a natloD.'* An as-
sistance of this nature, as he jostly
adds, camaot be otherwise tbao ac-
ceptable; and with regard to those
earlier periods of English hi^toiy
with which this volume is occupied
^those which are filled vith the
confused movements of the Celt, the
Saxon, and the Dane — ^oothiog eouU
be more serviceable than an iotelE-
gent summary of such leading and
general facts as are admitted to haw
stood the test of examination.
*' Be volutions of Race" is the nb-
title prefixed to this first Tolame of
the work. If our author has no-
where, so far as we remember, for-
mally defined tiie sense in whidi be
OSes the term Race^ it is, we pressme.
because he apprehended no mistake
could arise on this subject On theo-
logical grounds, if on no other, Dr
Yaughan would trace the origin of
the whole human species to one p^ ;
he could not, therefore, acknowledge
that there were any diflTerences of
race analogous to those which a na-
turalist assumes when he speaks of
difierences of species. Differences
there are amongst the several por-
tions of mankind — differences of a
more or less permanent and heredl-
tarv character — dififerences as great
and far greater, than those on which
the naturalist often founds bis classi-
flcation ; but they have been brought
about by climate, food, occupation,
and other circumstances. Such are
the distinctions which our author
evidently understands by race; and,
indeed, if there ever were such dif^
ferences aa those which fall under
the science of the naturalist^ tbej
are lost and confounded, among the
superinduced differences which are
traceable to long habits of life. It
may be that, in comparing the inhab-
itants of the several Quarters of the
globe, as Africa and Asia, the ques-
tion whether there were or were not
several primitive races of mankind,
would force itself upon our attt^ntion,
and claim to be discussed and de-
cided on ; but in Europe, and within
the historic period, the races the his-
torian has to deal with are great
clusters of human beings bound to-
gether by the same language, and as-
similated by a long subjection to the
1859.]
Vauglum^s Rewdtdians ii» EngHih History,
539
I
fl»me iDfloenoes, whether on mind or
bodj. Snch claaten are broken np
and mingled together, and in the
coarse of time new ones formed hj
new combinations. Yet while they
last, they are marked with certain
general characteristics, and we mav
speak with perfect propriety of their
infusing fresh Tigonr, or a new spirit
of freedom and of energy, into other
topalations, which in some respects
lad been less happily circnmetanced.
It follows inevitably from the'
nature of the distinctions implied,
that there is a considerable vague-
ness in the use of the term race by
oar best historians. We find, for
instance, oar present aatbor speak-
ing at one time of the Kormaos
and Saxons as two different races;
whilst at another time, when speak-
ing more strictly as an ethnologist, he
admits that Normans, Saxons, and
Danes were essentially the same
race. The fact is, that we classify
nations or populations, according to
their similarity, into certain groups,
and then we farther classify these
groups into stUI more extensive
groups or orders. To both classifica-
tions we popularly give the name of
race. The word suhrac$ ia used by
some, bat the word is not natural-
ised, and, moreover, there would still
be endless discussion as to that last
group of nations which should finally
be honoured by the title of race. Should
we, for instance, give it to Teutonic and
Celtic populations, or describe these
as suh races Of some great Oauoasian
stock that we oppose to the Mon-
golian? At present we must bear
with an inevitable vagueness in the
use of the lerm, leaving the meaning
of the author to be made clear by the
context. It may be convenient to
speak of the several nations that
have assisted to people this island
as 80 many races, without thereby
implying any ethnological theory
whatever.
" Revolutions of Race " very well
applies to the earliest epoch in our
history. From the invasion of Julius
Oasaar to the conquest of William
the Norman, what a scene of con-
fusion, what change, and shifting,
and commingling of population does
our island present I The elements,
we are accustomed to say, are being
mixed, combined, and controlled into
a national unity. It is a mere rudi-
menial England that we hitherto
see. Men lived, however, we may
presume, strennous in their own pur-
poses, Oelt or Saxon, quite uncon-
soions that they were thus prepara-
tory to the development of the future
nation. We, too, we suppose, are in
some way preparatory ! Every gen-
eration 18, more or less, subsidiary
to its successor. Let us hope that
Briton, and Saxon, and Dane had
their due share of human joy ; they
had their full share, at all events,
of human energy, and that is much
the same thing. Preparatory to the
future England all this shifting and
commingling of races may be, but we
confess we shoald be hard put to it
if we had to prove that the Saxon
could not have done very well with-
out the Norman, or to show in whHt
especial manner the Danes contri-
buted to our progress in civilL-ation.
or why even the Britons alone might
not have been the ancestors of the
modern Englishmen.
As, however, what migJd have
been is always a somewhat vague
and useless inquiry, it is the wisest
course to extract what consolation
we can from the actual sequence of
events. Thus, if the Normans, in
their conquest of England, acted the
part of cruel and ruthless oppressors,,
pillaging the Saxon of hi^ lands, and
governing always for the interest of
a dominant class, it is some consohi-
tion to reflect that the hand of this
powerful despotism was welding the
whole country, with its diverse po-
pulations, into one united kingdom
of England and Wales. This king-
dom, under our Henrys and Edwar£,
took finally the form in which it was
destined to grow. Let us, so far as
space permits, follow our author up
to this point — follow him in these
revolutions of race, till, under the
Norman, England has become, in his
own language, *' to be England."
Our author was too wise to practise
upon our patience by long disserta-
tions on the ancient iBritons. What
can we know or learn of those twenty-
five tribes who are said, at the in-
vasion of Julius Oseaar, to have oc-
cupied England and Wales and the
Lowlands of Scotland? Who cares
M>
Vaughan'a JUtfdutUm in EngUih BMcr^
[Nor.
now aboat tbe SOareB» or the Bri-
guttes, or the Sceni ? We have not
knowledge eooogh to sostain oar
coriority. It might indeed be de-
sirable to know more of them than
we do ; and it would still be more
interesting if we eoold know some-
thing of that prehistorio people who
are thought, by oar antiqoariaos, to
have preceded the Brigantes and the
rest of the twenty-fire; bat in the
hopeless obscurity which enyelope
both sabjects, cariosity dies oat We
plainly perceive that Uiere most hare
been considerable differences amongst
these tribes. Cornwall had long ago
been discovered by tbe Fhenicians,
and had enjoyed some of the advan-
tages of commerce. As Dr. Vaaghan
observes, ** Tbe Britons of Cornwall,
with their long beards, long tonics,
and long walking-staves/' were a
very different kind of people from
the Britons of Kent, whom Caesar
describes as half naked, or clad in
skins, ^staining their bodies with
woad, and covering them with parple
figures." This last costom, however.
Dr. Vaaghan is not disposed to look
Upon as a flagrant instance of bar-
barisro. '*Not necei-sarily barbar-
ian," he says, 'Mnasmocfa as it has
been common among British seamen
within our own memory." Bat with
all oar admiration for the British tar,
we suspect that if these tattooed and
blue-stained seamen had been tbe
chief inhabitants of Great Britain,
oar island would not have escaped
the charge of barbarism. "The
design,'* he adds, *" could hardly
have been to give fierceness to their
aspect ; it was the effect rather of a
rude love of ornament." In such
light we who have had the advan-
tages of Captain Cook's voyages (and
know, therefore, more of savage life
than Julias Cassar), have been m the
habit of regarding it; but the rude
love of ornament which leads to a
defacement of nature, has been always
received as one of the plainest indi-
cations of barbarism. It is an indi-
cation, we must admit, that may be
found amongst nations reputed to be
civilised — lor civilisation and bar-
barism are matters of degree, and a
civilised nation may retain a bar-
barous custom. We have been lately
told that the Japanese are a civilised
people, bat they retain the Tcry bar-
baroos custom of UaekeDlng the
teeth. The Chinese have the odioos
custom of deforBiing the feet of their
women. Still there is do ooe man
indisputable sign of barbarism than
this blindnees to the beauty of the
human form, as natore has left it
This is not one of the qoestions^of
taste which each coantry determiseB
for itself without hope of aoy aettle-
ment A Chinese sludl assert to the
end of time that a Chineee woman b
the most beaatiful of women; we
have no hope, and no wish, to shake
his conviction ; but he will not alwa^
think that his beautiful woman m
improved by having two fegs anhsti-
tuted for two feet
If not absolute savages, we sospeet
that the majority of our Britirii an-
cestors were decidedly barbariana
Those who fought from war-chariots
must, as Dr Yaughan observea, have
had amongst them the arts of the
smith, the carpenter, and the wheel-
wright. But when he adds, ^Sudi
men would be capable of boildtBg
houses, and of producing fomitnre,
after a manner anknown amongst na-
tions in the lower state of barbarism,''
he infers too much if he intends to
say that they therefore did build
houses or construct furniture, which,
in our estimation, would rank on the
same level as their war-chariots. The
instruments of war are generally the
first brought to perfection. 'The
working in metals especially reodves
its great impulse from war. It may
be worth noticing, that a Roman,
describing the war-chaiiot, might
speak of seifthes attached to tbe
axle. They resembled scythes to
him: they were rworda in the ^cs
of the Briton, who probably bad no
such instrament as a scythe. *' Then,"
continues our author, *' there was the
harness, which, rude as it may have
been, must have been adapted to the
gurposes by many^ arts that woold
ave their value in many prooeases
besides that of harness-making.*^ We
give them the full benefit of the
arness ; we will suppose it oonstrue-
ted of the skins of animals, reduced
into^ a serviceable leather ; yet we
cannot infer that any cobbler or shoe-
maker had seized hold of thi3 leather
and made serviceable shoes of it
1859.]
Vaughan'M BeooluUonB in En^flM SUkry.
541
And whole ages jmty bAve piswd
between the manofaetnre of the moet
gorgeous baniess and that snpreme
work of the tailoriog art — onder
which Carlyle in his clothes-philo-
sophy, and in his typical wav, haa
written the motto, Sic itw aa attra
— the leather breeches. Many a race
of car-borne heroes had lived before
snch an invention was given to man-
kind. So slow and capricions has
been the promsa of the arts of
peace. Oor Norman ancestors bnilt
nails to live in fit for the ffods, and
strewed them with rashes that were
very soon fit for swine.
Their religion, at all event?, had
taken a form suitable only to rode
and violent natnres. Scholars may
trace Drnidism from the East, and
find in it the reflex of great truths
and fiublime doctrines, bat the rites
of the religion tell ns plainly what
it was in the minds of the British
worshippers. Whether it is to be
ranked under the forms of Mono-
theism or Polytheism matters little.
All depends, in religion, on the con-
ception formed of the being who is
worshipped; and horribly false mast
that conception have been which led
to human sacrifice, and thst as an
ordinary ritual We see a form of
piety calculated to enrage men, and
throw them iiiito a state of frenzy.
Dr. Yanghan introduces, very aptly,
•passage from Tacitus, which will well
bear reperusal. Suetonius is cross-
ing the Menai Strait to attack the
island of Aoglesea, the stronghold
of the Draids. **The shore of the
island was lined with the hostUe
army, in which were women dressed
in dark and dismal garments, with
their hair streaming to the wind,
bearing torches in their hands, and
running like furies up and down the
ranks. Around stood the Druids,
with hands spread to heaven, and
uttering dreadful prayers and impre-
cations. The noveity of the sight
struck our soldiers with dismay, so
that they stood as petrified, » mark
for the enemy's javelins. At length,
animated by their general, and en-
couraging one another not to fear an
army of women and fanatics, they
rushed upon the enemy, bore down
all before them, and Involved tbem
in their own fire. The troops of the
enemy were completely defeated, a
garrison placed on the island, and the
groves, whieh had been the conse-
crated scenes of the most barbarous
superstitions, were levelled to the
ground." *
We are told, it is trae, that the
Druids were lawgivers as well as
priests. They may have therefore
performed for the Britons the indis-
Ensable function of the magistrate,
(t this not be forgotten in the esti-
mate we form of them. But if we
were challenged to point out the one
pre-eminent advantage which ac-
crued to Britain from the conquest
of the Romans, it is precisely this —
that it separated the magistrate from
the priest The first great step in
human progress is miule when the
priesthood become legislators; the
second great step, when they cease
to be so — when jurisprudence, hon-
oured for its own specific ends, is
committed to the civil power. This
boon the Romans brought to us much
earlier than we should otherwise have
attained it, though, as is the manner
of conquerors, they taught us the
lesson by a very severe process.
The Romans do, in fact, discipline
and mould us into a province of the
empire — something we learn of the
arts of peace. But we have just been
recognised as part of the civilised
world, when we are relinquished as
a distant possession not worth the
trouble and expense of retaining.
The Caledonians, hardly kept out
by the wall of Antonmus, come
down upon the Britons, under new
names, it seems, of Picts and Scots,
and the Saxons land upon the, sea-
board, pillaging, destroying, and
making settlements. Evidently a
great *' revolution of race" is ap-
We thought that Hengist and
Horsa had been reduced to the
condition of mvthical personages ;
or that, at all events, it was
confessed that nothinff distinct had
descended to us of the first land-
ing and settlement of the Saxons.
'Dr Yaughau, however, contends that
Hengist and Horsa are historical
• Page 37.
542
Vau{fkun*$ RevoluHons in EngUtk Hutorff.
[Not.
penoDS, and relates as a credible
narrative their traDsactions with
Yortigern, British kiDg or British
chief, localised somewhere '^oear the
Thames." We woald very willingly
retain within the pale of history the
stories told of Hengist and Horsa
and of Yortigero, if only some pro-
bable and codsistent narrative could
be constructed oat of them. We
might overlook the fact that the
venerable Bede, venerable as he is to
ns, lived yet two centuries after Yor-
tigern, and that we have no means
of testing the authorities on which
he framed his narrative; we might
accept at once the authority of £^e
as the best we had, and there leave
the matter, if the account of the
venerable monk was the only one we
possessed, and was satisfactory in
Itself. Bat several traditions, im-
probable and contradictory, have
descended to us, and we have no
means of testing how fur any of
them are founded upon truth, and
therefore we are compelled to sub-
mit to a mere suspension of judg-
ment, or an acknowledgment of ig-
norance. We give Dr Yaughan's
statement of those traditions.
"Our Saxon authorities relate that
in the year 447 or 449, Yortigern, a
British cbief near the Tbaraep, invited
two Saxon chiefd, named Hengist and
Horsa^ to assist him in repeliiog an
invasion by the Picts and Scx)ts ; that
these chiefs, who were brothers, landed
in Tbanet, a portion of Kent sepa-
rated from the mainland of that dis-
trict by a ri7er; that the Saxons soon
chased the Soots from the lands they
had devastated ; that with the consent
of VortJgern, the Saxon force In Thanet
was increased considerably; that this
increase caused distrust amongst the
Britons; that the increase of pay thus
made necessary led to disputes ; that
these disputes issued in open war; that
after a long series of conflicts, victory
declared in favour of the Saxons; that
Hengist became King of Kent, and in
the year 488 bequeathed bis authority
to bis son ^aca, having exercised it
tifceen years.
••Our British authorities say that Hen-
gist and Horsa were exiles in search of
a home; tbat the increase of the forcer
in Thanet was treacherously managed ;
that the design of that moveuoDt was
to conquer the country; that Hengist
had a beautiful daughter named Rowens,
who, when the Saxon and the British
chiefs were over theur cups, was em-
ployed to present a goblet to Yoitigem:
that Yortigern fell into the snare thus
laid for him by beooming enamoured
of Rowena, so as to be prepared to barter
the kingdom of Kent as the price of
possessing her person; that in the wan
which ensued Yortigern was disowned
by his subjects, and his son Yortimer
raised to sovereignty in his stead ; that
for several years Hengiat was compelled
to seek refuge in his ships, and to nibeist
by his piracies ; that at a feast afterwards
given by the Saxon leaders^ some three
hundred British chie& were treacher-
ously murdered; that the only one of
the BriUsh chiefii who was spared w$a
Yortigern; and that, notwithatandiog
the alleged unpopularity of thia prince,
to secure the liberation of Yortigern,
the people of Kent^ Sussex, Middieiex.
and Essex consented to receive Hengist
as their king."*
Here there are three different ac-
counts of the manner in whidi this
uolucky Yortigern brought the Sax-
ons into the kingdom, or was in-
strumental in procuring tliem a
settlement in Britain. 1st, He in-
vites them to assist him against the
Scots, and calls in a master as well
as an ally. This ia the most proba-
ble story, and, if an invention, it is
moulded on the classical type of his-
tory, or, in other words, is an imita-
tion of well-reputed narratives. 2d,
He barters his kingdom for the (air
Bowena, the daughter of Hengist
3d, His people consent to receive
Hengist as their king in order to
ransom Yortigern, who has bees
taken prisoner. Thus the Saxon has
three separate titles to his kingdolB.
— conquest, barter for Bowena, aod
ransom for Yortigern. What is de-
scribed as the /Saxon acconnt is far
more probable than the BritUh, bot
in the absence of all oontemporaiy
record, and in the presence of oppo-
site tradition, mere probabili^ can-
not be allowed to have mneh weight
An age that has some tincture of
learning invents differently from the
more rude and wonder-loving age. A
classical age wonld set to work to
• Page 123.
1859.]
TaughaiCs RevoltUian$ in EngHth Hittory.
643
explain any given event Id a dflSav
ent way from a romantic age. An
air of greater probability would
naturally belong to the historical hy-
pothesis of the later age, and there-
fore, where there are circnmstanees
which lead ns to snspect that, in
fact, we have nothing better than an
historical hypothesis before ns, this
air of probability mnst not be allowed
to betray ns into too ready an ac-
qniescence. We find no historical
evidence bearing on these worthies
Hengist and Horsa, and their dealings
with Vortigem,
This is clear, that Angles, Jutes,
and Saxons come over in great num-
bers— conquer and settle — carving
out small kingdoms for themselves.
And when we nnderstand what man-
ner of people they were, we can safely
acquit Yortigern, or release him from
any grave reeponeibitity. He was
altogether a quite unnecessary per-
son in the drama. The flocks, the
pasture, the com of Kent gave suffi-
cient invitation ; the power to hold
and possess gave sufficient title. It
was the only title they were likely to
concern themselves about. They
came and spread themselves over
the island. The Britons almost vau-
ish from our view, and there rises be-
fore us the Sflxon Heptarchy.
The Heptarchy, from its founda-
tion, was a species of confederation,
and one of its princes possessed a
precedence over the rest, under the
title of Bretwalda. Disputes for.
this title gave rise to their first wars'
amongst each other. Ella of Sussex,
Ethel bert and Kent, then a king of
Wessex, are described as successively
the Bretwalda. In 627 Edwin of
Northumbria bears the title, and
with him it seems to have been joined
with a substantial power — to have
been something more than the hon-
orary presidency over the Saxon con-
federation. But this BrettDoldaship
does not rise, as might have been ex-
?3cted, into the kingship of England,
he title dies down, and the office is
not heard of for some time, when
conquest and predominance of power
elevate one of the Heptarchy to be
king of all England. The office of
Bretwalda probably arose at a time
when the Saxona had a common
enemy to protect themselves against
in the Britons or the Scots; when
they felt secure in their possessions, it
would cease to have any substantial
utility.
The history of England under the
Heptarchy is a very confused busi-
ness. It is like the attempt to fol-
low the course of a river that divides
itself into six or seven branches,
some of which again divide them-
selves for a time, and then reunite.
It will aid the imagination (as Dr.
Yaughan suggests), if we keep stead-
ily in view the three great states,
Northumbria, Mercia, and Wessex,
and recollect that these three form a
crescent, one point of the crescent
lying upon a boundary somewhere
near Edinburgh and Glasgow, and
the other point terminating at Corn-
wall. The hollow of the crescent
will be filled up by Wales, and be-
yond the outer line of it, and stretch-
ing towards the English ChaQnel and
the German Ocean, will lie the king-
doms of tlie East Saxons, Sussex,
Kent, and East Anglia.
Daring the dark period of the
Heptarchy, Northumbria, Mercia,
and Wessex chiefly occupy the his-
torian. If any one of these can be
more violent or criminal than the
other, Northumbria seems to have
this bad pre-eminence. Its ill fame
had reached to foreign countries, and
Charlemagne stigmatises these North-
umbrians as " a perverse and perfi-
dious nation, worse than paganS.^'
Mercia, with a powerful rival on
either side, and such turbulent neigh-
bours as the Welsh along its western
borders, must have been always
ready for battle, if it was to remain
an independent power. It comes
before uS conspicuously under its
King Offa. Ofl*a wages Eucceesful
wars against Kent and Wessex, and
the Britons. Against the latter he
constructs an embankment and
trench, known as Offa's Dyke, sepa-
rating Mercia from Wales. Ofia
comes in relation with Charle-
magne. Certain of his rebellious
thanes* Lave fled to France, and the
emperor acts as mediator. Matrimo-
nial alliances are projected. Caarle-
magne asks the hand of a d&ughter
of Ofla for one of lus illegitimate
sons. Whereupon Ofia, in return,
requests the band of a French prin-
544
V<kagkaiC9 Rtvolutiont in English, Eittcry*
[Not.
0688 for his eldeit 800, Egfartfa. Thte
preBamption oflbids the pride of the
great Emperor, uid the treaty is
broken ofL
This daughter of Offii was after-
wards sought in marriage by Ethel-
bert, king of East Anglia. And this
introdaces ns to a tale of treachery,
which our author shall tell in his
own words. It is as good a specimen
as any of life amongst these Saxon
princeSi if by any such honourable
title ihiBj deserve to be called.
^'Etbelbert was young and accom-
plished, and poBsessed of many esti-
mable qualities. Approaching the bor-
ders of Merda, the young king despatch-
ed a messenger with presents, and with
a letter statbg the object of his errand.
In reply, assurance was given of a cor-
dial w^come ; and on his arrival, him-
self and his retinue were received with
every apparent demonstration of resjiect
and good feeling. As the advance of the
evening brought the feastiDg and merry-
making to a dose, Ethelbert withdrew
to his chamber. Presently a messenger
sought access to him, and stated that
the king wished to confer with him on
some matters affecting the purpose of
his visit Eihelbert at once followed
the footsteps of his guide. But the
way led through a dark narrow passage,
and there, from invisible heads, the
confidlDg youth received a number of
wounds which at once deprived him of
life. Offa affected surprise, indignation,
the deepest grief; he would see no one,
a^d so on. But history points to his
wife as having suggested this atrocious
deed, and 'to himself as having con-
sented to it It is enough to say that
Offa seized on the domains of his mur-
dered guest"
Offa did not long enjoy the pos-
sessions gained by his guilt : he died
at the end of two years. His ftimily
became extinct in his son Egfnrth, and
subsequently Mercia had to yield to
the rising power of Wessex.
It is to Wessex we must look for
a king sufficiently powerful to unite
all England in one monarchy. We
find him in Egbert, who had passed
a portion of his life in exile,. in the
court of Oharlemagne, where he re-
ceived a higher instruction both in
the arts of war and peace than he
Oould have done in his own heredi-
tary kingdom. The only surviving
descendant of Oerdric, the founder
of Wessex, he returned to an nndis-
pated throne. He snbdaed the Bri-
tons of Wales, and attacked the
Merciana " The victory of Egbert,''
we quote from our author, **OTer
Beomwolf of Mercia, in 823, enabled
him to assert bis sovereignly over
the East Saxons^ Xent^ and East
Anglia. Sossex was ahready a part
of Wessex. It only remained that
Northumbria shoold acknowledge his
supremacy. In 828 that acknow-
ledgment was extorted without an
appeal to the sword." Elgbert thus
became first king of England, or
(reviving the title) the eighth Bret-
walda.
But while Egbert and his sacoes-
Bors in the kingdom of Wessex weiv
doing their best to nnite England
nnder one monarchy, lo I a fresh io-
andation of barbarians and heathens L
afresh hordes of ''Northmen," not
even Christianised in name, come to
dispute the very possession of the
island. The Danes descend frooi
their long vessels — bum, destroy,
gillage, and then retire to their
omee. Some of them seek a home
on the soil itself. These last live
nnder some amicable treaty with the
Saxons, but are suspected of inviting
fresh bands of their own conntrymeQ
to come and share the spoil. Nay,
what seems inexplicable to ns in our
imperfect knowledge of the evQits,
Danes are raised to posts of confid-
ence and of command, and are said to
betray their trust in favour of their
countrymen. Ethelred the Unready,
after injuring the cause of the Saxons
by his timidity and his craven com-
promises, injured it still more by an
act of extreme craelty and treaobery*
" Twenty-four years had passed sinoo
the aocession of Ethelred, and the greater
part of those years mariced by the or-
cumstanoes above mentioned, when the
king resolved on a deed which has cov-
ered him vrith infamy, and which, as
might have been foreseen, was to bring
heavy retribution in its train. It was
no secret that the. Saxons regarded the
Danes resident amongst them with dis-
trust and hatred. The relation of these
people to the common enemy, and siiU
more the fact that they had generslly
shown themselves much more disposed
to favour them to repel the invaders, had
given a special intensity to the feeling
ordmarily separating race from race.
Efihelred, it would seem, had ceased to
1859.]
VaughanU lUvoiiUians in EnifHih Hidary.
546
^peot fldeH^ from thia olaas of his gab-
jecta; audi to eave binuelf from the
machinatioDfl of traiton within the camp,
ho determined thai an attempt aboold
be made utterly to destroy them.
" In the spring of the year 1002, secret
orders were issued that, on the approach-
ing religious festival in honour of 8t
Brice, the Saxons should fall unawares
upon the Danes, and put them to death.
The orders were kept secret ; and on
the appointed day the massacre ensued,
the fuiy of the populace in many places
adding not a little cruelty to the work
of destruction." •
WbateTer was the ezteot of this
massacre (od which very different
opinions are held), it very certainly
brought with it ♦* a heavy retribotion."
It brought down uj^on the island
the great Daoisb chieftain Bweyn,
with a force so large that almost the
whole coQDtry was placed at his
mercy. After four years he was
boaght off by a sum of thirty-six
thousand pounds of silver. But he
returned again. Had he not sworn
on the death of his sister, one of the
Tictims of the massacre, to make
himself monarch of England? He
did so ; bat ja»t at the point of suc-
cess he died. His son Canute folly ac-
complished the design, and England
had a Danish king. Finally the Danes
and the Saxons were interfused :
these other heathens became also
Christians; thev were a bold race,
perhaps less phlegmatic and more
ardent than the Saxon. Oar author
suggests that we may in part owe to
this race of the sea-kings that love
of the sea, that passion for maritime
life and battle, which distinguishes
US. Speaking quite physiologically,
a race that conquers another cannot
prove otherwise than a favourable
mtermixture.
The subject of the conversion of
the Saxons, and through them of the
Danes, to Christianity, is not likely
to lose any of its dne importance in
the hands of Dr. Vaaehan. It ia
carefully and ably treated. What is
known of the Christianity of the
Britons under the Roman Empire is
briefly told. Who first taught Chris-
tianity in this island is now past find-
ing oat The legions of Rome would
inevitably bring it with them ; as a
province of the Empire, the new re*
tigion woald be sure to extend into
it But Dr. Yaoffhan dismisses as
fond fables the derivation of our
faith from an apostle, or some com-
panion of an apostle. Some of these
stories are easily disproved by a mere
reference to chronology. The Britons
who foond in the mountains of Wales
a shelter against the Saxons, retained
theur religion ; bat there is no proof
that either these, or anv other por-
tion of the earlier race, had extended
their religion amongst the heathen
invaders. Some preparatory influ-
ence they may^ have exerted, but the
conquerors cannot be said in this in-
stance, as in so many other instances,
to have adopted the religion of the
conquered people. Christianity came,
or came most efiisctively, to the Saxons
from its central seat at Roma
Bat this was not the only course by
which Christianity reached our hea-
then population. Every one knows
the story of Pope Gregory, of the
compassion felt by him at the sight
of tne Anglian children exposed in
the marketplace of Rome, and of the
mission of Augustine, whidi was the
result of that compassion; bat the
extent of oar obligation^ to St Co-
la mba and his monks, spreading
their doctrine from the island of
lona, is not so generally acknow-
ledged. As St Columba emigrated
from Ireland, and as the Irish Churoh
lays claim to great antiquity, there
may be here some scarce of comfort
to those who are desirous of dimin-
ishing their debt as much as possible
to the See of Rome. We, for oar
part, should be interested in the
fact, simply that we might give due
honour to the pious frat^nity of
lona. Whether their form of Chris-
tianity was in any respect more pare
than that which Augustine taught
may admit of doubt ; they were cer-
tainly as credulous and saperstitions
as any of thev contemporaries ; but
their missionary zeal was ardent and
free from the least taint or suspicion
of ambitious motives.
"It will be seen," says our author,
"that the northern half of Anglo-Saxon
Britam was brought to the prtSesaion of
Christianity by the direct or indirect
• Page 168.
546
VaughatCs R&vdutions in En^kh Hi$iory.
[Not.
infiuenco of the disciples of Colamba.
Through Bernicia and Deira the iofluenco
of the Scottish missiooaries extended
to East AngHa^ to Mercia, and even to
Wessex. Gratitude is due to Pope Gre-
gory, and to the ecclesiastics sent forth
by him to this country. Their inten-
fions were generous, and their labour in
a great degree successful But bad no
thought of Britain ever occupied the
mind of the pious Gregory, or of the
monk Augustine, it is clear that Britain
No ; we cannot now precwAj de-
termine the line between aelf-decep-
tion and an intentional deception of
others. Bat, in th(f first place, priest
and people were often eqnallj oa-
edacated ; and in that case, the very
thing we have to expect is, that tlie
priest will differ from the peaeant ia
earnestDCSS and zeal, but not in eo-
lightenroent; he will merely pat
forth the peasant's creed with aingn-
would have been evangelised. Had the lar boldness and energy. And in Uie
work been left to the brotherhood of second place, where the priesthood is a
lona, it would have been done."* more learned and reflectire body than
f\ iu e f nu • *• •* 1.- V *^« rest of the people, this coDstanth
« ^Lf-^^^T^K-^ Wr'^^^^'^^ ^o»^8 good-thit a doctrine deemed
we reived at this tim6 from Rome, necessary to the religions goveni.
Dr Vaughan makes some very judi- ^ent of mankind is sare to Teceive
cions and candid observations. An from them a very general and sincere
historian as well as a theologian, he ^gsent. If it Is felt that a divia
cannot fail to be aware that the reli-
gions faith of men, however pure in
its origin, and though drawn in the
first iostaoce from inspired lips, most
government of the minds of men can
ODiy be upheld by a belief in the
miracnloQS interposition of God, we
may depend upon it that the majo-
rity of earnest minds will fally be-
lieve in such miracalons interpoa-
tion. When such a faith is do longer
necessary for upholding religion in
the multitude, we find t£it the
thonghtfully pious begin to join the
.,.,.. . ^, ^ more worldly intellect in disputioe
of what religion is they must carry or denying itj but not till then. ^ ^
with them or find in the new faith. j^ ^^\^^ ^i,^^ y^ ^ ,
If, for instance, a miraculous inter- cannot rise at once to a high^ni^
partake of the general degradation of
the intellect, and again rise as the
general intelligence is cultivated. A
heathen people must take some of
their heathenism with them into
Christianity, or they cannot pass
over at all. Certain broad notions
position of God is of the very essence
of their religion, they must still be-
lieve in this, under new names and
conditions, or religion .itself would
lectual station, that therefore th^
may not, through their new doctrines,
receive new sentiments of morality
which shall have a certain efiect in
be lost to them. As Dr Yaughan modifying their lives. Consider the
justly observes,- old religion of Odin, and how com-
" Heathen priests eveiywhere laid pletdy it justified whatever violence
claim to prophecy and miracle. They ^9® brave man — if he did but peril
made the interference of their gods in liia own life — thought fit to .indulge
human affairs to be perpetual. They
poiuted to a hereafter of happiness, or
the contrary, as awaiting those whom
they wore wont themselves to pronounce
as Worthy or unworthy. The Christian
clergy had to deal with these preten-
sions. . They did so bv claiming mira-
culous powers for the Cliurch ; by bring-
ing many supernatural agencies into the
concerns of this world; and too often
by materialising heaven and hell to the
extent deemed necessary adequately to
affect the hopes and fears of the society
about them. How far they were them-
selves deceived in making such repre-
sentations cannot now be detormIuud."f
in. We SQpp088 that towards other
brave men of his own nation he was
expected to obey some rude law of
justice or courtesy. But with this
exception, the life and property of
all the world was placed by the gods
themselves at the disposal of the
brave man. Religion sanctioned his
passionate and despotic will. The
gods did, indeed, favour peaceful indus-
try, but this was only that the fruits
of it might ultimately fall into the
hands of the brave man. His para-
mount title was loudly asserted — his
the sole right, and the first place in
* Page 209.
t Page 218.
1869.]
Vaughan's Revolutions in Engluh History,
547
earth and in heaven. The mere
withdrawal of 8nch a religions saoc-
tion to our most violent passions
mnst have been some gain ; the sub-
stltntion of a ^nite opposite doctrine,
which made right sacred in the per-
son of the lowliest, which tanght
that strength shoald be servant of
JQStice and of charity, mnst have
produced gradnal and beneficent mo-
difications in the national character.
Gradual and partial they must be
admitted to have been.
The monk Augustine had no
sooner become Archbishop of Can-
terbury than he had the task im-
posed on him of reducing the
British Church of Wales to uniform-
ity with that of Home. A conference
was agreed upon. We will narrate
the iEsne in the words of our author.
On him let the responsibilitv rest
both of the narrative and of the ap-
plication of the term ** bishop" to
those who are said to have repre-
sented the Welsh Church.
'• A second conference was agreed up-
on, in which the British representatives
were to conjjist of persons more compe-
tent to decide in behalf of tlieir nation.
The Welsh now deputed seven of their
bishops. These bishops are said to have
consulted a recluso famous for his wis-
dom touching the course it might be-
hove them to take. The substance of
bis counsel appears to have been, that
unity on tlie ground of submission to
Augustine as their superior, was not to
bo entertained for a moment Let tiiem
arrange to approach the archbishop
while he should be seated. If he roso
to receive- them, the action might be
taken as indicating brotherhood and
equality, and it would be well to listen
dispassionately to his statements. If
he received them sitting, his so doing
would bespeak pretensions to superiority
fhiugbt with mischief and it would
behove them to look on all measures
proposed by 1 im with suspicion. AugW'
line did not rise," *
Pity that Augustine had not also
been in communication with this wise
recluse. He would not then have
lost the present opportunity of gain-
ing over the Webh bishops by a point
of ceremonial. We need not add
that the discordance between the two
churches gradually died away. The
Archbishon of York had in the north
of England a similar controversy to
sastain with those who had received
Christianity through the brethren of
Ions. These last observed Easter at
a diflerent time, and wore a tonsure
of a difierent shape from the Romans.
Wilfrid, Archbishop of York, did not
scruple to say that the monks of
lona mnst have borrowed their usages
from Simon Magus. A conference
was held at Whitby before the king.
The part^ of St. Columba traced
their traditions to the Apostle John.
Wilfrid opposed the Apostle St.
Peter, ** to whom the keys of J^eaven
had been given.*' Here the king in-
terposed to ask of the several dis-
putants whether it was admitted, on
both sides, that St. Peter had the
keys of heaven. This admission was
made. " Then I decide for St, Peter,"
said the king, *'as 1 know not what
the consequences may be of doing
otherwise."
The Saxons being converted to
Christianity, the Danes who came
amongst them appear to have very
readily dropt their rude superstitioos,
and joined the worship of the Saxons.
In one age we hear of them showing
peculiar bitterness and cruelty against
the monks ; in the next, we find that
several of them have entered the
Church, and been elevated to a high
position in it. And now this Saxon-
Danish kingdom has to submit once
more to conquest, to undergo another
** revolution of race," before it can be
considered as fairly launched on its
onward progress.
In estimating the good and evil
that ensued from the Norman Con-
quest, Dr. Yaughan holds the balance
as steadily, we think, as It can be
held. But it mnst be confessed that
historians have given us Euch difler-
ent descriptions of the Normans — i
have approached them from such
different points of view — ^have givtn
prominence to such different classes
of facts, that it is extremely difficult
to rest in any satisfactory estimation
of them. Till a late period, the tend-
ency has been, in England, to over-
look what was harsh, cruel, and
brutal in their characters; our own
nobility bo<ist a Norman descent, and
> Page 102.
548
Vaughofn^i Revolutions in English History,
\yioT.
** to come ia with the Normans '' is a
claim of oar gentry; we associate
them with chivalry and knighthood,
and grand castles and glittering
armour ; we extol them as patrons
of art^ and especially of the great art
of architeotare, for they cover Eng-
land, not only with castles, bat with
charches and monasteries. Five or
six hundred monasteries are reckoned
to have been bailt in Eoglannd be-
tween the Gonqaest and the reign of
King John, and many of these were
schools of learning, as well as retreats
for the pious. But the harsher and
more ^rocions aspect of the earlier
Norman kings has been lately held
up more conspicuously to view. Gon-
tmental historians, who have had no
conciliating prejudices in their fa-
vour—as Thierry and Lappenberg —
have spared none of their vices, and
have exposed without remorse their
tyranny, their ^reed, and the unscru-
pulous oppression they invariably
exercised whenever they were not
opposed by an equal force. If they
built stately monasteries, they gave
us the military bishop and the plea-
sure-loving monk. They yielded no-
thing to the citizen — nothing volun-
tarily. The common labourers found
their status still more harshly defined :
" they were bound,*' says Lappenberg,
''to the spot of earth on which
they were born, and human beings
were given to churches and monas-
teries like other property." The ad-
ministration of justice was corrupted
by a gross venality; everything was
sold that could be ; an heiress was
treated as a prize ; the harshest forest
laws were enacted ; on some pretext
or other, every Saxon noble or man
of wealth was stript of hb posses-
sions; in fine, everv form of bad
government seems to have been prac-
tised on every class of the community
but one ; and that class were con-
stsntly fighting among themselves.
But still these Norman kings came
to us with large ideas of conquest ;
they were not petty settlers, like the
Saxons or the i)anes ; they did not
come to us from thar northern
homes, which they had already for-
gotten; they came, the feudatories
of France, to establish a great king-
dom, to meld a powerfoi sceptre.
Thus thev efiSectually united the
people under one government. And
although William the Conqueror
ruled by flagrant forces yet Henry L,
the second in descent, did in fact
enter into a solemn compact with liis
Anglo-Ssxon subjects, that he would
rule ^ according to the laws of Kiqg
Edward." A very indefinite agree-
ment, but an agreement neverthe-
less ; and it is worth noticing how the
British constitution grew np from
precisely this habit of treating with
the king as with a power that the
people do not pretend to have set
up, but hope to limit This is the
secret of the growth of our consti-
tution; this is the method of its
development. We have seen how
likely an opposite method is to fiuL
When a people set to work to create
at once a constitutional monarchy,
thOT create the power of the monarch,
and they create the check to it at the
same time. They can never satisfy
themselves; they have no sooner
given power, than at the first unpo-
pular exercise of it they wish to take
It back again. The English never
dreamt that they gave the king his
power ; they viewed it as a necessity ;
It was a force they did not create, bat
which they could set about regulat-
ing. Thus there was something
fixed and stable, round which new
institutions coald gather.
By-and-by our Norman kings want
money for their wars with France.
Here is a new and most favourable
opportunity for treaty. But this
familiar learning we need not repeat.
If the reader wishes to refresh his
memory with it, he will find it stated
briefly and well in the pages of Dr.
Yaughan. To those psges we may
honestly recommend him, as the
fruit of steady and oonscientions
labour, directed by a liberal and
enlightened spirit
18p».]
The Lwk of Ladtfmede.--'Part IX.
649
THB LUCK »F LADTSHBD!
• P A W T IX,
CBAPTEB ZXIII. — THB SKKKSCOAL 8 TBOUBLSB.
TnB accompaniments of Dame
Elf hild's earlier years had been hardly
BQcb as to encoarage any displays
of feminine weakness. When Isola
made her appearance once more at
the old tower of Willan's. Hope
.whither the good horse had carried
her safe, without mach esercise of
will upon her own part, and related
what she knew of Gladice's danger
and sapposed escape, the elder lady
neither shrieked nor fainted. What
she might have seemed to fall short
in the demonstrative qnalities of her
sex, she made up however, in prompt-
ness of connsel and decision. She
neither trembled nor tarned pale
when the circamstances of her niece^s
peril were related to her ; but her
cheeks flashed a little, and her eye
brightened as she listened. The
Italian's tale was somewhat broken
and confused ; for she was agitated
and excited, and her desire to conceal
Sir Nicholas's share in the adventure
of the morning helped to embarrass
her. But it was much clearer than
any account which could be gathered
from the two or three retainers who
came dropping in bv degrees, with
crestfallea looks ana jaded horses,
and whose ability to tell a plain tale
(never a very common accomplish*
ment with men in their station) was
not much quickened by Old Waren-
ger's furious invectives, when he
found that they had returned without
their lady. No language of abuse
and imprecation at bis command
(though his education, under his late
master, had been a liberal one in that
respect) seemed sufficient to meet the
enormity of the case.
** A coward^s curse light on ye all,
for a herd of pithless cravens as ye
are I" said the wrathful seneschal,
addressing them in a body, when they
were all at last assembled in the
yard, after exhausting his more per-
sonal and particular execrations upon
eaoh as he arrived. ** Men I— do ye
call yourselves men? are ye not
ashamed to look at the beards on
each other's faces? I was wont to
▼OU LXXXTL
say there were too many women
about the old place— St. Marv forgive
me for it 1 May I be ohoked wiUi a
dry morsel, an' I do not muster the
serving-wenches, and go out with
them to look for my lady I Go home
to the hill, Turstan, and send thy
wife hither to keep watch and ward
in thy stead with a distaff — she can
lay about her handilj with that, I
have heard some say."
" X did what a man could do," said
Turstan, sulkily, though he scorned
to speak of his wounded shoulder.
There were some things he would.
Lave admitted, which were more
than man could be expected to do ;
and one was, to hold his own at home
against the vixen who claimed him for
a husband.
"I would Sir Amyas could see yon
now 1" continued the irate old soldier,
looking round upon his abashed list-
eners, ^' it were enough to bring him
out of his grave, if he could hear (*tis
to be hoped he never will) of your
manful deeds this day 1"
There was a muttering amongst^
some of the men, which might have
been a prayer for Sir Amyaa's safe
repose.
" It was at the Lady Glad ice's own
bidding that we left her," said one
at last taking courage to defend him*
self, ** it was so b^t for her safety,
as she said — I would have fought
for her else, as long as limbs would
hold."
*' 'Twas the first time, Dickon,"
said the seneEohal, " thou ever wert
so ready to take a woman at her
word."
Some of his audience here gathered
spirit enough for a weak laugh at
the seneschars rejoinder. But the
old man, as if conscious that this was
retrograding from his strong grooDd
of grave indignation, turned fiercely
round upon the yeoman, who had
entered the gates with Isola, and
whom, in bis first consternation and
angler, he had scarcely found time to
notice.
*' And who art thou, that comest
36
550
The Luck of Lady8meds.^Part IX.
[Nov.
sneakiDg aboat the tower again with
this strange ladj ? what seekest tboa
in this brave company of swag-
gerers ?"
''It matters not so much what I
am, as what service I can do, Master
Seneschal/' said the Italian ; *< I do
not wonder that a proved soldier
like yonrself should feel at first some
righteoas displeasare, as though these
good fellows had failed them in their
tmst; bnt I put it hamblyto your
experience whether ten men against
a score, buff jerkins against good
steel harness, be not snch odds as a
wise oaptain will look twice at —
specially when the weaker party is
cumbered with three women who can
neither fight nor fly V
'* I care little for vantage in men
and arms — I have seen ten good
lances turn a hundred. Bat women,
I grant yon, are the devil's own
baggage on a march^-you can neither
burn them nor leave them behind, with
a clear conscience."
^ You are too true a man, comrade,
to seek to do either. These fellows
of vours were ready enongh to fight,
and might have easily emptied
some dozen saddles, and lost the
lady. I am not to be counted much
of in a fray, but have some poor wit
'of mine own — I make no boast of it
— but I chanced to be abroad this
morning, having charge to meet the
lady whom I serve on her road to the
mynchery, and not liking what I had
seen of these strange riders and their
movements, I made bold to give the
Lady Qladice such advice as has by
this time, I dare swear, set her in safefy
with the abbot of St Mary's."
The retainers of Willan's Hope,
having found so fluent an advocate,
took heart to confirm his statement
unanimously ; and the seneschal, now
more assured of his lady's escape,
and having exhausted the first burst
of his wrath, listened with rather
more patience than before,
** If you will give me leave to have
a few moments' speech, at your wor-
shipful leisure," resumed Giacomo,
** I will tell you what little more I
know — or rather guess — of thk bold
attempt upon your fair lady's person."
Warenger at once led the stranger
aside into the armory ; and there Gia-
oomo, with a studied mystery which
impressed the old warrior's simple
mind considerably, proceeded to hint
to him that the attack upon the
escort might have proceeded from a
quarter least suspected.
'* It seems to me. Master Senes-
chal," said he, ** that these were no
common marauders who set this
scheme afoot ; they were in too strong
force, and so far as I might judge,
more than one among them was
bravely mounted. Have you no ad-
venturous lovers in these parts f
The seneschal stared hard at his
companion, but made no answer.
*" You know that Sir Nicholas le
Hardi is a suitor for your lady's
hand?"
** A man may guess tbat»" said
Warenger, sulkily, ♦* without bdng
either a clerk or a wizard."
" And doubtless it has not escaped
vour^hrewdness that the maiden, of
late, nas shown him but little Cavoar?'*
^I know nought about it — soch
fancies pass my wits ; they seemed to
me as well agreed as need be. A
stalwart knight, of a goodly presence,
and hath the king*s favour, aa they
say— what would she desire more ?'*
*' True ; but maidens have unrea-
sonable fancies, as all know. Suppose,
in that case, that Sir Nicholas were
bold enough to make short work with
his wooing ?"
*'I take your meaning, friend,*'
said Warenger, slowly, a little startled
at the Suggestion ; '^ well, it was but
what her erandsire. Sir Bolpb, did
with the Princess of Gwent He
slew both her brothers in fair fight,
single-handed, and carried off the
damosel from her own easUe amoog
the mountains, with a score of wild
Welshmen galloping at his beek.
She stabbed him twice in the breast
on the way, the story roes, with a sil-
ver bodkin; and she loved him
heartily ever afterwards, as well she
might, for few men could have done
as much for her. And this Sir Nicho-
las hath had some hand in this adven-
ture, think yef and Sir Godfrey-—
does he wit of it ? for the knight had
his good word, I reckon?''
The whole spirit of the thinr was
so perfectly in accordance with the
old man's ideas of a brief and con-
elusive courtship, that he listened
with ready belief, and almost with a
1859.]
The Luck of Ladysmede.—Part IX,
561
BpecieB of satiafdCtioD, to the Italiaa'a
hint His youDg heiress, he thought,
deserved such a bold wooer, if ever
woman did, and might live to be as
renowned and as happy as Gladice of
Gwent He was aasamiog the facts
of the case more positively than his
instractor wished.
"Nay, nay,'* intermpted Giacomo,
« I do bnt snrmise what may have
been; I do not say that either Sir
Godfrey or Sir Nicholas had any hand
in it, more than thoa or I. Bat if
yoQ will take a friend's connsel, be
content to give the Knight of Lad^s-
mede speedy information of this mis-
chance, and of his kinswoman's es-
cape, and be not over-zealous in
makiog ioqniry as to how it came to
pass. It is safer, sometimes, worthy
sir, to know too little than too
much."
*' Right," replied Warenger, senten-
tiooslv. ''And now, friend, toachlDg
this foreign gaest whom my lady
hath entertained of her charitv, and
who, I thought, had been safe lodged
in the mynchery by this time— here
we have her come back upon us.
You seem much in her grace and
confidence — though I have nought to
do with that— but what is to come
of her?"
" If I shall have your good leave,
and the Lady Elfhild's, I will even
go with her myself aloue, after night-
fall, to Michamstede ; she hath frieods
there. The ways will be safe euongh
by then; and so she shall be no
further trouble to you here."
"Go jour ways together, in hea-
ven's name," said the seneschal ; " I
wish no ill to her, for she is a gentle
soul enough ; but I would all women
were safe bestowed either on a nun-
nery or a husband. I had rather
hold this old tower for a twelve-
month against all comers that ever
wore harness, than be answerable
for the safe keeping of such a house-
hold as we have had here of late,
if I were promised the king's best
barony for my pains."
"Then," said Giacomo, **I will
get me down to Bivelsby — I have
an old acquaintance with one of the
brethren there^and will bring you
back tidings, as I surely shall« of
your lady's safety : look for me here
agfun by night&ll."
Warenger himself, after holding
consultation with Dame Elfhild,
whom he found in a state of mingled
indignation at the outrage offered
to her household, and anxiety for
her niece's safety, betook himself to
Ladysmede, to give there such ac-
count as he best might of his ineffec-
tual guardianship. It was by no
means an agreeable duty, nnder any
circumstances, with a temper so im-
patient as Sir Godfrey's ; and the em-
barrassment caused by the Italian's
late suggestions was not calculated
to make his explanation clearer. The
knight received the intelligence with
less violent demonstrations than the
old seneschal had expected. He
displayed his temper, it was true,
after his usual faishion. He cursed
Warenger for negligence; but the
old man had long been used to it; —
he cursed Sir Nicholas, loudly and
bitterly, for not looking better after
his own interests— possibly for other
reasons known only to himself— bnt
Sir Nicholas was not there to hear.
He cursed even good Dame Elfhild;
every person concerned, in short,
excepting only his kinswoman Gla-
dice ; of her he only spoke to ques-
tion the seneschal more than once
as to the gronnds for concluding that
she was in safety ; and although the
monks of Bivelsby came in for their
share of his abuse, it was scarce so
heartily bestowed as upon the others.
On the whole, the seneschal was
released from an interview which
even his practised nerves had rather
shrunk from at first, with an im-
pression that, for a do Burgh of
lAdysmede, the knight had shown a
great deal of pious resignation. He
left Sir Godfrey's presence, charged
to make instant inquiries at the
monastery as to his kinswoman's
arrival there, and with strict com-
mendation of her to the care of the
abbot
But when Warenger had left him,
the knight strode up and dowQ the
apartment in a state of uncontrol-
lable agitation. His features worked,
and htf deep complexion became
almost pallid with anger and vexa-
tion ; bnt it seemed as if he was most
at issue with himself.
"Fool that I amr he muttered to
himself, "there never was one of
^52
Tilt Lutk of Ladysmed£.^Part IX^
[Not.
mj blood before bat was resolote
either for good or evil! Yet witbiD
these last few days I hare been as
wayward as a child ! If I had bat
rid myself of that boy for ever by
one bold deed, instead of prating to
Giacomo about him! What ailed
The paynim knaTCs that they could
find never a joint in Le Hardi's
arroonr at Ascalon or Tiberias, that
his esqnire brags of? — ^bnt the good
knight hath a care of himself. And
fire hondred better lances died in
one month of the pestilence I I am
in a goodly strait betwixt them
all— priest, woman, comrade— one
man against a host I The corse of
bell on it ! my wits are no match for
them. I wot not bat it were wiser if
I gave the game up even now, and
made my peace witn King Richard
with a score or two of good lances
before Jerusalem ! Ho there !"
He was answered from the guard-
room without
• •• Bid Gundred come to me. Ts
Father Giacomo returned ?"
The chaplain had not been seen at
the manor since early morning.
Sir Godfrey swallowed the execra-
tion which rose to his lips, and still
walked backwards and forwards,
muttering to himself in his impa-
tient thoDgbfs, QDtfl the arriTal of
the chamberlain.
** One noan at least, I ihiok, should
serre me. Ton have not forgotten
the market-place at Poitiers T'
"* No," said Gundred, quietly.
"The PoiteTins had the fire at
Tonr feet, I remember; and I had
bard work to get the rope cat in time ;
if you had burnt there for a wedc,
by St Bennet, you deserred it.*"
Gundred only nodded.
•*You owe me a life," said the
knight, ''and something more; can
I trost you T*
'' For one lifetime," said Gundred
with a grim smile; "I can answer
for no longer."
** Yon can learn nothing more of
this boy ?"
'*He is not in the abbey; but it
is certain that the abbot hadi him in
hiding. I can learn no more."
Again Sir Godfrey moved rest-
lessly up and down. At last be
stopped, and said, "Yon are suffi-
cient of a clerk— you will find parch-
ment yonder— sit down, and write
what I shall dictate."
It was soon completed, for Gan«
dred was a ready scribe.
" Now," said the knijfbt, « bear
that straight to Rirelsby.*^
CHAPTER XXIT. — THK ABBOT AT HOMB.
The abbot was no sooner informed
of the Lady Gladice^s sudden arrival
at Rivelsby, than he hastened to the
guest-chamber, attended only by his
elder chaplain, to give her courteous
welcome. His personal knowledge
of her was slight ; but from their close
neighboarho(d he was sufiSciently
acquainted with her position and
character. The gentle dignity with
which he greeted all, from the highest
to ^the lowest, was softened into al-
most an admiring homage as he
looked on the beautiful woman who
rose at his entrance. There had been
an anxious cloud upon his brow as
he passed through the cloister, anti-
cipating some complication of bis
present difficulties f^om this hurried
and unexpected visit; but it cleared
into a kmdly smile as he took her
'-— ^ and, if a shade of trouble lay
Mil, it was on her account, and
own.
Gladice had nerved herself, as she
thought, to meet the superior calmly,
and to tell her story plamly and truly,
without betraying all the alarm and
agitation which she felt, or troubling
him with her own worst suspicions;
but the abbot's kind and manly tone,
which blended all the winning grace
of chivalry with the tenderness of a
father, went straight to her woman's
heart at once,— her voice failed her,
and she burst into tears as she bowed
her face upon her hand.
The abbot was strongly moved.
Perhaps because the cloistered life
which ne had led for so many years
had allowed but little exercise to the
softer emotions, they rushed in now
upon his heart with gathered strength
from their long reposa His tiioogbts
had wandered back often, of late^ to
scenes and memories that had risen
again out of the depths of his heart
fresh and living as ever ; and Gkdiee
1859]
Vis Luck of Ladymede.-^Part IX,
553
might perhaps haye checked the fhll
flow of her feelings, could she have
guessed how little, in this case, the
externals of spiritual dignit]^ implied
any victorj over human passions.
"Cheer thee, my daughter," said
he with a respectful tenderness, " vou
have been sorely terrlBed, I am told ;
but you are amongst friends here;
none shall do you wrong under the
shadow of St. Mary."
Gladice could make no answer^
and her tears only flowed the faster ;
but she sufiered the abbot td replace
her in her seat, while he stood at her
side, as she still hekl his hand almost
unconsciously.
"Nay, if but for my sake, dear
lady — for sach a sight touches me,
perhaps, more nearly than it should
— let me see those tears dried, and
tell me fearlessly what the matter is
which brings you here ; any poor
counsel or aid that, I may give you,
you shall freely and gladly have ; we
can feel, even here in the cloister, the
sorrows which the world is fall of."
"I ask but shelter and safety,
father, for a few days," she faltered
out at last.
" It is yours, my daughter, before
you ask ; yours of right, were vou of
the meanest instead of the noblest in
the land. But of whom is it that
you go in fear?— what enemies have
you ?"
" Ask, rather," said Gladice bitterly,
through tier tears, "what friends
have I? and by what token may I
know them ?"
"Surely," replied Abbot Martin,
smiling gravely and gently, ''that
sounds a hard speech from lips so
young ! It may well be that one like
YOU, rich and beautiful, may find it
hard at first to know the false from
the true; but if you be gentle and
pure and good— as I believe you —
trust me, you will find friends' at your
need. You have a friend here."
**1 do believe it, my good lord,"
said Gladice with eagerness; **but
even in mv sheltered life I have seen
so much of wrong and falsehood, that
I am sick to death. I do but ask to
wait here until I can have speech of
my good cousin the lord of Ely, and
then, under his guidance, I desire to
take the churches vows upon me."
''To escape from others, or from
yourself?"
She started at the abrupt question,
bat answered it honestly.
" From both, it may be."
"Do nothing rashly, sweet lady;
you may chance to escape neither by
such a step. If you have a free gift
to lay upon Heaven^s altar, offer it,
in God's name ; but do not seek to
cheat Him with the halt and the
maimed."
Gladice hid her face in her hands,
and made no answer. The abbot,
who had already been briefly inform-
ed by Ingulph of the danger which
his visitor had escaped, was unwill-
ing to question her further at present
upon a subject which had evidently
some painful associations, of a more
delicate nature, it might possibly be,
than became him to inquire into.
He changed the conversation, there-
fore, to a subject upon which he
thought she might feel more at ease.
•• It will be fitting," said he, *• that
your kinsman of Ladysmede should
be informed of your having sought
shelter here, and of the cause of it ;
he will take means, no doubt, for your
safe escort, whether it please you,
when you have had full time for rest
and counsel, either to return to Wil-
lan's Hope, or to seek the Bishop of
Ely."
" Bat you will give me leave to
abide in your house, &therr' said
Gladice, earnestly; **you will not
let Sir Godfrey take me hence, untQ
I shall have had audience of the
legate?*^
'* Assuredly not, my daughter —
none shall take you hence out by
your own will; but I would have
Sir Godfrey know that you are here
in safety, and that you have been in
sore peril ; I should be much to blame
otherwise. He has but little good-
will, it is true, towards our poor
brotherhood ; yet, in this case I will
not do him the wrong to believe that,
we can be of two minds ; he will care
for your honour as for his own."
" Be it as you will," replied Gla-
dice, dejectedly ; *' only, I pray you,
let me wait the bishop's answer here
at Rivelsby."
Abbot Martin said what he could
to soothe his fair guest's agitation^
and having given instructions for^ her
fitting accomodation, lock his leave
for the present.
He found other visitors await^
554
The Lvdc of Lady$mede.'-'Part iX
[Nov.
tn ftodienoe. Foliot and Baool bad
reached the abbey, and havinf talia-
fied themselves oi the Lady 6Tadice*8
safe arrival there, had been already
qaestioning Oropt Harry as to the
particalars of her escape. The ac-
count which he gave of bis own share
in it was a very modest one ; which
was the more to be commended, be-
cause the good brethren of the monas-
tery had already compelled him to
tell his stofy over again and again,
and woald have been prepared to
receive with the most nniimited faith
any snch imaginative details of his
own prowess as heroes are sometimes
tempted to indulge in. On the sub-
ject of the wound which he had re-
ceived, and the miraculous efifects of
St Grimbald's balsam, be was dis-
creetly silent
The abbot welcomed his young
friend with more than his usual cor-
diality. Sir Marmadnke Foliot had
been the comrade of his earlier days,
and the sole friend with whom, since
his elevation to his present dignity,
he had maintained any intimate com-
munication. It had been chiefly
owing to that knighVs influence with
King Richard that he had been ad-,
vanced, by royal writ, from a simple
monk of Evesbam to the abbacy of
Bivelsby — as much to his own sur-
prise as to the disappointment of
certain members of that body, who
had humbly recommended their prior
to Lis majesty as a fit person to suc-
ceed to the vacant dignity. It was
not without some hesitation and un-
aflfected reluctance, even then, that
the present superior had taken upon
himself an oflSce which, tempting as
it was from its high state and iufla-
ence, required many qualifications in
which he felt himself to be deficient ;
and it was chiefly the earnest repre-
sentations made to himself personally
by Sir Marmaduke of the utter un-
* fitness of Prior Uagb for the position
which he coveted, which had induced
him to accept such responsibilities.
Sir Marmadnke's stanch friendship
had upheld hfm since then in more
than one question of dieputed ri^ht
in which the negligence of his im-
mediate predecessor had involved
him ; and this new alliance had gone
far to compensate the brotherhood
or the lost favour of the knights of
Ladysmede. Yoooff Warrn, and his
elder brother Sir Alwyne, had been to
Abbot Martin almost as his own eons ;
and while he had watched, with little
less than a father^s pride, the career
of the young knight whose impeta-
ous valour, gallant even to rasbnesB.
bad endeared him to the kindred
spirit of Coeur-deLion in Pakatine,
there were features in the character
of the younger brother which had
won even a larger share in his alfec-
lions. Combine with high abilities,
and tastes which had led him to read
and think much more than was nsaal
with youths of knightly rank in those
days, and which had been cultivated
in the great university of Paris dar-
ing two years of life more common-
ly devoted to ruder teaching, there
was in Waryn Foliot a manly honesty,
and an absence of all selfish aasump-
tion, which harmonised well with
the abbot's own upright and single-
minded character. There was, be-
sides, an unflinching firmness of par-
pose, and a quiet disr^ard of the ap-
plause or contempt of the popular
voice, which won the admiration of
the superior of Bivelsby, all the more,
perhaps, because these were points
upon wnich he was himself conscious
of some infirmity. There were those
who had thought scorn of the younger
Foliot, because he little affected
deeds of arms, and had not yet won
his brother's repute in joust and tour-
nament; but the retainers of his
father's house had found in the young
student a quiet resolution which en-
forced obedience with more authority
than old Sir Marmoduke's easy rale,
and with more justice than the hasty
temperament of Sir Alwyne cared to
trouble himself with. Never had the
ample domain of the Foliot been more
conscious of a ruling spirit, than when
both its actual chiefs were absent
with the king.
** I crave leave, father," said Waryn,
when he bad returned the superior's
kindly greeting, ** to present to you
here an esquire of the lord-bishop
of Ely ; he bears a message to one
who is, as we have learnt, a sojourner
amongst you at this present^*
" He is the more welcome,'^ said
the abbot, *' that he may haply in-
form us of the lord legate's present
quarters ; and most welcome of all,
1859.]
The Luck of Lad^mede.'-'Part IX
555
if be briD^ ns word of his boliDesa'
speedy visit, as I somewhat hope, to.
our poor house of Biyelsby."
*'I may even make bold, my lord
abbot,'' sold Baoul, respectfully, '* to
give you that assuraoce, though I
. was Dot charged, it is true, with any
special message to this reverend
bouse ; my lord knew not» indeed, that
my errand would have brought me
hither, or he would surely have laid
upon me some gracious command for
your reverence."
Foliot smiled slightly to himself at
the young esqoire^s ready conttesy —
it was a quality in which the prelate
whom he now served was reported
somewhat deficient.
^ I have it in charge myself from
his holiness to advise yon of his pnr->
posed visit," said he to the abbot;
** he knew how readily I should seek
the gates of Bivelsby ; he will come
hither straight from Michamstede, in
a few days at furthest''
"His visit will be well-timed, for
many reasons," said the superior;,
theo, turning to Raoul — ^^your er-
rand is to the Lady Gladice of Wil-
lan'sHoper
" It is, my lord." »
'* She is under our protection here,
having been shamefully beset by
some of those wild riders, who take
licence by our liege sovereign's ab-
sence to all manner of violence and
plunder — to the scandal of theking^s
justice.*'
"Rather," said Waryn almost
fiercely, " to the scandal of those who
should maintain the king's justice,
and who are fostering and protecting
these evil-doers for their own pur-
poses, when they should put them
down by the strong hand; this
Knight of Ladysmede, who calls him-
self sherifT in these parts "
** We will not speak of him now,"
said the abbot, turning again to
Baoul ; " the lady, as I said, has been
sorely terrified, and needs rest and
refreshment. I will tell her of your
arrival with my lord of Ely's message,
which she has looked for anxiously ;
or rather, if it please you to deliver
it by my mouth, I will be the messen-
ger myself."
The young esquire could not well
make such a mystery of the prelate's
simple communication, as to insist
on a |)ersonal interview under pre-
sent circumstances, even if such a
scruple had not implied some dis-
respect to the superior in his own
house. But he could scarcely conceal
his mortification when, after the
abbot had received his intelligence,
be dismissed him courteously with
directions to the guest-master for his
due entertainment, and permission to
take his journey back to Ely on the
morrow. Baoul had found himself
thrust of late into positions which
seemed to him of such overwhelming
importance, that he felt the good
abbot's courteous indiffereoce as
almost a slight. It was with a some-
what crestfallen air that he took his
leave, and left Foliot and the superior
together.
** And now, Waryn," said the latter,
'*what news from Lincoln? for I
jodge by your looks that you have
somethiog you woold say V
** Nothing of good, for this poor
kingdom ; I would to heaven King
Bichard were in his owo realm, where
he should be, instead of wasting brave
men's lives amongst the pagans, who
are scarce worse enemies of Christen-
dom than some of his own baptised
subjects I"
*' It is a holy zeal that carries him
from us," said the abbot; but he
scarcely spoke with the enthusiasm
which so popular a cause demanded.
** Pardon me, dear father," said his
younger companion, ^ I would say no
word against a cause which is dear to
so many pious hearts, and calls forth
so msny gallant champions — for
which once indeed" ^~ and his face
flashed slightly—*' I would have held
it gain to die— bat — "
" They teach other matters in the
schools of Paris ? Is it so, my son ?
woe worth is all the learniog of the
heathen, if it make a man wise be- '
yond the Christian faith! I have
little skill of disputation in such
qaestions, but I hold one rule good for
ail — whether in camp or battle-field,
or in religious life — ^better is the
ignorance which obeys, than the wis-
dom which questions."
*'I have learnt nothing, father,
which you would not teach yourself,"
said the young mao, eagerly ; " I only
qitestion whether a Christian king,
or a Christian knight, might not take
566
The Luck of Lctdysmede, — JPart IX,
[Kov.
the croflB against wrong and vioIeDce
and oppreBBion in his own realm and
bis own nation ; whether the Jeru-
salem which God has already given
into his hands might not find fall
employment for the energies even of
Gcenr-de-Lion ; whether he need have
crossed the sea in search of Heaven's
enemies, while he left rapine and in-
jastice here behind him, to tear this
noble realm of England. Pardon me,
father ; I see the dazzle of his glory.^
bnt I look at the people who should
be the honoar of the king 1^'
"In some sort you speak truly,
Waryn,'' said the churchman ; '* we
may trust that when King Richard
has once won back the Sepulchre, he
will set his hand at the work at
home.*'
"He had need to go about it
shortly," said Foliot, ^ or it may fall
to other hands than his. William of
Ely even now has tidings of a wide-
spread plot at Lincoln."
<^ Against himself, or against King
Richard ?'
** Against himself, in name ; but he
is against the king, who is against
the king's vicegerent."
"William of Ely has won few
men's love; and in truth, I do not
wonder at it; he rather doth all he
can to make even Justice herself wear
an ill-favoured countenance."
♦*I grant," replied Waryn, "the
lord legate takes little pains to make
his rule popular; but he is an up-
right governor, and does justice, I
verily believe, though somewhat in
ungracious fashion ; and at least he
has clean hands ; I wish we may not
fiedl under worse governance than his.'*
^ Who are concerned in these last
movements?" asked the abbot.
" He will be sure to have had to do
with it, who has to do with most that
trouble this kingdom — the Earl of
Morton ; but men do not name him
as yet. Sir Hugh Bardolf and the
Lord de Laoy are forward in it ; and
there is a stranger knight who has
been closeted with them at Lincoln,
who avers that he has the king's
warrant for what he does. He is
thought to be this same Sir Nicholas,
who has been Sir Godfrey's guest at
Ladysmede. If Longchamp catch
him in any double-dealing^and he
has those that serve him well with
information— I doubt if five words
from his lips will not do that for Sir
Nicholas which a score of royal
warrants will not undo."
" The lord l^;ate is bold and basity
and your good uncle, Waryn, hoMs
him in too much awe to give htm
that wholesome counsel wbtch he
might. I fear this may be the
beginning of fresh troubles. — Thens
sounds the bell for vespers — ^yoa will
hear the ofSce with us, and give me
your company at supper after. Our
fair guest will thank me for bestow-
ing upon her some converse less grave
and tedious than mine owu. Tou
have known the Lady Gladice be*
fore?"
"It were to confess myself even
more of the recluse than yourself.*"
replied Waryn, smiling, ^ to say that
she is a stranger to me ; but I fear I
can lay little claim to her remem*
brance ; it has been seldom tbat I
have cared to be a guest at Ladys-
mede."
** She has been in more trouble, I
doubt, than I can well anderstaod:
my hope is that her kinsman of Ely
will give her fit protection in bis own
household : an 'inheritance like hers
is often but a sorrowful birthright
for a woman."
When the vesper office had been sud,
Waryn followed the superior to the
evening meal, at which none were
present save his two guests and blind
brother Tobias, whose faculties bad
sufficient employment in miDistering
to his own bodily requirements. All
faces were alike to him ; yet he b^
his morsel suspended more than oace,
as he drank in the gentle tones of one
voice which fell upon his ear with a
pleasant strangeness. He could have
sworn, if he had ever indulged in
secular contemplations, that the pos-
sessor of it was young, and beauUfnl,
and warm-hearted, and in sorrow.
Waryn Follot's eyes were employed
throughout the meal to very little
purpose, if they did not lead him
to the same conclusion. Yet il
was' hardly necessary for bim to
have neglected the ^ood cheer be-
fore him, as poor broths Tobias did ;
because he, at least, had seen the faee,
and Ivourd the voice before, and bad
not forgotten it. But Gladioe, pale
and heavy-eyed with fatigue, seldom
1859.]
The Luck of Ladytmede, — Part IX.
55*1
FpeakiDg, or raisiog her glance even
in answer to the abbot's fatherly
conrtesy, was thas far bo unlike the
bright and queen-like beauty of his
remembrance, that he might be par-
doned if he now found close obserya-
tion necessary in order to satisfy him-
self that it was the same, and became
so absorbed in this interesting inves-
tigation as to second the superior but
indifferently in his efforts to keep up
a cheerful conversation. Even Abbot
Martin relapsed into his own thonghts
at times ; and the blind chaplain,
when he bad concluded his own meal,
took advanta^ of his companion's
fiilenoe to begin a long story of con-
vent troubles, which had happened
80 long ago that no one could correct
or contradict him, and found himself
listened to with unusual patience.
It was only when the saperior had
informed his fair euest of the Bishop of
Ely's message, that she roused ner-
self to show any eager interest in his
words. Then her face lighted up, and
she thanked him warmly for his good
tidings. She even raised her eyes to
^aryn's countenance, as he proceed-
ed to speak of the legate's princely
state and open hospitality.
<* I trust in heaven," said the abbot
in some alarm, '* he will not bring his
following to Bivelsby ; I have heard
that when he honoured St. Bennet's
of Hnlme with a visit for three days,
they spent in that time the revenues
of a year — and they are a passing
wealthy brotherhood. I am no grudger
of hospitality ; but the days are past
when we poor brethren of St. Mary's
could welcome princes."
<< The lord legate will be as little
burdensome to your house as he may
reasonably be,'* said Foliot ; " he knows
that the Abbot of Bivelsby never
grudged a welcome because be loved
his gold " He coloured as he spoke,
for William of Ely had questioned
him as to the present state of the
house's revenues ; and he had honestly
told him that the Abbot's will to
entertain so distinguished a visitor
would be greater than his present
means. **He has a hostel at Hunt-
ingdon," continued Waryn, "and his
train will most likely be lodged there."
" And when," said Gladice, •* did
my lord speak of coming thither ?"
*• It may be to-morrow, or within this
week, fair lady," replied Foliot ; " he
is one who chooses to move some-
what on the sudden. Men call it
wantonness ; but I take it he has
good reason for what he does. The
esquire who brought word from him
said, in some three days."
Alas 1 if Raoul expected that the
lady whom he had served so duti-
fully would have summoned her
faithful messenger at once to her
presence, and insisted on thanking
him personally for his zeal, he only
took that high poetical view of ser-
vice and reward which the rude facts
of actual life seldom realise. It was
not that Gladice was ungrateful ; she
trusted yet to acknowledge fittingly,
if it ever lay in her power, the young
esquire's ready assistance ; but her
own personal anxieties at the mo-
ment were too great for the inquiry
to enter her thoughts as to who had
been the bearer of the legate's mes-
sage ; nor would she, for many rea-
sons, have cared to make known to
either of her companions that she
had employed, on a private service, a
discarded esquire of Ladysmede. So
poor Raoul — like many a disappoint-
ed gentleman since his day — came
by a very rapid process to the empha-
tic conclosion that the world (as rally
represented in his eyes at present by
some two individuals) was hollow and
ungrateful ; and rode homewards to-
wards Ely on the following morning,
now spurring his innocent horse to
full speed m wrathful excitement,
now suffering the rein to fall loose as
he plodded on in melancholy abstrac-
tion— fancying himself unappredat-
ed, slighted, and neglected ; whereas,
really, in his case, as with many dis-
contented spirits, it was merely that
the world — even his world — ^was quite
unacquainted with some of the most
tender points in his private feelings,
and haa a good many other things to
think of besides himself.
568
Tke Luek of Ladysmede.^Part IX,
[Not.
CHAPTER XXy.~ CONVERSATIONS IN THE CLOISTER.
The new claimant npon the hospi-
tality of Rivelsby famished, as may
be supposed, fresh matter of discourse
for the gossips of that fraternity. The
wholesome role of St. Benedict which
forbade all idle conversation, if it had
ever really been observed there at
any time in the strictness of the letter,
had certainly fallen somewhat into
abeyance, or was very liberally inter-
preted, in these later days of Abbot
Aldred and Abbot Martin. Possibly,
as there seems to be some mvsterious
law of relation between men s parses
and their principles, and only those
who'are strictly solvent can afford to
profess mach strictness in other re-
spects, the pecaniary difficulties of
the house might have had some bad
effects upon its discipline. In the
chapter held on the day following
the arrival at the monastery of the
heiress of Willan's Hope, after the
short religious service was over, and
the abbot had opened the discussion
of secular business with the usual
phrase^ " Let us speak of the order,"
the whispered converaation which
then took place between the seneschal
and others bore a very remote re-
ference to the institutions of their
founder. They were but too apt, in-
deed, to take advantage of these occa-
sions to discuss a go^ many matters
which could hardly have been contem-
plated by St. Benedict ; it was possi-
ble that in the present instance they
might consider the interests of their
order vitally affected by the presence
among them of so attractive a visitor ;
it was certain that when they laid
their heads together now, and looked
so grave and solemn, they were speak-
ing of the Lady Gladio^^
*^ Hast seen the new guest in the
garden turret, brother ?" «
'' I cannot say I have not seen her,"
replied the chaplain, to whom the
question was addressed, *^but not so
as to look upon her face ; not that I
desire it—she was closely veiled."
'* Out upon thee 1" said the senes-
chal, " with thine over-prudence ! I
look upon her now as though she
were a member of our house, since
she is pleased to take np her abode
with us ; one of oaraelves, as I may
say. If our good lord-abbot sees &
tu admit such into the cloister, it were
a breach of holy obedience for sodi
as thee and me to be scrnpaloiis."
" The lord abbot has indalgeDoe in
such matters," said Wolferfc soinewhat
firmly, for it behoved him to defend
his superior as well as himself — ^"as
it is but reasonable he should have,
seeing that he has to exercise ho^
tality to all comers, jroung or old.^
^'Nay, come," said the aeQescfaal,
'Uhere have been gentle ladies ad-
mitted of our fraternity here before
now ; Dame Margaret of Ladysaiede
took the habit of our order, and died
in it^ if our records say true."
" Ay, brother, but Dame Margai^
was a widow of fourscore years at the
time, and bedridden," replied the ac-
curate chaplain.
"And how know yon, then, good
brother Wolfert, whether this dose-
veiled lady be maid, wife, or widow^
young or old ?"
*' I know that she is the Lady
Qladice of Willan*s Hope, and that
she is reported to be passiog fair,^
said Wolfert, smiling.
'*YeriIy, report saitb true in thk
case. I did but catch a eide-gUmoe
at her for a moment; but — St. Mary,
what eyes she has I But these are
not matters for us to speak of,
brother."
" Scarcely," said the younger monk
dryly.
'' But what makes she here ?'* con-
tinued the seneschal ; "^yoa doubt-
less will have heard from the lord
abbot somewhat more thau the rest
of us," he added insinuattnglj — *^ not
that I would Question you toaching
any matters of his confidence.^'
•'' I only learn that she takes shel-
ter here for a while, to avoid an
unwelcome marriage," said Wolfert.
But he spoke with such an air of im-
portance, that his companion gave
him credit for knowing a great deal
more.
** Well," resumed the other with a
sigh, " mark this, now ; she will go
hence into some house of nuns, and
endow them with her broad manora
1859.J
I%e Luck qf Ladymede.-^Part IX.
559
— well worth they are, as brother
iDgulph has told me (I marvel he
never said aught of this damsel's
beaaty I) Her wealth, now, would free
US from our debts; and we should
have the best ri^ht to it, seeiog that
our house has given her shelter first ;
but so it is— the myDcheries have ever
the best of it against ns ; rich maidens
go in there, and carry their lands and
their silver with them; but for ns,
brother, when a rich man gets sick
of the world, and casts in his lot
with us, it is most commonly not till
lands and money have both been
spent"
Such whispered comments in the
chapter were only the prelude to
graver strictures on the same sabject
elsewliere. Hugh the prior, as he
walked with some of the brethren
in the cloister at recreation time,
<:ared no longer to conceal his own
jealousy and mistrust of the abbot's
late proceedings. He found the
ready audience which a speaker who
attacks established authorities will
always find.
" I am loth," he said, '* to speak
augh^ against him who bears rule
over us; but it were a sin in me —
standing as I do t^e next in place and
regponsibility — to be always silent,
I say nought of the state of our
finances — though we have heard of
these pinching straits in the blessed
Aldred's time; but this abbot is
making enemies for the house ooi all
aides, rather than friends who might
help us. He brings that child yon-
der among us—against my will and
counsel, as I can call many to wit-
ness— brings him out of Sir God-
frey's house, in the face of all law and
reason, at the bidding of a hireling
priest who keeps our own church
from us. Who the boy is, or what
the Knight of Ladysmede may have
to do with him, I neither know nor
seek to know. ' What are such mat-
ters to us? But whether Sir God-
frey knows of it or not (and he will
be sure to know of it ere long), he is
'plainly angered with us ; for he sends
down this Sir Nicholas upon us,
with the king's rescript — which
might have been satisfied easily, as
ye may all guess, by a little skilful
dealing — as our late father would
have well known how. Heaven rest
him I 1 sa^ we have to thank oar
abbot's negligence for that."
More than one voice assented to so
satisfactory an explanation.
** Then mark again," continued the
prior; "there is that runaway
bondsman of Sir Godfrey^s ; we keep
him slinking about the abbot's ken-
nel, and quarrelling with the scul-
lions, eating his meat in idleness, in-
stead of sending him back to his
master to be chastised, as no doubt
he well deserves. He hath brought
the abbot tidines, foresooth !— tidings
of what, should such as Le bring?
By what right do we keep him
here?"
''By what right, mdeedl" echoed
one of the monks.
" And now— whether it be by evil
luck or evil counsel, I will not say —
here comes Sir.GodFrey*s own ward,
and asks— so says the lord abbot —
shelter and protectiqn. Against whom,
or what ? Nay, to that we are not to
seek an answer. But the knight
himself, I reckon, will come soon
enough to ask the question; and we
shall have to make such answer to it
as we may."
" Nay," said one of his listeners,
"but we are surely bound by our
rule to give sanctuary for the ask-
ing, be the cause or the person what
they may-i-in this the lord abbot
may scarce be blamed."
" Was the abbot bound to carry off
another man's child?" rejoined the
prior, falling back upon his strongest
position.
There was a general murmur in
the negative; the defence of the
abbot was plainly not popular.
''And is the Knight of Ladys-
mede likely to brook this, let me ask
ye ? And if his evil blood be once
up, and he come down upon us with
the strong hand, aa is like enough,
what help have ^e ? It is not as in
the old times, mark ye, when our
house could master u'om its own
tenanta fifty men - at • arms, and I
know not well how many archers —
when even within our gates we had
men enough to man the outer wall
passably — we are sorely dipt of our
wings now. And which of our neigh-
bours will stir to help us. as in good
Sir Rainald's days? Old Sir Ar-
thur of Eavenswood ? He will come
560
TTie Ludc of Ladifimede. — Part IX.
[Sot.
readily enoagb to eat and drink his
fill with us, bat we might be barnt
or haoged before ever he would ride
a mile to hinder it We had more
need, I say again, to be making
friends than enemies in these trou-
blous times."
The discontent always latent in
such a commonwealth as that of Bi-
velsby was fanned into open flame by
the prior's harangue. The discipline,
which had relaxed under the cor-
rupt rule of the late abbot, would
have been more effectually restored
by a sterner and less forbearing hand
than that of his successor. B^
many among the fraternity his
gentle and temperate sway had been
but little appreciated ; and some
who had been most largely indebted
to his kindness, were now the readiest
to take up the cry against him. Al-
most in one breath he was accused
of parsimony and extravagance. The
notorious fact of an embarrassed ex-
chequer was a truth so unpleasant in
itself and its results, that the meaner
spirits among them were delighted
to find some one on whom to lay
the blame ; Abbot Aldred had borne
it (and very deservedly) at the time
of his death ; but that was long ago,
and it was pleasanter to have a liv-
ing victim; so it was now trans-
ferred, by the general consent of the
grumblers, to Abbot Martin. Men*8
sins are an inheritance to their suc-
cessors as well as to their children.
Loud, however, as were the voices
of the malcontents while thus en-
couraged by the authority of the
prior, they were awed into sudden
silence when a messenger from the
abbot himself^ after due obeisance,
delivered to that functionary a sum-
mons to attend his supperior, in an
hour's tinie, in his private chamber.
Prior Hugh himself turned pale ; for
the conversation had taken a louder
and freer turn than he had intended,
and the message from the abbot,
arriving at that particular juncture,
gave him an uncomfortable sensa-
tion; it was possible that some in-
cautious remark might have been
reported against him, and though ha
would have little really to fear, from
the abbot's well-known lenitv, he
could have iU borne the humiliation
of having to answer for his misde-
meanour before the man wks
authority he had been tbas sEfttfnf
at nought
It was on no such groand that tk
abbot had required his preaeooe. TTbe::
he reached the chamber in whidi aS
the chief officers of the hooae wen
already assembled, he found rhe
abbot seated in his chair, gnm
than his wont indeed, bat coovtss-
ing with the officials near him ia a
more kindly tone even thaa i&al
He bid them all be seated, tad
taking a document from the bacd
of one of his chaplaios, proceedei
to read it aloud.
It was a rescript, issued Qz»k
Sir Godfrey's hand as aherifi* of tbt
county, summoning Martin, abbot a
Eivelsby, to appear within the sp^
of three days at the connty hall at
Huntingdon, there to purge hiaseL'
before a sworn jury of knights in
certain matters touching the abd9^
tion of one Giulio, an infant in tbc
wardship of Sir Godfrey de Bot^
against the rights of the said km^
and the king's peace.
The abbot looked roand him ks^
moment or two, after he had finiil^
reading the document. There w
an uncomfortable silence, which k
himself was the first to break.
" I know," he said, wiUi a gran
sad smile, <^that which is in jcks
hearts to say. You woald tell ^
that some such result I might ^^c
foreseen, when I consented to recd^
the boy from the hands of the ctapUic.
Nay, I know it,** he continued, as
one or two voices murmured a iaisi
deprecation of any such feeUng— "I
know it, and there is trath and jus-
tice in what you would answer. I
had counted the cost even th£S : I
only praved that, if evil came of
it, it mignt light on me, not on tie
house I govern. And come what
may of this, if m^ life or liberty may
answer for it, I will, so far as in ess
lies, bear the brotilierhood harmlsi
When I set forth for Huntingdoo— '
•* It is an illegal writ," broke ia
young Wolfert ; " Sir Godfrey nay
not lawfully implead the lord abb(K
in his own court as sheriff.*'
** Might in this case will go &r to
make right, even were I indioed to
dispute it," said the superior, calmly ;
*' but I would as lief answer Sir Gm*
1859.]
The Luck of Ladymede.'-Part IX. •
561
rey thus as Id any other way, alDoe
le has learnt that the child was shel-
ered here. Two tbiogs only I am
!arefal for : first, that the little lad
limself shall be kept safi^ from those
vho seek him,, for the present, and
'or that matter I trust I have already
Aken order: the other is, how ye
nay best keep yourselves clear of Sir
Godfrey's anger. To you, brother
[I ugh, I commit (as is your ri^ht,
ind as I rejoice to do) the enardian-
ibip of this house so long as I shall be
ibsent from you. It was your connsel
rom the first that we should not have
neddled in this matter.^'
** It was," said the prior, coldly.
"Have I not said so, brother?"
laid the abbot, his face flushing
digbtly, though the tone was gentle
still ; " therefore will you be the
more free to soothe Sir Godfrey's
displeasure, if he should seek to visit
my offence upon the brotherhood,
fn such defence as I may make for
myself, rest eatisfied that I will bear
full witness that you had no share
in my counsels."
"This notice is strangely sudden,"
said the seneschal ; '^ the lord abbot
might reasonably claim some days'
grace.**
"It is a straining of justice, in-
deed," said the abbot, "like all the
rest ; but I will obey it I set forth
to-morrow, God willing. The lady
of Willan's Hope I leave to your
kindly care ; it will be but for few
days that she will burden your hos-
pitality, for the lord legate will make
provision shortly for her."
'' We shall scarce be doing a plea-
sure to Sir Godfrey in this matter
either," said the prior; "why doth
not the lady go rather to Lady»>
mede ; or why not send her straight,
under fitting escort, to my lord of
Ely, if she go in any danger in these
quarters ?**
" His holiness is now on progress,
and we know not rightly where to
light on him," replied the abbot;
''otherwise, that is what the Lady
Gladice would most deeire. As for
Ladysmede — is it a fitting refuge,
brother, to your thinking, for such
as her ?"
Prior Hugh made no reply to this
question. *'I would she had gone
anywhere rather than to us, as piat-
ten stand," said he, bluntly.
" She went where Heaven directed
her," returned the abbot "Woe be
to us and to our house when its
right of sanctuary is minished by
one selfish thought of ours I Woe to
him, be he crowned kmg or belted
knight, that sets a foot within these
waus to question it I"
**KightI" said the sacrist, firmly.
Brother Andrew's approbation was
so unusual that the rest looked round
at him with some surprise. Possibly
it was their silence which had made
him 60 enthusiastic.
" I leave the welfare of our house,
and the honour of Heaven, in your
hands," continued the abbot, with
ill-suppressed emotion : " I may, it
is possible, return amongst ye no
more. I have been an unworthy
ruler — none knows it so well as my-
self—the shortcomings of a life are
heavy on me at this hour— yet have
I striven, I think, to do the right —
Dominus misereatur! Brethren, I
ask your prayers — Benedicite /"
It was the signal that he wished to
be left alone. As, one by one, the
juniors taking precedence, they made
their reverent obeisance before they
left the chamber, it seemed to some
of those who looked on him as
though it was not the same Abbot
Martin whom they had known so
long. They scarcely recognised, in
the pale noble face, sad with many
thoughts, yet wearing a resolved
expression sterner than its wont,
the somewhat indolent and easj-
tempered superior, under whose rule
they had learnt to murmur, because
thev could enjoy that luxury cheaply
and safely. It struck the prior and
the sacrist especially, who were both
sfatewd men m their way, that there
had been more in Abbot Martin than
they knew.
He waited until the last of his
subordinates had quitted the cham-
ber, and then, addressing one of his
chaplains, said to him, **Send the
yeoman hither."
Wolfert withdrew, and in a few
moments introduced Giacomo into
the superior's presence.
562
The Lack of Ladysmede.—Fart IX.
[NV.
CHAP. XXTI. — THE ASDKS OP OLD FIRES.
The Italian bowed filightly, bat
with marked respect, as he entered.
His quick perception apprehended
the abbot^s mood at once. Even in
their last interview there had been a
remarkable absence of that sarcastic
bitterness, either openly expressed,
or half- concealed under a mask of
deferential courtesy, which usually
marked Giacomo*B intercourse with
others. But now, while his dark
eyes looked into the abbot's face, his
own wore a strangely - softened ex-
presuon; and when he spoke, it was
almost in a humbled tone.
" You have seen the boy ?" said the
abbot.
** I have ; he is well cared for and
happy ; I have much to thank you for
on bis account."
**Nay," replied Abbot Martin,
*' there needs no thanks; but if it
seems to you I 'have made good
my promise, I will now claim some-
what of you in return. I have put a
faith in your words hitherto, which to
some might appear but credulous folly ;
I have surely earned the right to know
more ?"
"You have put much faith in me,
as you say — you have not regretted
it?*^ asked Giacomo, while his eyes
never left the superior's face.
*• No ; I believe— I feel, that in this
you have not deceived me ; his eyes,
— his look— his voice — are hers — of
whom you spoke."
" The same deep, tender gaze — the
very smile that came so seldom, but,
when it came, was like a gleam of
light from paradise — the gentle words,
the low thoughtful sigh — "
^"'You knew her well,'* said
the abbot with emotion ; ** yes, th^e
were times when, with that child be-
fore me, I could almost have believed
the pagan's doctrine, that spurits do
not leave this earth, but only change
their bodies."
<'He is the earthly embodiment of
6ne who — if our creed be true — is
now a saint in heaven. If to wor-
ship the departed be no idolatry,
shall we have no patience with those
who make an idol of that which re-
presents to them all which they ever
knew of heaven upon this earth ?"
'^ You have a strange love for tLs
child," said the abbot; ''and be-
though he is loviog and gentle to al
of us, yet I see well that none cai
take your place in his afiecdes.
But" — he spoke with an eflbrt, vA
turned his face half aside — ^" yon ire
not his father?"
"No," replied Giacomo, quietfj;
"no — only in my dreams. He La?
never known a father."
" I am not commonly used, if I
know myself," said the other ails' a
pause, ^'to ask carious qaestioos:
but as it may well be that we eU
hardly meet again, tell me* I beseed
you, somewhat more of the boy's ptr-
entage. Yon have stirred alr^dj
in my mind suspicions which are a&
agony — relieve them by one word,
or be silent, and I shall know tk
worst."
" When you last spoke of her »!»
gave him birth," said the Itallao,''!
heard you name dishonoar : I fv!-
gave it from your lips, because I kcev
what it must have cost yon evtn to
imagine it; still, but for that ra^
word, you might have known thee
what you have asked now. NeTer
before, save by foul lips that shall
yet purge the slander, was dishoooar
whispered of Giulia GamaldonL"
" Heaven bless you for that assur-
ance 1 and now — though to me it
should matter little — what was ik
rest of her history ? It was reported,
and I thought it had been true, ti»t
she had taken the veil f
"She went as a novice amongst
the Marcellines, but she never txk
the vows ; she became tbe bride <^
one who — let us say it like msu
Guy Fitz-Waryn — might have loved
her — ^how should any not love her?—
as truly as you or I?"
The abbot had . sat down, acd
covered his face with his hands as
they rested on the lectern before him.
He was so absorbed in the Italian's
story, that he did not even start as be
heard the ancient name which be had
borne in the world without
<^ Gk) on P' he said, in a hoarse, low
voice.
''He died — within, as well as I
^member, some four short oioctlB
.859.]
Tht Lurk of Ladytmede. — Part IX.
563
A their marriaee ; fihe gave birth to
bis boy, and died too. I was not
her e/' said Giacomo : ^ before that
lay came, I had already made ship-
wreck of a life that had lost its sun-
hine ; once — twice — a blow had
alleD OD me that croshed all my
OYe into bitterness, and I had len;
Tenoa an outcast and an apostate.
)f all the evil that was done and
nffered within those months I hardly
et have the tale in fiill ; bat there
was falsehood spoken of the dead,
md wrong done to the living ;
vrong that had its way for years —
hat might have its way yet, bnt
hat the powers that mle this world
- whose justice seems sometimes so
low that I scarce wonder men grow
mpatient of its dealings — had not
orgotten the evil, and gave them
nto the hands of an Ishmaelite like
njseif. Once more I had something
0 live for, and I live."
** And who," said the abbot, raising
lis head and scanning the Italian's
eat ares, altered as they were in their
tspression by the long dark locks
vbich formed a part of his disguise,
vith a pazzled air of halfremem-
)rance, — " who are you, whose me-
Dories are so bound up with mine?
'. cannot call to mind your person, in
hose early days ; yet we must have
net in Italy, and often ?"
*' You may or you may not re-
nember Giuseppe the neophyte of
5an Giorgio, the poor cousin of the
ilarchesa Gamaldoni ? His hopeless,
nad, unspoken passion — the delicious
orment which he hugged to his own
)urniQg heart, you could never
enow. But I know you well, the
gallant English squire whose name
vas on all ladies* lips in Genoa;
md I knew you for a rival —jealousy
las wondrous eyes — even before you
)r ehe perhaps guessed it; and
lated you because I felt sure of
^our success : but it was not so. 0
ny lord abbot, though we stand
3ere now in such different seeming —
^ou the peer of earls and princes, I
:he apostate monk, the dependant on
Lhose I scorn and hate — there is yet
3ne memory which sets us upon com-
mon ground, and which will hardly
make us enemies now. In that eter-
Qal estate, which I most believe in
because some pure and blessed hap-
piness must have been in store for
her — there, it is written, there is no
marrying or giving in marriage.
There can be no jealousy in our hearts
now — the death that seems to break
all bonds, brings near some spirits
that life's warfare set a bar between.
You were the man whom I once
thought I could most hate — you are
the only one to whom, for long and
miserable years, I have spoken more
than man commonly speaks to his
bosom friend."
"I do remember you now," said
the abbot ; " but I need not say I
never guessed — how could I guess? —
that, vowed early to the cloister, you
had set your thoughts upon a woman's
love."
*'How does the plant shoot up-
wards to the light, bend it down by
what force you may, clog it with
what weight you will ? How does
the lark which you imprison from
the nest, far from all sights and sounds
of nature, learn the same note which
its fellow -nestling sings, high and
free in the clouds ? Are these in-
stincts of lower nature — and has
man none ? is the faculty of loving
taught, that you can unteach it by
any rule or system ?"
The abbot was silent.
"There is that within us," con-
tinued the Italian, ^* which we can .
no more rule than we can unmake
the mould in which we were creat-
ed. I do not seek to pry into your
heart, believe me, father, if I judge
of it in some sort by my own : you
have sought rest, and perhaps forget-
fulness^ in the cloistered life which I
found only a temptation and a bond-
age — yet unless I be much mistaken,
I see before me the same Guy Fitz-
Waryn still."
" Enough of our- own matters,"
said the abbot abruptly ; " these are
but things of the past^ of which I sure-
ly had not thought to have spoken
again ; but this boy — I would learn
something more of him. How comes
he here ? and what has de Burgh to
do with him, that he should seek his
life, as you have told me ?"
" Pardon me," s^d Giacomo, ** if
I say that it is not wise in you, my
lord abbot, to seek to learn this as
yet. You have given him a refuge,
in your charity, as a stranger, not a
564
The Luck of Ladysmtde,—Fart JX.
[Xa
little to the risk of yoar own qaiet,
and that of your hoose, since Sir
Godfrey either knows or shrewdly
suspects it : it were better, to my
humble thinking, that you should
still be able to avouch, with truth
and honour, that you have done so
without any knowledge of any ques-
tion of right or wrong that lies be-
tween the Knight of Ladysmede and
this little Giuho. If I can do little
to strengthen your hands in this
matter, at least I will say or do
nought, if I can help it, that may
be a hindrance to yoa. Leave the
Knight of Ladysmede and his dealings
to me."
" I em like to know something of
his dealings in mine own person,"
said the superior. '' On the third day
from this I am cited to his court at
Huntingdon to clear myself in this
matter."
"Ay — is it so?" said Giacomo
quietly — ''somewhat of this I had
looked for— :I had need then to be
the more careful on your account
And you my lord abbot — you propose
to obey this summons ?"
'' Yes ; though I count it illegal,
and though I look for little justice
at such bands," said Abbot Martin
bitterly : • ** if this boy be no child of
8ir Godfrey's — as at first I feared he
was — and if he go in anv peril from
him, as you have assured me, I will
keep him from his hands, with
Heaven's grace, by all the means I
may. But I cannot see what may
follow, and do not care to look too
closely. If I return not hither
safely from Huntingdon, I leave
with you this ring" — he drew the
signet from his finger — ''use it as
before ; Gaston will obey it, and do
your bidding as be would mioe. i>
concerns the boy's disposal, ]m
must act for the present as seensbes
to yourself — should we meet igtb
soon, I will advise with yoa tkn-
upon."
''It shall hardly fail that veoeEt
next at Huntingdon," said GisooiK;
" Sir Godfrey may chance to xe
some in his court whom he has m
cited. God speed you, my lord abbot!
though, from such lipa as mine, a tm
word shall not harm you — Godspeed
you, Guy Fitz Waryn, for your kiad-
ness towards the living and the MT
The Italian's tone was reverent tsd
earnest, and his voice trembled as k
uttered the last words.
" Methinks I am not so rich ia
friends," replied the abbot, "as tk
I can afilbrd to cast from me uj
man's good wishes. Fare you w^;
I shall go hence with a lighter beirt
since your words this evening biT«
lifted one weight from it. God t>e vith
you, brother! you have been sor^
tried, but you were sorely madefe
nobler uses than you liave pat op®
yourself."
*' I had surely something noble ia
me once — for I loved her!" fif
turned and left the chamber. Tnie
to his appointment with old Warea-
ger, he reached the tower agiin e
the evening was closing in. Ob«
more Isola left its hospitable sbdtff,
to seek, as Dame Elf hild thoogHi
securer retreat with the good abba
of Michamstede ; but Giacomo tore
ed aside before they reacted ^
mynchery, and riding on for wbk
hours through the darkness, tbe;
rested at last for the nij[ht at t
roadside hostelry far on their way to-
wards Huntingdon.
L859.] Captain SpM9 I>i9Wtery of the Vidaria Ifyanza, tfc.
565
CAPTAIN J. H. SFEKS'S DISCOTERT OP TBK VIOTORIA ITTANZA LAKB,
THE SUPPOSED SOURCE OP THE NILE. PROM HIS JOURNAL.
PART in,
RETURN PROM THE NTANZA.
6rA Auguit, 1858.— As no farther
Dformation about the lake could be
gained, I bade Mahaya and the Shaykh
bdiea, leaving as a token of recol-
ection one shnkka Amerikan for
be former, one dhoti kiniki for his
vife, and a fando of beads for the
)Oor Arab, and retraced my steps
>y a doable march back to TJkambL
rVhilst passing alongside the archi-
)elago, I shot two geese and a crested
irane. What a pity it seemed I conld
lot plock the frait almost within my
;rasp I Had I had but a little more
ime, and a few loads of beads, I conld
vith ease have crossed the Line, and
ettled every qnestioii which we had
some all this distance to ascertain,
[ndeed, to perform that ^ork, nobody
ioald have started under more advan-
ageoos ciroamstances than were then
(?ithin my power, all hands being
n first-rate condition and health, and
lU in the right temper for it Bat
low a new and expensive expedition
must be formed, for the capabilities
Df the country on the eastern flank
of the Mountains of the Moon, and
Bilong the western shores of the
Nyanza, are so notoriously great that
it is worthy of serious attention.
My reluctance to return may be
easier imagined than described. I
Telt as much tantalised as the un-
happy Tantalus must have been
when unsuccessful in his bobbings
Tor cherries in the cherry-orchard,
and as much grieved as anv mother
would be at losing her first4)om,
and resolved and planned forthwith
to do evervthing that lay in my
power to visit the lake again.
1th,-^We made a march of fourteen
miles, passing our second station in
Urima by two miles, partly to avoid
the chief of that village, a testy,
rude, and disagreeable man, who, on
the Ust occasion, inhospitably tried
to turn us out of a hut in Ibis vil-
lage, became we would not submit
VOL. LZXXTI.
to his impudent demand of a cloth
for the accommodation — a proceed-
ing quite at variance with anyUiiag
we had met in our former receptions,
and we resisted the imposition with
pertinacity equal to his own. Besides
this, by coming on the little extra
distance, we arrive^ at the best and
cheapest place for purchasing cows
and jembies.
8t^. — ^Halt I purchased two jem-
bies for one shnkka Amerikan, but
could not come to any terms with
these grasping savages about their
cows, althoogn their country teems
with them, and the^ are sold at won-
derfully cheap prices to ordinary
traders. They would not sel^ to
me unless I gave double value for
them. The Fauna of this country
is most disappointing. Nearly all the
animals that exist here are also to be
found in the south of Africa, where
they range in far greater numbers.
But then we must remember that a
caravan route usually takes the more
fertile and populous trades, and that
many animals might be found in the
recesses of the forests not far off, al-
though there are so few on the line.
The elephants are finer here than in
any part of the world, and have been
known, I hear, to carry tusks exceed-
ing 500 lb. the pair in weight The
principal wild animals besides these
are the lion, leopard, hyiena, fox, pig,
Oape buffalo, gnu, kudu, hartebeest,
pallah, steinboo, and the little mado-
Ka, or Sultana gazella. The giraffe,
zebra, quagga, rhinoceros, and hippo-
potamus are dl common. The game-
birds are the bustard, florikan, Guinea
fowl, partridge, quail, snipe, varions
geese and ducks, and a very dark-
coloured rock-pigeon or sand-grouse.
The birds in general have very tame
plumage, and are much more scarce,
generally speaking, than one finds in
most other oountrtea ^
The traveller on entering these
37
566
Captain SpM4 Di^eovery <f the Vtctoria Jfyanzoj
[Ko
agricoltaral districts meets with a
treatment quite opposite to what he
does from the pastoral tribes, saoh,
for instaDce, as the Somal, Gal) as,
Masai, &c. &c. Here they at once
hail his adveat as a matter of good
omen, or the precarsor of good for-
tune, and allow him to do and see
whatever he likes. They desire his
settling amongst them, appreciate the
benefits of commerce and civilisationi
and are not sospicioos, like the plun-
dering pastorale^ of every one coming
with evil intentions towards theoL
The Somal, about as bad a lot as any
amongst the rovers, will not admit a
stranger into their country, unless ao-
eompanied by one of their tribe, who
becomes answerable for the traveller's
actions, and even with this passport
he is watched with the eyes of Argus.
Every strange act committed by him,
DO matter how simple, absurd, or
trifling, is at once debated about in
councu, and alwavs ends to Viator's
disadvantage. They add to every-
thing they see or hear, by conjuring
up the most ridiculous phantoms ; and
the more ridiculous they are, the more
firmly do they at last believe in them
themselves. The worse their grounds
are, the more iealoual^ do they guard
against anybody's seeing them; and
woe betide any one who should fre-
quent any particular spot too often :
he is at once set down as designing a
plot against it, to fortify the place and
take it from them ; this idea is their
greatest bugbear. Among that tribe
blood shed by any means-*by the
stealthy knife or in fair fight — is deem-
ed meritorious and an act of heroism.
No one is ever sure of his life unless
he has force to carry him through, or
can rely on the chief of the clan as
his pillar of safety. This latter plan
is probably the safer one, for, as the
old adage goes^ ^* there is honesty
amongst thieves;" so with these
savages it is a matter of import-
ance to their honour and dignity, ac-
cording to their quaint notions of
rectitude, to protect their trust to
their utmost : whereas, on the con-
trary, were that trust not reposed in
them, they would feel justified in
taking any liberties, or act in oppo-
sition to any of those general laws
which gutfe the conduct of civilised
men.
I would not, however, desirB Ht
African agricultural people to be ooa-
sidered models of perfectkHi. Id£-
vidually, or in small bodies, the mm
of them are very far from bebg ea
for they would commit any ezoean
without the slightest feelings of eon-
punction. The fear of refiibatiBB
alone keeps their hands from hkoi
and plunder. The chie6 and pris-
oipal men, if they have no lugher
motives, keep their differeot tnba
in order, and do not molest travel-
lers without good cause, or tnm
provocation, as they know that pn-
tecting the traveller is the oslj waj
in which they c&n keep vp that
connection with the commerce of the
coast which they all so much cofct
It may be worthy of remaik that I
have always found the lighter^oolosRd
savages more boisterous and wariile
than those of a dingier hue. Tbe
ruddy black, fleshy-lookiog Waca-
ramos and Wagogos are moch lifter
in colour than any of the other tribes,
and certainly have a for soperidTt
more manly and warlike ladepesdeBt
spirit and bearing than «bj of tk
others.
9{A. — We started early, and
crossed the Jordans by a ferrj at
a place lower down thao od the
first occasion. After leaviqg the
low land,' we rose up to the higher
ground where we had first gwned
a sight of the Nyanza's waters* and
now took our final view. To mj-
self the parting with it was a siat-
ter of great regret, bst I hdieve
I was the sole sufferer from &
appolK^tment in being obliged to go
south, when all my thooghts or cam
were in the north. But this feeih^
was much alleviated by seeing the
haj^py, contented, family state to
which the whole caravan had at
length arrived. Going hotae bas
the same attraction with these black
people that it has with schodboyB.
The Belooches have long ainoa be-
haved to 'admiration, and now eteo
the lazy Pegazis^ sinoe eompl^iiig
their traffic, have lighter hearts, and
begin to feel a freshness dawn apoa
them. We soon entered ear oU vO*
lage in Nera, having ccmipleted lb8^
teen miles. Here the Mk, who had
travelled up the western shore of the
Nyaiuai osrared me that eansos like
1859.] the Bupposed Source tf the JVt/e.— AiW III. 567
the Taoganyika onoe were used by string, is the genera] wear : it is sus-
the Datives, and were made from pended by a strap tied ronnd the
large trees which grew on the moan- waist. Hanging over the belly, it cov-
tain > slope overlooking the lakei ers about a foot of ground in breadth,
The disagreeable - mannered Wasok- bnt not more than seven or eight
nmas (or north men) are now left inches in depth. The fibroos strings,
behind ; their mode of articalation white by nature, soon tarn black, and
is most painfal to the civilised look like India-rnbber, the effect of
ear. Each word uttered seems to batter first rubbed in, and then con-
begin with a Tim or T'ha, pro* stant friction on the grimy person,
duciog a sound like that of spit* The dangling, waving motion of this
ting sharply at an offensive object strange appendage, as the wearer
Any stranger with his back turned moves along, reminded me of the
would fancy himself insulted by the common fly-puzzler sometimes at-
Bpeaker. The country throughout it tached to horses' head-stalls. Amongst
well stocked with cattle, and bullocks a crowd of fifty or sixty people, not
are cheap, two dhotis, equal to four more than two or three have a cloth
dollars, being the price of a mode* of native make, and rarely one of
rate-sized animal ; but milch cows are foreign manufacture is to be seen,
jear in consequence of the great de- Some women have stood before roe
Hand for sour curd. Sheep and goats in the very primitire costume of a
lell according to Uieir skins : a Targe bunch of leafy twigs.
)De is preferred to a shukka, equal But far worse clad than these are
to one dollar ; but a dhoti, the proper the Wataturu, a tribe living to the
price of three small goats, is scarcely eastward, and the Watuta, living
I be value of the largest The bane to the westward of this place, to
)f this people is their covetous- whose absolute nakedness I will draw
less. They do not object to sell your attention, because a ridiculous
cheaply to a poor man, yet thev opmion prevails that man, by natn-
lang back at the sight of much ral impulse, as was the case with
sloth, and price their stock, not at our original progenitors Adam and
ts. value, but at what they want, or Eve, entertains an innate sense of
hink they may get, obstinately abid- shame from the exposure of his
Qg by their decision to the last person.
Jattle are driven from this to Un- Of the first mentioned, the Wata-
ranyemb^, and consequently must be turn, a people living a little to the
:heaper here than in those more northward of Turn (see map), I have
outhem parts, still I could not pur- only seen a few males, and they were
:has6 them so well : indeed, a traveller stark naked, and adhered to the
!an never expect to buy at a reason- ancient Jewish rite, which is the
kble rate in a land where every man more remarkable, as they are the
3 a sultan, and his hut a castle ; only natives that I am aware of who
vhere no laws regulate the market, indulge in this practice, and none are
.nd every proprietor is grasping. Mussulmans. The Wataturus de-
^ombay suggests that to buy cattle spise any one who is weak enough
heap from the Washenzi (savages), to cover his person, considering that
ou should give them plenty of time he does so only to conceal his natu-
o consider the advantages and ral imperfections. Their women are
isad vantages of the transaction, for currently reported to be as naked as
beir minds are not capable of arriv- the men, but I did not see any of
ig at a rapid conclusion ; but friend them, and cannot vouch for it
^oftibay forgets that, whilst waiting Of the Watuta tribe, the second
0 beat them down a cloth or two, mentioned^ who live a little to the
>ur or five are consumed by the westward of Msen6 (see map), these
aravao in that waiting. The wo- savages are said to be all but naked
len, especially the younger ones, also, onlv wearing a cylinder, or a
re miserably clad hero : a fringe, piece of hollow bamboo. This is a
ike the thoog kilt of the Nubian second living example, though I have
laidens, made of aloe fibres, with a no doubt there are many more in
ingle white bead at the end of eoch Africa, antagonistio to the received
668
Captam SpeU^s Discovery of the Vidaria Nyanxa^ [Vor.
opinion, which holds that mui b
poesessecl of an inherent sense of
modesty, and that, from some normal
yet incomprehensible action on his
mind, he is induced to cover op cer-
tain portions, of his body.
Until India, or rather Bombay,
exports cheap and strong cloths
for the Zanzibar market, and oat-
bids the American sheeting now in
common use thronghont the most
of the interior, this will be the na-
tional coetame. It is to be hoped
that India, when once aroosed to the
advantages of dealing more exten-
sively with this conntry, will never
lose sight of the fact that the negro as
well as more enlightened man can
detect the difference between ffood
and poor stofis ; that the nation which
makes the strongest stuffs will be
considered to be the honestest, and
the more lasting the material, the
more readily it will be taken. In
sending cloths great care shoold
be taken that every piece be of
the same length, and always even-
ly divisible by cnbits, or eighteen-
inches measare. If the Lion and the
Unicorn, figoring on the oatside of
each piece — ^Tb&n or Gora, as it is call-
ed respectively in India and Africa
— were secnrity of its beio^ Eng-
lish mannfacture, and, by bemg so,
sure to be of uniform quality and
size, much respect would be given to
it; and "Shukka Anffl^i" (English
shukka) would soon take the place of
" Amerikan," which are by different
mills, and are different lengths and
qualities. The only reason for the
negro taking a large goat-skin in pre-
ference to a shukka, is because it is
stronger.
On coming here I had the misfor-
tune to mjJce my donkey over to
Bombay, to save his foot, which had
been galled by too constant walking ;
for though unable to ride, he was too
proud to say nay, and was therefore
pUced upon it, whilst carrying the
gun devoted to his charge, Captain
Burton's smooth elephants Now
Bombay rode much after the fashion
of a sailor, trusting more to balance
and good- luck than skill in sticking
on ; and the consequence was, that
with the first side-step the donkey
made he -came to the ground an awlt-
ward cropper, falling heavily on the
small of the stock of the gw, vMA I
snapped short off,' and was inedeea |
ably damaged. At first I rsted his
heartily, for this was the seoood i >
Captain Burton^s gans which had ta&
damaged in my hands. I then toU
Bombay of the circanaBtances vkkh '
led to the accident to the fint g«B.
It was done whilst hippopotaD»
shooting on the coast rivers opposte
to Zanzibar ; and as Bombay Lad t
little experience in that way to rebte.
we had long yarns about such eport,
which served to improve our Hindoo-
stani (the hinguage I altrays t»
versed with him in), as well ts to
divert our useleas yet unsvoidaUe
feelings of regret at the aoddeot, td
also killed time.
One day, when on the Taogsriw, f
near its month, I was busily eogntd
teasing hippopotami^ with ooe du,
a polesman, in a Tery small cin^
just capable of oarrying what it ttd
on board, myself in the bovi, vitk
my 4-bore Blissett in hand, vbik
Captain Burton's monster elepbist-
gun, a double-barrelled 6-bore^ we^
ing, I believe, 20 lb., was lying it ik
stern in the poler's charge.
The river was a tidal one, of ik)
great breadth, and the margin w
covered by a thick growth of the au-
grove shrub, on the boughs of vhidi
the sharp -edged shells of the tne
oyster stuck in strings and closters
in great numbers. The best tioe
to catch the hippopotamus ii vha
the tide is oat and the bsob vt
bared, for then you find him iti*
lowing in the mud or basking ot
the sand (when there is soy), %
jungle hog, and with a weilnii'
rected shot on the ear, or aDjvbeR
about the brain-pan, yon ban i
good chance of securing hiot l^
cially mention this, as it is quit
labour in vain, in places where tbt
water is deep, to fire at these asi-
mals, unless you can kill thesi oot-
right, as they dive under like.a «ster
rat^ and are never seen more if the;
are only woanded. I, like moit nv
hands at this particular kind of iport.
began in a very different way ^
what, I think, a more expofeoeed
hunter would have done, by efaiVB?
tbem in the water, and firing at tbeir
heads whenever they appeared iboft
it; and even firedslngsaboattheire^
1859.] the iuppoied Source of the Nae.-^Part III. 569
^nd ears, in hopes that I might irri- Eaoli, I ehaaed a herd of hippo-
ate them Bofficieotly to male them potami in deep water, till one of
harge the canoe. This teasing dodge the lot, coming as nsnal from below,
NTOved pretty sncoessful, for when the drove a tusk clean throagh the boat
ide had rnn clean oat, only pools and with soch force that he partially
eaches, oonnectiog by shallow ran- hoisted her oat of the watep ; bat
lels the volame of the natural stream, the brnte did no farther damage, for
emained for the hippopotami to sport I kept him off by making the men
kboat in ; and my manoenvring in splash their oars rapidly whilst mak-
hese confined plaoea became so iog for the shore, where we jost ar-
rritating, that a large female came rived in time to save oarselves from
-apidiy under water to the stem sinking.
>f the canoe, and gave it sach a The day previous to this adven-
ludden and violent cant with her tare, I bagged a fine voung male
lead or withers, that that end of the hippopotamns close to this spot, by
vessel shot up in the air, and sent me hitting him on the ear when staodiDg
iprawling on my back, with my legs in shallow water. The ivory of these
:orced up by the sea — a bar of wood animals is more prized than that of
—at right angles to my body ; whilst the elephant, and, in conseqaeoce of
Lhe poler sikI the big double gun the superior hardness of its enamel,
were driven like a pair of shuttle- it is in great requisition with the
:ocks, flying right and left of the dentist
»inoe high up into the air. The Hippopotami are found all down
3^an on one side fell plump into the this coast in very great nnmbers, but
oQiddle of the stream, and the man especially in the deltas of the rivers,
3n the other dropped, 90^ first, on or up the streams themselves, and
to the hippopotama-i's back, but ra- afford an easy, remunerative, and
pidly scramblmg back into the canoe, pleasant sport to any man who is
The hippopotamus then, as is these not addicted to much hard exercise.
eiDimals^ wont, renewed the attack. The Paojani, Kingani, and Lufiji
bat I was ready to receive her, and rivers are full of them, as well as all
as she came rolling porpoise-fashion the other minor feeders to the sea
close by the side of the canoe, 1 fired along that coast If these animals
a quarter of a pound of lead, backed happen to be killed in places so far
by four drams of powder, into the distant from the sea that the tidal
middle of her back, the mozzle of the waters have not power to draw them
rifle almost touching it She then out to the ocean depths, their bodies
sank, and I never saw her more ; but will be found, when inflated with gas,
the gun (after lying on the sandy hot- after decomposition, floating on the
torn the whole of that night), I man- surface of the water a day or two
aged, by the aid of several divers, to afterwards, and can easily be secured
find on the following day. by the sportsman, if he be vigilant
Bombajr says that on one occasion, enough to take them before the
when coming down the Pangani river hungry watchful savages come and
in a canoe with several other men, secure them, to damp Sieir rapacious
an irritated hippopotamus charged appetites. Mussalmans will even eat
and upset it, upon which he and all these amphibious creatures without
bis friends dived under water and cutting their throats, looking on them
then swam to the shore, leaving the as cold-blooded animals, created in the
hippopotamus to vent his rage on same manner as fish,
the shell of the canoe, which he The following day, 10th August, we
most spitefully stuck to. This, he made a halt to try our fortune again
assures me, is the proper way to in purchasing cows, but failed as
dodge a hippopotamus, and escape usual ; so the following morning we
the danger of a bite from him. On decamped ' at dawn, and marched
another occasion, when I was hippo- thirteen miles to our original station
potamus-hunting in one of the boats in southern Nera. Here I parchased
belonging to a large frigate, the pro* four goats for one dhoti Amerikan,
perty of Sultan Majid of Zanzibar, the best bargain I ever made. Thun-
in an inlet of the sea close to der had rambled, and clouds overcast
570 ' Captain Speke'g Dtsoovery of th$ Vidana Ifyanza^ [Vor.
the skies for two dajs ; and this day aod remain in perpetoal
a delicioos cooling ehower fell. The the desoendaDts of the other two/"
people said it was the little rains — 12//(. — We returned to our fbi
chota barsat, as we call it in India qaarters, the village of 8alaw6 ; bat
— expected yearly at this time, as X did not enjoy sndi repose as gq
the precursor of the later great fa11& the former visit, for the peoole wnc
As Seedi Bombay was very inqni- in their caps, and nolens votois, po-
sitive to-day about the oridn of sisted in entering my hat. Scne-
Seedis, his caste, and as he wished to times I rose and drove thea ont^ at
know by what law of nature I other times I turned ronnd and feigD-
accounted for their cruel destiny ed to sleep; but these maooeovrcs
in being the slaves of all men, I were of no avail ; still they poured is.
related the history of Noah, aod the and one old man, more impodent thaa
disposition of his sons on the face of the rest, understanding the tii^.
the globe ; and showed him that he seized my |>illow by tbe eDd, and,
was of tbe black or Hametic stock, togging at it as a do^ pnlla at s
and by the common order of nature, quarter of horse, routed me with
they, being tbe weakest, had to sue- loud impatient ^ Whu-ho** and * HI
cumb to their superiors, the Japhetic Hi*s,^' until at last, out of patieooe. I
and Semitic branches of the family ; tent my boots whirling at bis bedL
and, moreover, they were likely to This cleared the room, bat only for a
remain so subject until such time moment : the boisteroos, impodest
as the state of man, soaring far crowd, true to savage natare, enjojiBf
above the beast, would be imbued the annoyance tbey bad oocanooed,
by a better sense of sympathy aod returned exultingly, with ahoota and
good feeling, and would then leave grins, in double nnmbera. The B^
all such ungenerous appliances of loocbes then interfered, and, in their
superior force to the brute alone, zeal to keep order, irritated sose
Bombay, on being created a Mussul- drunkards, who at once becase
man by his Arab master, had been pugnacious. On seeing the excited
taught a very different way of ac- state of these drunkards, bawllof
counting for the degradation of and stepping about in leng, sod-
bis race, and narrated his story as den, and rapid strides, with braad-
follows : *' The Arabs say that Ma- ished spears and agitate^ bows^ en-
homet, whilst on the road from Me- deavouring to exasperate the rest
dina to Mecca, one 6a.j happened to of the mob against as, I rose*
see a widow woman sitting before her and going out before them, euA
house, and asked her how she and her that I came forth for their satii-
three sons were ; upon which the fiiction, and that they might ww
troubled woman (for she had conceal- stand and gaze as long as they
ed one of her sons on seeing Mahomet's liked ; but I hoped as soon as thdr tegs
approach, lest he, as is customary and arms were tired th^t they woou
when there are three males of a fa- depart in peace. The words acted with
mily present, should seize one and magical effect upon them; they argCBt-
make him do portersge) said, 'Very ly requested me to retire again, bat
well ; but Tve only two sons.' Ma- finding*" that I did not, they took
homet, hearing this, said to the wo- themselves homewards. The saltaa
man reprovingly : * Woman, thou arrived late in tbe evening, he said
liest ; thou hast three sons, and for from a long distance, on parpose to
trying to conceal this matter from me, see me, and was very importanate is
henceforth remember that this is my his deure for my halting a day. As
decree — that the two boys which I had paid all the other soltaos tte
thou hast not concealed shall multi- compliment of a visit, he should ooo-
ply and prosper, have fair fhces, be- sider it a slight if I did not stay a
come wealthy, and reign lords over little while with him. On the ocea-
all the earth ; but the progeny of your sion of my pasnng northwards he
third son shall, in consequence of had been absent, and oonhl not vbiBt-
your having concealed him, produce tain me ; so I must now aoo^ a hol-
Seedis as black as darkness, who lock, which he would send for on the
will be sold in the market like catUe morrow. A long debate emned, which
1859.]
tht 9uppo9€d Sauru qf the Mle.r-Part UL
671
inded by my gmng him one flhokka
^merikftD, and one dhoti kioiki.
13tA.-^TrayeUioff through the Nin-
lo WildeioeflB to-day, the Bekiocfhes
were very mueh excited at the qaan-
ity of game they saw; bat though
hey tiied their best, they did not
laoceed in killing any. Troops of
sebras, the qoagga and giraffe, some
varieties of antelopes roaming about
n large herds, a boftalo and one ostrich,
vere the chief yisible tenants of this
vild. We saw the fresh prints of a very
arge elephant $ and I nave no doubt
hat by anv sportsman, if he bad but
eisure to leam their haunts and wa-
»ring-piaees, a good account might
ye made of them— but one and all are
¥ild in the extreme. Ostrich feathers
>edeck the frizzly polls of many men
ind women, but no one has ever
leard of any having been killed or
tnared by huntsmen. These oma-
nents, as well as the many skulls
uid skins seen in every house, are
laid to be found lying about in
>Iaoes where the animals have died
k natural death.
14tk, — We left, as we did yesterday,
m hour before dawn, and crossed the
lecond broad wilderness to Kahama.
Lt 9 A. If. 1 called the usual halt to
2at my rural breakfast of cold fowl,
lOur curd, cakes, and eggs, in a vil>
age on the south border of thede-
lert As the houses were devoid of
ill household commodities, I asked
the people stopping there to tend
the fields to explain the reason, and
learnt that their fear of the plun*
iering Wamandss was sudi that
they only came tiiere duriDg the day
to look after their crops, and at night
they retired to some distant pkioe of
safe retreat in the jungles, where they
stored all their goods and chattels.
These people, in time of war, thus
putting everything useful out of the
way of the forager's prying eyes, it
is very seldom that blood is spilt
This country beinff full of sweet
springs^ accounts for the denseness
of the population and numberless
herds ot cattle. To look upon its
resources, one is struck with amaze-
ment at the waste of the world :
if instead of this district being in
the hands of its present owners,
it were ruled by a i^w scores of
Europeans, what an entire revolution
a few years would brio? forth ! An
extensive market would be opened
to the world, the present nakedness
of the land would have a covering,
and industry and commerce would
clear the way for civilisation and en-
lightenment At present the natural
inert laziness and ignorance of the
people is their own and their coun*
try's bane. They are all totally un-
aware of the treasures at their feet
This dreadful sloth is in part en-
gendered by the excessive bounty of
the land in its natural state ; by the
little want of clothes or other luxu-
ries, in consequence of the congenial
temperature; and from the people
havmg no higher object in view than
the firet-commg meal, and no other
stimulus to exertion bv example or
anything else. Thus they are, both
morally and physically, little better
than brutes, and as yet there is no
better prospect in store for them.
The climate is a paradox quite be-
yond my solving, unless the numer-
ous and severe maladies that we all
suffered from, during the first eight
months of our explorations, may be
attributed to too much exposure;
and even that does not solve the pro-
blem. To all appearance, the wnole
of the country to the westward of
the east-coast range is high, dry,
and healthy. No unpleasant exhaJ-
atiooB pollute the atmosphere ; there
are no extreoses of temperature ; the
air is neither too hot nor too cold;
and a little care in hutting, dressing,
and diet should obviate any evil ef-
fects of exposure. Springs of good
water, and wholesome rood, are every-
where obtainable. Flies and mus-
quitos, the great Indian pests, are
scarcely known, and the tsetse of
the south nowhere exists. During the
journey northwards, I always littered
down in a hut at night; but the
ticks bit me so hard, and the anxiety
to catch stars between the con-
stantly-fleeting clouds, to take their
altitudes, perhaps preying on my
mind, kept me many whole nights
consecutively without obtaining even
as much as one wink of sleep, a
state of things I had once before
suffered from. But there really was
no assignable cause for this, unless
572
Captain SpMi Dkeovtry of the Victoria ITyiUiza,
i¥m.
weakuesa or feverishneaB ooald create
wakefalnesB, and then it wonld seem
gnrprising that even daring the day,
or after much fatigae, I rarely felt
the slightest inclination to close my
eyes. Norn, on retarning, without
anything to excite the mind, and
having always pitched the tent at
night, I enjoyed cooler nights and
perfect rest Of diseases, the more
common are remittent and inter*
mittent fevers, and these are the
most important ones to avoid, since
they bring so many bad efifects
after them. lo the first place, they
attack the brain, and often de-
prive one of one's senses. Then there
IS no rallying from the weakness they
produce. A little attack, which one
Woald only langh at in India, pros-
trates you for a week or more, and
this weakness brings on other dis-
orders ; cramp, for instance, of ^the
most paiofol kind, very often follows.
When lying in bed, my toes have
sometimes curled round and looked
me in the face ; at other times, when
I have put my hand behind mv
back, it has stuck there until, with
the other hand, I have seized the con-
tracted muscles, and warmed the
part aflfected with the natural heat,
till, relaxation taking place, I was
able to get it back. Another nasty
thing is the blindness, which I have
already described, and which attack-
ed another of our party in a manner
exactly similar to m^r complaint He,
like myself, left Africa with a misty
veil floating before his eyes.
There are other disorders, but so
foreign to my experience that I
dare not venture to describe them.
For as doctors disagree about the
probable causes of their appearance,
I most likely would onlv mislead if
I tried to account for them. How-
ever, I think I may safely say they
emanate from general debilitv, pro-
duced by the much-to-be-oreaded
fevers.
16t^.— The caravan broke ground
at 4 F. M., and, completmg the princi-
pal zigzag made to avoid wars, ar-
rived at Senagongo. Kanoni, fol-
lowed by a host of men, women, and
children, advanced to meet the cara-
van, all roaringly intoxicated with
joy, and lavishing greetings of wel-
come, with showers of "Yambo,
Yambo Sanaa," (**How are jBtf
and, " Very well, I hope T^ wkidi
we as warmly retamed : toe abk-
lags of hands were past mmbeL
and the Bdooches and Boi^
could scarcely be seen mofiig
under the hot embraoea and dvp
kisses of admiring damaela. Wfe
recovered from the thoA of tb
great outburst of feelioga, Kauai
begged me to fire a few 111048.18
apprise his enemiesy and emd^
his big brother, of the bonon
paid hioL No time was lost : I as
sooner gave the order than baa^
bang went everyone of the eaeori'i
guns, and the excited crowd, iam-
diately seeing a supposed aotagooit
in the foreground, msbed madly after
him. Then spears were flooiiate^
thrust, stabbed, and withdnm;
arrows were pointed, hage diidii
protected black bodies, eUoks aai
stones flew like hail ; then Uiere m
a slight retreat, then aaother advaace
dancing to one side, then to (k
other— jumping and prancing od tbe
same ground, with bodies vwtsm
here and bodies swaying there, oiuii
at length the whole for^groosd wu
a mass of moving objects, all i^tnnp
and hops, like an army of fro^
after the first burst of rain, i-
vancing to a pond : then agato tk
guns vrant ofif, giving^ a frerii impaise
to the exciting exercise. Their gnat
principle in warfare appears to bSi
that no one should be still. At 9A
report of the guns, freah enenia
were discovered retreating, and tbe
numbers of their slain were qaiie
surprising. These, as they droppei
were, with highly dramatic seta
severally and unmediately traiapW
down and knelt upon, and ham
and chopped repeatedly with knifOi
whilst the slayer continued ahoinng
his savage wrath by worrying I0
supposed victim with all toe aogry
energy that do^s dispUiy whoi fitt-
ing. This triumphal entry onr,
Kanoni led us into his boma, aod
treated us with sour card. Tbea,
at my request, he assembled la
principal men and greatest travet-
fers to debate upon the Kyaoia.
One old man, sorivelled by m,
.stated that he had travelled op w
western shores of the Kyansa two
moons (sixty days) cooaecatiTelj,
1859.]
the sujppased Source qf the Me.—Fart UL
573
had pasaed beyond Eangwahiotoa
coaotry where coffee grows aban-
daotly, and is called Moaoy^. He
described tbe sbrab as standiDg be«
tween two and three feet high, hay-
log the stem nearly naked, bat mach
branched above; it grows in hirge
plantations, and forms the principal
article of food. The people do not
boil and drink it as we do, bat pal-
verize and form it into porridge or
cakes. They also eat the berry raw,
with its bosk on. The Arabs are
very food of eating these berries raw,
and have often given as some. They
bring them down from Uganda, where,
for a pennyworth of beads, a man
can have his fill. When near these
cofiee plantations, he (oar informer)
visited an island on the lake, called
Kitiri, occupied by the Watiri, a
naked lot of beings, who subsist
almost entirely on fish and coffee.
The Watiris go aboat in large
canoes like the Tanganyika ones;
but the sea - travelling, he says,
is very dangerous. In describing
tbe boisterous nature of the lake, he
made a rumbling, gur^^ling noise in
his throat, whidi he increased and
diversified by pulling and tapping
at tbe skin covermg the apple, and
by pajQSng and blowing with f^reat
vehemence indicated extraordinary
roughness of the elements. The sea
itself, he said, was boundless. Kanoni
now told me that the Muinguri river
lies one day^s journey K.N. W. of this,
and drains the western side of the
Msalala district into the southern
end of the Nyanza creek. It is
therefore evident that those exten-
sive lays in the Nindo and Salaw6
districts which we crossed extend
down to this river, which accounts for
there bein^f so many wild animals
there: water being such an attrac-
tive object in these hot olima^, tdl
animals group round it Kanoni is
a dark, square, heavy-built man, very
fond of imbibing pombe, and, like
many tipplers, overflowing with hu-
man kindness, especially in his caps.
He kept me up several hours to-
night, trying to induce me to accept
a bullock, and to eat it in his boma, in
the same manner as I formerlv did
with his brother. He was much dis-
tressed because I woold not take the
half of my requirenents in cattle from
him, instead of devoting everything to
his brother Kurua; and not till I as-
sured him I coald not stay, but instead
woald leave Bombay and some Be*
looches with cloth to purchase, some
cows from hU people, woold he per-
mit of my turning in to rest It is
strange to see how very soon, when
auestioning these negroes about any-
liing relating to geography, their
weak brains give way, and they can an-
swer no questions, or they become so
evasive in their replies, or so rambljng,
that yon can make nothing ont of
them. It b easily discernible at what
time you should cease to ask any far-
ther questions; for their heads then
roll about like a ball upon a wire,
and their eyes glass over and look
vacantly aboat as though vitality
had fled from their bNodies alto^
gether. Bombay, though, is a singu-
uur exception to this role ; but then,,
by long practice, he has become a
great geographer, and delights in
pointing out tne different featnres on
my map to his envying neighbours.
16/A.— We came to Mgogwa this
morning, and were received by Kuroa
with his usual kind affability. Oar
entrance to his boma was quiet and
unceremonious, for we came there
quite unexpectedly — hardly giving
him time to prepare his mueket and
return our salute. Though we were
allowed a ready admission, a guinea-
fowl I shot on the way was not.
The superstitious people forbade its
entrance in fall plumage, so it was
plucked before bemg brought inside
the palisade. Eurua again arranged
a hut for my residence, and was as
assiduous as ever in his devotion to
my comforts. All the elders of the
district soon arrived, and the osnal
debates commenced. Kurua chiefly
trades with Karagwah and the north-
em kingdoms, but no one could
add to the information I had al-
ready obtained. One of his men stated
that he had performed the jonmey
between Pangani (Utitude 5*^ south),
on the east coast of Africa, and Lake
Nyanza three times, in aboat two
months each time. The distance was
very great for the little time it took
him ; bat then he had to go for his
life the whole way, in consequence of
the Masai, or Wahumba, as some call
them, being so inimical to strangera
574
Captain l^eb^s Discovery qf the Vidirria NyanzOg
[Not.
of any sort that he dare not stop or .
talk anywhere on the way. On leaving
PaDgani, he passed through Usam-
bara, and entered on the country of
the warring nomadic raoe^ the Masai ;
through their territories he travelled
without halting until he arrived at
Usukuma, bordering on the lake.
His fear and speed were such that
he did not recognise any other tribes
or countriee besides those enumer-
ated. Wishing to ascertain what
number of men a populous country
like this could produce in case of an
attack, and to gain some idea of
savage tactics, I proposed having a
field-day. Kurua was delighted with
the idea, and began roaring and
laughing about it with his usual
boisterous energy, to the great ad-
miration of all the company. The
programme was as follows : — At
3 P.M. on the 17th, Kurua and his
warriors, all habited and drawn up
in order of battle, were io occupy the
open space in front of the village,
whilst my party of Beloochees, sud-
denly issuing from the village, would
perform the enemy and commence
the attack. This came off at the
appointed time, and according to
orders the forces were drawn up, and
an engagement ensued. The Be-
looohes, rushing through the pas-
sages of the palisaded village, sud-
denly burst upon the enemv, and
fired and charged successively ; to
which the Wamandas replied with
equal vigour, advancing with their
frog-like leaps and bounds, dodging
and squatting, and springing and
flying in the most wild and fantastic
manner; stabbing with their spears,
protecting with their shields, poising
with bows and arrows pointed, and,
mingling with the Belooches, rushed
about striking at and avoiding their
guns and sabres. But all was so
similar to the Senagango display
that it does not require a further
description. The number of Eurua's
forces disappointed me,^I fear the
intelligence of the coming parade did
not reach far. The dresses they wore
did credit to their nation— some were
decked with cock-tail plumes, others
wore bunches of my guinea-fowl's
feathers in their hair, whilst the
chiefe and swells were attired in long
red baiae mantiesi consiatiog of a
strip of doth four feet bj tweoty
inches, at one end of whidi tfae^ cat
a dit to admit the head, and auovei
the remainder to hang like a tail be*
hind the back. Their spears aai
bows are of a very ordinary kind,
and the shield is oonstracted maat-
thing like the Kaffir's, from a k^
strip of buirs hide, which they palot-
ed over with ochreish ear& The
fi^ht over, all hands rushed to the
big drums in the cow-yard, and be-
gan beating them as though they
deserved a drubbing: this "sweet
music" set everybody on wires in a
moment, and dancing never ceased
till the sun went down, and the oo^
usurped the revdling-place. Kurua
now gave me a good milch-cow aiad
cal( and promised two more of the
same stamp. Those which woe
brought by the common people were
mere weeds, and dry withal; Vtkef
would not bring any good ones, I
think, from flear of the saltan's dis-
pleasure, lest I should prefer thein
to his, and deprive him of the coih
sequent profita My chief reason for
leaving Bombay behind at Sent-
(foogo was, that business was never
done when I was present For, be-
sides staring at me all day, the people
speculated how to make the moat of
the chance offered by a rich maa
coming so suddenly amongst them,
and in consequence of this avari-
ciousness offered their cattle at socb
unreasonable prices as to predade the
transaction of any business.
18^A. — Halt My anticipatioiB
about the way of getting cows
proved correct, for Bombay brought
twelve animals, costing twenty-
three dhotis Amerikan and nine
dhotis kiniki. Kurua now gave
me another cow and calf, and pro-
mised me two more when we arn?ed
at the Ukumbi district, as he did
not like thinning one herd too much.
I gave in return for his present one
barsati, five dhotis Amerikan, and
two dhotis kiniki, with a promise of
some gunpowder when we arrived at
Unyanyemb^, for he is still bent oo
going there with me. Perhi^ I
may consider my former obstmetioQ
in travel by Kurua a fortunate d^
cumstance, for though the ddat
brother's residence Uy directly in
my way, he might not possess so
1859.]
the n^^poeed Source qf thi Nile,^Part III.
575
kind a oatore as these two yooDger
brotbeia. Still I cannot see any
good reason for the Eira&gozi aban*
doDiDg the proper road : there oer^
tainly coald be no more danger on
the one side than on the othor, and
all woald be equally glad to have had
me. It 18 true that I should have had
to pass through his enemies' hands
to the other brother, and snch a
course usually excites suspicion ; but,
by the usual custom of the country^
Kurua shooM haye been treated by
him only as a rebellious subject, for
though all three brothers were by
different mothers, they are conmdered
in line of succession as ours are, when
legitimately begotten by one mother.
Some time ago the eldest brother
made a tool of an Arab trader,
and with that force on his side
threatened these two brothers with
immediate destruction unless they
resigned to him the entire govern-
ment, and his rights as senior. They
admitted in his presence the justness
of his words and the folly of waging
war, aa such a measure oonld only
brinff destruction on all alike ; but
on his departure they earried on
their rule as before. Bombay, talk-
ing figuratively with me considers
Kurua's stopping me something Hke
the use the monkey turned the cat's
paw to ; that is, he stopped me sim*
ply to enhance his dignity, and gain
the minds of the people by leading
them to suppose I saw justice in
bis actions. Pombe* brewing, the
chief occupation of the women, is
as regular here as the revolution of
day and night, and the drinking of it
JQBt as constant It is made of baj4ri
and jowari (common millets), and is at
first prepared by malting in the same
way as we do barley ; then they
range a double street of sticks,
usually in the middle of the. village,
fill a number of pots with these
grains mixed in water, which they
place in ooatinuous line down tfale
street of sticks, and setting fire to
the whole at once, boil away until the
mess is fit to put aside for refining :
this they then do, leaving the pots
standing three days, when fermenta-
tion takes place and the liquor is fit
to drink. It has the strength of la-
bourers' heeaPj and both sexes drink
it alike. This fermented bever-
age resembles pig-wash, but is said
to be so palatable and satisfying — for
the dregs and all are drunk together
— that many entirely subsist upon it.
It is a great help to the slave-masters,
for without it they could get nobody
to till their ground ; and when the
slaves are required to turn the earth,
the master aiwavs sits in judgment
with lordly dignity, generally under a
tree, watching to see who becomes
entitled to a drop. In the evening
my attention was attracted by small
processions of men and women, pos-
sessed of the Ph6po, or demon, pass-
ing up the palisaaed streets, turning
into the different courts, and paying
each and every house by turns a visit.
The party advanced in slow funereal
order, with gently springing, mincing,
jogging action, some holding up
twigs, others balancing open baskets
of grain and tools on their heads,
and with their bodies, arms, and
heads in unison with the whole
hobling bobliDg motion, kept in
harmony to a low, mixed, droning,
humming chorus. As the Saltan's
door was approaclied, he likewise
rose, and, mingling in the crowd, per-
formed the 'Same evolutions. This
kind of procession is common at Zan-
zibar : when an^ demoniacal posses-
sions take place m the society of the
blacks, it is by this means they cast
out devils. While on the subject of
superstition, it may be worth men-
tioning what long ago strnck me
as a singular instance of the efiect of
supernatural impression on the un-
cultivated mind. Daring boyhood my
old nurse used to tell me with great
earnestness of a wonderful abortion
shown about in the fairs of England,
of a child born with a pig's head ;
and as solemnly declared that this
freak of nature was attributable to
the child's mother having taken fright
at a pig when in the interesting
The '
case I met in this coun-
try" is still more far-fetched, for the
aborUon was supposed to be produce-
able by indirect influence on the wife
of the husband taking frijB;ht. On
once shooting a pregnant E!udu doe,
I directed my native huntsman, a
married man, to dissect her womb
and expose the embryo ; but he
shrank from the work with horror,
fearing lest the dght of the kid,
576
Captain Spdce^s DiMvery tf ihi ViOoria NfonzOy
striking his mind, shoold have ao
inflaenoe on bis wife^s future bearingi
by metftmorphosiog her progeny to
the likeness of a fawn.
19£A.— We bade KoiHa adieu in
the early morning, as a caravan of
his had jast arrived from Karagwah,
and appointed to meet at the sec-
ond station, as marching with cattle
would be slow work for him. Our
march lasted nine miles. The suc-
ceeding day we passed Ukumbi, and
arrived at Uyombo. On the way I
was obliged to abandon one of the
donkeys, as he was completely used
up. This made up our thirty-second
loss in asses since leaving Zanzibar.
My load of beads was now out, and I
had to purchase rations with cloth
— a necessary measure, but not eco-
nomical, for the cloth does not go
half as far as beads of Uie same
value. I have remarked throughout
this trip, that in all places where
Arabs are not much in the habit of
trading, very few cloths find their
way, and in consequence the people
take to wearing beads; and beads
and baubles are the only foreign
things much in requisition.
As remarks upon the relative
valuation of commodities appear in
various places in this diary, I will en-
deavour to give a eeneral idea how it
is that I have found this plentiful
country — quite beyond any other I
have seen in Africa in fertility and
stock— so comparatively dear to travel
in. The Zanzibar route to Ujiji is now
so constantly travelled over by Arabs
and Sowhilis, that the people, see-
ing the caravans approach, erect tem-
porary markets, or come hawking
things for sale, and the prices are
adapted to the abilities of the pur-
chasers; and at such markets our
Shavkh bought for us, and transacted
all business. It is also to be ob-
served that where things are brought
for sale, they are invariably cheaper
than in those places where one has
to seek and ask for them ; for in the
one instance a livelihood is the con-
sequence of a .trade, whereas in the
other a chance purchaser is treated
as a windfall to be made the most
of. Now this lioe is just the op-
nosite to the Ujyi one, and there-
fore dear) but added to those in-
fluences here, the sultans, to increase
their own importance whOit havvg
me their gueat, inrariably gave Ml
that I was no peddling Arab or
Sowahili, as they sajr, <* Baaa Wv
rungwana," for Zanzibar mercbaot;
but an independent Mund^va, or
Sultan of the Wazangn (white or
wise men), and the people took tbe
hint to make me pay or starie
Then again, not having the Sfaajkk
with me, I had to pay for and seOfe
everything myself, and from bar-
ing no variety of beads in thii
exdosively bead oonntry, there wh
great inconvenience.
Kuma now joined oa, and lepoit-
ed the abandoned donkey dead. A
cool shower of rain fell, to the sttii-
faotion of every Uiirsty soul. It 'n
delightful to observe the fraBhoai
which even one partial shower la-
parts to all animated nature after i
long-continued drought
24<A.— During the last fDor dajt
we have marched fifty-eight milea, vA
are now at our old village in Ulikaa*
purl Aa we have now travened afi
the ground, I must try to give t
short description, with a few refl»
tions on the general character of iB
we have seen or heard, before ooodirf^
ing this diary. To give a fiutbhl
idea of a country, it is better tint
the object selected for ooDparisoo
should incline to the laige and graoder
scale than to the reverse, othervlK
the reader is apt to form too lot
an idea of it And yet, thoogh diis
is leaning to the smaller, I caa thiofc
of no better comparison for the nr-
faoe of this high land than the ioq|
sweeping waves of the AtliotK
Ocean ; and where thehiiis arefev-
est, and in lines, they resemble eaau
breakers curling on the tops of tbi
rollers, all insularly arranged, tf
though disturbed by differeot car-
rents of wind. Where the \\S^ ^
grouped, 'they remind me of aBiuil
choppinff sea in the Bristol Obio-
nel. That the hills are nowbcK
high, is proved by the total abRO«
of any rivers along this line, ostil ue
lake is reached ; and the passages
between or over them are cvaywbare
gradual in their rise ; so tut n
travelling through the coontry, ^
matter u which directioo, the bus
seldom interfere with ^ line <^
march. The flats and hoUovB ««
1859.]
ike suppoted Sourei of the NUs.—Part III.
577
well peopled, and eftttle and caltiTa*
tioD are everywhere abundant The
stone, eoil, and aspect of this tract is
uniform thronghont The stone is
chiefly granite, the nigged rocks of
which lie like knohe of sugar over
the enrfkce of the little hills, inte^
mingled with sandstone in a highly
ferruginons state; whilst the soil is
an accnmolation of sand the same
coloar as the stone, a light brown-
ish grey, and appears as if it were
formed of disintegrated particles of the
rocks worn ofr by time and wea-
thering. Small trees and broshwood
cover all the ontcroppiog hills ; and
palms on the plaios. thongh few
and widely spread, prove that water
is very near the surface. Springs, too,
are nnmerons, and generally distri-
bated. The mean level of the country
between Uoyanyemb^ aod the Lake is
8767 feet; that of the Lake itself, 3750.
The tribes, as a rule, are well dis-
posed towards all strangers, and wish
to extend their commerce. Their social
state rather represents a conservative
than & radical disposition ; and their
government is a sort of semi-patri-
archal-feudal arrangement, and, like
a band of robbers, all bold together
from feeling the nece^ity of mutual
support Bordering the south of the
Lake, there are vast fields of iron ; cot-
ton 18 also abundant ; and every tro-
pical plant or tree could grow ; those
that do exist, even rice, vegetate in the
utmost luxuriance. Cattle are very
abundant, and hides fill every house.
On the east of the Lake, ivory is
said to be very abundant and cheap ;
and on the west we hear of many ad-
vantages which are especially worthy
of our notice. The Earaswa hills
overlooking the lake are high, cold,
and healthy, and have enormous
droves of cattle bearing horns of
stupendous size ; and ivory, fine tim-
ber, and all the necessaries of life, are
to be found in great profusion there.
Again, beyond the equator, of the
kingdom of Uganda we hear from
everybody a rapturous account That
country evidently swarms with people
who cultivate cofiee and all the com-
mon grains, and have hirge flocks and
herds, even greater than what I have
lately seen. Now if the Nyaoza be
really the Nile's fount, which I sin*
cerely believe to be the case, what
ED adTantage this will be to the Eng-
lish merchant on the Nile, and what
a field is opened to the world, if, as
I hope will be the case, England does
not neglect this discovery ?
But I must cot expatiate too much
on the merits and capabilities of
inner Africa, lest I mislead any com-
mercial inquirers ; and it is as well
to say at present, that the people
near the coast are in such a state of
slothful helplessnees and insecurity,
that for many years, until commerce,
by steady and certain advance, shall
in some degree overcome the existing
apathy, and excite the population to
strive to better their position, no one
need expect to make a larce fortune
by deahng with them. That com-
merce does make wonderful improve-
ments on the barbarous habits of the
Africans, can now be seen in the
Masai country, and the countries
extending north-westward from Mom-
bas up through Kikuju into the
interior, where the process has been
going on during the last few years.
There even the roving wild pasto-
rals, formerly untamable, are now
gradually becoming reduced to sub-
jection ; and they no doubt will
ere long have as strong a desire
ibr cloths and other luxuries as
any other civilised beings, from the
natural desire to equal in com-
fort and dignity of appurtenances
those whom they now must see con-
stantly passing through their conn-
try. Oaravans are penetrating far-
ther, and going in greater num-
bers, every succeeding year, in
those directions, and Arab merchants
say that those countries are every-
where healthy. The best proof we
have that the district is largely pro-
ductive is the fact that the cara-
vans and competition increase on
those lines more and more every
day. I would add, that in the mean-
while the staple exports derived from
the far interior of the continent will
consist of ivory, hides, and horns;
whilst from the coast and its vici-
nity the clove, the gum copal, some
textile materials drawn from the
banana, aloe and pine-apples, with
oleaginous plants such as the ground-
nut and cocoa-nut, are the chief
exportable products. The cotton
plant which grows here, Judging
OapUdn SpMs D'woury of th» VUicria Ifjfanzo,
678
from its size and difference from
the plant uBuaUy grown in India,
I consider to be a tree cotton and
a perennial. It is this cotton which
the natives weave into coarse fabrics
in their looms. Then, again, the
coffee -plant of Uganda, before al-
laded to, being a native of that
place, and being conseqaentiv easily
grown, oaght in time to afford a Very
valuable article of export. Bice,
although it is not indigenoos to
Africa, I believe is certainly cap-
able of being produced in great quan-
tity and of very superior quality ;
and this is also the case with sugar-
cane and tobacco, both of which are
grown generally over the continent
There is also a species of palm grow-
ing on the borders of the Tanganyika
Lake, which yields a concrete oil
very much lUte, if not the same as,
the palm-oil of Western Africa; bat
this is limited, and would never be
of much value. Salt, which is found
in great quantity in pits near the
Malagarazi Biver, and the iron I
have already spoken about, could
o^y be of use to the country itself
in facilitating traffic, and in maturing
its resources.
It is a singular piece of luck that,
with a few pounds' worth of kit, I
should, in the course of three weeks,
have discovered and brought to light
a matter, the importance of which
cannot be over - estimated, and
on which endless sums have been
fruitlessly lavished for ages past by
ambitious monarchs, and eager and
enterprising governmenta Thousands
of years, I may say from Ptolemy
to the present time, has this inquiry
been going on, and now, so far as the
main features and utility of such
discovery are concerned, it is well-
nigh, if not entirely, solved. But
out of justice to my commandant,
Captain Burton, I must add that the
advantages over aU other men, un-
der which I accomplished the jour-
ney, are solely attributable to him.
For I was engaged in organising an
expedition in another quarter of the
globe when he induced me to relin-
quish it, hj inviting me to co-operate
with him m opening up Africa ; and
this brought me to Kazeh, the start-
ing-point for my separate journey.
These fertile regions have been
[Not.
hitherto unknown from thei
which Dr. Livingstone baa ao dbiy
explained in regard to the western ade
of Africar— the jealoosy of the abori-
sighted people who live on tbe eoast
who, to preserve a monopolj of om
particular article exdnsiveiy to the»
selves (ivory), have done their best tt
keep everybody away from the iste-
rior. I say shortngbted, for it b
obvious that, were the reeonrces e(
the country once fairly opened, the
people on the coast woald doable cr
triple their present iDcomes, aad
Zanzibar would soon swell into a
place of real importance. AU hands
would then be employed, and Inxmj
would take the place of beggary.
I must now (after ezpresBing a fer-
vent hope that England e^Kdafly,
and the civilised world generally, will
not neglect this land of promise)
call attention to the marked &et,
that the Church misBiooarieB, rend-
ing for many years at Zaosbar,
are tiie prime and first promoteis
of this diiscovery. They nave ben
for years past doing their ntmosr,
with simple sincerity, to Cfaristiamse
this negro land, and promote a dv-
ilised and happy state of existence
for these benighted beings. Daring
their sojourn among these blai^i-
moors, tLe^ heard from Arabs and
others of many of the facts I Inve
now stated, but only in a confossd
way, such as might be expected lo
information derived from an nnsda-
cated people. Amongst the more im-
portant disclosures made by the
Arabs was the constant refmnce
to a lar^ lake or inland sea,
which their caravans were in the
habit of visiting. It was a sin-
gular thing that^ at whatever part
of the coast the missionaries arrived,
on inquiring from the traTelling mer-
chants where they went to, they one
and idl stated to an inland sea, the
dimensions of which were sadi that
nobody could give any estimate of
its length or width. The direetraos
they travelled in pointed north>w€St,
west, and south-west, and their ao-
counts seemed to indicate a siqgle
sheet of water, extending from the
Line down to 14° south latitude--
a sea of about 840 miles in iei^^th,
with an assumed breadth of two to
three hundred milea In ibot» from
1859.]
the Bupposed Sowree of the NiUr^Part IlL
579
this great combiDation of testifflony
that water lay generally in a continn-
oas line from the equator up to 14°
south latitude, and, from not being
able to gain information of there being
any territorial eeparations to the said
'water, they very naturally, and I may
add fortunately, created that monster
Blag of an inland sea which so much
attracted the attention of the geogra-
phical world in 1855-56, and caused
our being sent out to Africa. The
good that may result from this little,
yet happy accident, will, I trust
prove, proportionately as large ana
fruitful as the produce from the
symbolical grain of mustard-seed;
and nobody knows or believes in this
more fully than one of the chief pro-
moters of this exciting investigation,
Dr. Bebmann. From these late ex-
Elorations, he feels convinced, as he
as oftentimes told me, that the first
Step has been taken in the right di-
rection for the development of the
comaiercial resources of the country,
the Bpead of civilisation, and the
extension of our geographical know-
ledge.
As many ohnrchmen, misdoDaries,
and others, have begged me to pub^
liah what &cilities are open to the
better prosecution of their noble ends
in tills wild country, I would cer-
tainly direct their attention to the
Karagwah district, in preference to
any other. There they will find, I
feel convinced, a fine healthy country ;
a choice of ground from the moun-
tain-top to the level of the Lake
capable of affording them every com-
fort of life which an isolated place can
produce ; and being the most remote
region from the coast, they would
have less interference from uie Mo-
hammedan communities that reside
by the ses. But then, I Uiink, mission-
aries would have but a poor chance of
success unless they went there in a
body, with wives and families all as
assiduous in working to the same
end as themselves, and all capable of
other useful oceapntionB besldtt that
of disseminating the gospel, which
should come after^ and not before, the
people are awake and prepared to re-
ceive it As that country must be
cold in consequence of its great alti-
tude, the people would much sooner
than in the hotter and more eoervafr^
Ing lowlands, learn any tessons of in-
dustiy they might be taught To
live idle in regard to everything but
endeavouring to cram these empty-
headed negroes with Scriptural doc-
trines, as has too often been and now
IS done, is, although apparently the
stralghtest, the longest way to reach
the goal of their desires.
The missionary, I think, should be
a Jack-of-all-trades — a man that can
turn his hand to anything ; and be-
ing useful in all cases, he would, at
any rate, make himself influential
with those who were living around
him. To instruct him is the surest
way of gaiuing a black man's heart,
which, once obtained, can easily be
turned in any way the preceptor
I)leafles, as is the case with all Asia-
tics : they soon learn to bow to the
superior intellect of the European,
and, like children, are as e^aily ruled
as a child is by his father. No
better illustration of that can be
found than in the Indian irregular
corps, where there is one chief to rule
over them, and the interest is conse^
quently undivided. The opposite
again, is to be found in the regulars
where the power is divided, and all, as
we have lately seen, have gone to the
dogs.
25tA.— We left Uldkampnri at 1
A.M., and marched the last eighteen
miles Into Kazeh under the delight-
ful influence of a cool night and a
bright full moon. As the caravan,
aocmrding to its usual, march of single
file, moved along the serpentine foot-
pad in peristaltic motion, firing
muskets and singing *'the return,^'
the Unyanyemb6 villagers, men, wo-
men, and children, came running out
and flocking on it, pierciug t£M3 air
with loud uiriil noises, accompanied
with the Inllabooing of these fairs,
which, once heard, can never be mis-
taken. The crowd was oompoaed in
great part of the relatives of my por-
ters, who evinced their feelings to-
wards their adult masters as eagerly
as stray deer do in running to join a
long-missing herd. The Arabs, one
and all, came out to meet us, and es-
corted us into their dep6t Their con-
gratulations were extremely warm, for
they had been anxious for our safety
in consequence of sundry rumours
abroad coneerning the war - parties
S80
Capta^ Speke*9 Discovery of the Victoria Nyama^ [Not.
which lay in my track. Oaptain
Barton greeted me on arrival at the
old boose, where I had the satisfac-
tion of finding him greatly restored
in health, and having everything
abont him in a high staie of prepara-
tion for the jonrney homewards.
It affords me great pleasure to be
able to report the safe return of
the expedition in a state of high
spirits and gratification. All en-
joyed the salabrity of the climate,
the hind entertainments of the
snltan?, the variety and richness of
the country, and the excellent fere
everywhere. Farther, the Belooches,
by tbeir exemplary condact, proved
themselves a most efficient, willing,
and trustworthy guard, and are deserv-
ing of the highest encomiums ; they,
with Bombay, have been the life and
success of everything, and I sincerely
hope they may never be forgotten.
Thus ends my Second ExpeditioiL
The Arabs told me I could reach
the Nyanza in fifteen to seveDteeo
marches, and I have retnraed
in sixteen, althon^h I had to take
a circuitous line instead of a direct
ona The provisions, too, have just
held out I took a supply for six
week9, and have completed thai time
this day. The total road-dislADoe
there and back is 452 miles, which,
admitting that the Arabs made six-
teen marches of it, gives them a
marching rate of more than foorteea
miles a-day.
The temperature is greaier at this
than at any other time of the year,
in consequence of its being the end
of the dry season ; still, as will be
seen by the annexed register of one
week, the Uoyamudzi plateau is not
unbearably hor, and far less so than
the Indian plains.
«A.1I.
• A.1L
Moon.
8F.lf.
«P.K.
73o
75o
84o
860
84o.
7lo
88*
Tkemwmeter hung in ajpassage of our house showed^Moming^ Noon^ and Afterwm
reapecHvdg —
Mean temperature during first week or
seven days of September 1868.
Extreme: difference, I7oofvaiiatioadnr*
ing twelve hours of day.
2%emumder suspended from ridge-pole of a one-Mh tent pitched in a dose yard:—
. Mean temperature.
Extreme; difference; 60 o of variatioD.
List of Stores along this Line.
Rice is grown at Unyanyemb6, or wherever the Arabs settle^ but is not conim<»,
as the negroes, considering it poor food, seldom eat it
6 a.m.
9A.X.
Noon.
8P.IC.
6F.1C.
6S0
85 0
IO80
107o
80 c
63«
...
«i.
113«
...
AnimaH
Cows, sheep, goats, fowls, donkeys^
eggs, milk, butter, honey.
P. S, — ^Donkeys are very scarce ; only
found in a few places in the Unya-
mu6a ssountiy.
Vegetable.
Rice, jowari, bagri, maize, manioc,
sweet potatoes, yams^ pumpkins, meloM,
cucumbers, tobacco, cotton, pnlso in
great varieties, diilis^ b^nghaos^ pUa-
tains, t<»natoe&
The QvaiKlii^ of Kit takoajbr the Journey consisted 0/—
9 GUyrahs Amerikan, I Gorah or piece of American 8heeting^l6 dothsof i
cubits each.
30 Ba Kiniki, 1 Gorah Kiniki, a common indigo-dyed stuff, — 4 cloths of 4
cubits each.
1 Sahari, a coloured cloth. ) These cloths are more expensive, being of better
1 Uzar Dubwani, do. • stuff; and are used chiefly by the sultans and
2 Barsati, do. 1 other black swells.
20 Maunds white beads — 60 lb.
3 Loads of rice grown at Unyanemb^ by the Arabs.
1859.] the supposed Source of the NUe.-^Part 11 f.
Exipenditwre for the Jotfimey from 9ih July io 25^ August 1853.
581
10 Belooohes* wages, 150 shukkap, or icobita a*pieoe Amerikan,
]>a rations, f^Wen in adTAOce, 30 lb. wbiie beada^ . . —
15 PdgazU' wage^ 15 abukkas AmerikaD, . . . ««
26 Keo, iocludiDg ael^ rationa, 60 lb. wbite beads, . . . —
2 Pagazis, extra wages, 7 abakkaa of Amerikan and Kiniki mixed, -«
6 Sultan's kuhoogos or presents, 22 ahnkkas of Amerikan and
Kiniki, mixed, . . . . . . —•
Do. da do. 2 barsatis, . . -«
Value.
— 100$
— 5
Total expenditure,
Or £89, 3s. 4d.
60
10
5
16
2
188$
As the shells which I foand on the conchologist, Mr. S. P. Wood ward »
Tanganyika Lake have now been F.G.S., I will give the account of
compart at the British Museum, them in his own words, In an ap-
and have been reported on by their pendiz.
APPENDIX,
ON SOME NEW FRESa- WATER SHELLS PROM CENTRAL AFRICA. BY S. P. WOODWARD,
F.G.8. COMMUNICATED BY PROFESSOR OWEN.
(BfoUusca, PI. XLvn.)
The four shells which form the subject
of tho present note were collected by
Captain Speke in the great fteah-water
Lake Tanganyika, in Central Africa.
The large bivalve belongs to the genua
Iridini, Lamarck, — a group of river mus-
sels, of which there are nine reputed
species, all belonging to the African con-
tinent This little group has been divid-
ed into several sub-genera. That to which
tbo new shells belongs is distinguished
"by its broad and deeply-wrinkled hinge-
lino, and is called Fleiodon by Conrad.
G?ho posterior slope of this shell is en-
crusted with tufa, as if there were lime-
stone rocks in the vicinity of its habitat
The small bivalve is a normal Vhio
Tvith finely-sculptured valves.
The smaller univalve is concave be-
neath, and so much resembles a Keriia
or CcUifpircea that it would be taken for
a sea-shell if its history were not well
authenticated. It agrees essentially with
Lithoglyphus—dk genus peculiar to the
Danube, for the American shells referred
tp it are probably, or, I may say, certain-
ly distinct. It agrees with the Danubian
shells in the extreme obliquity of the
aperture, and differs in the widi of the
umbilicus, which in the European species
is nearly concealed by the callous oolu-
mellar lip.
In the Upper Eocene Tertiaries of tho
Isle of Wight there are several estuary
shells, forming the genus Gtobulus^ Bow.,
whose affinities are uncertain, but which
resemble LWioglyphus.
The Lake Tanganyika (situated in lat
3> to 8o S. and long. 30 o E.^ which is
VOL. LXXIVI.
several hundred miles in length, and 30
to 40 in breadth, seems entirely discon-
nected with the region of the Danube :
but the separation may not always have
been so complete, for there is another
great lake, Nyanza, to the northward of
Tanagnyika, which is believed by Speko
to be the principal source of the Nile.
The other univalve is a Mdania^ of
the sub-genus MelaneUa (Swainson), simi-
lar in shape to K hoUandi of S. Europe,
and similar to several Eocene species of
the Isle of Wight. Its colour, solidity,
and tuberculated ribs, give it much the ap-
pearance of a small marine whelk (Nassa);
and it is found in more boisterous waters,
on the shores of this great inland sea,
than most of its congeners inhabit
1. Iridina (Pleiodon) speku, n. sp.
Shell oblong, ventricose, somewhat
attenuated at each end ; base slightly
concave ; epidermis chestnut - brown,
deepening to black at the margin ; ante-
rior slope obscurely radiated ; hinge-line
compressed in front and tuberculated,
wider behind, and deeply wrinkle^!.
TlMta oblongiiy lum/ida^ extremitaiibus
fere cUtenuata^ hasi subarcuata ; ^'-
dennide caeianeo -fuscOj marginem
versus nxgri/canie; linea cardinaH
antiee compressa iuberctdcUOf posUee
IcUioret paucis rugis araia.
2. XJnio burtoni, n. sp.
Shell smaU, oval, rather thin, some-
what pointed behind ; umbones small,
not eroded ; pale olfve. concentrically
furrowed, and sculptured more or less
38
582
Captain 8pM$ Dacooery of the ViUaria Njfanza^ ifc. [S^
with fine divaricating tines ; anterior
teeth narrow, not prominent; posterior
teeth laminar ; pedal scar conflaent with
anterior adduction.
Testa parvdf ovaUSf tenuiusadat postice
suiiaUenuaia ; umJbonQnu parvia,
acuminaiia ; epercUmide paUide oU-
vacea ; vaLvia hneolia divaricaUs^
decussatim exaraHa ; deniibus cardi-
naiUms anguatiSf haud praminenti-
bus.
3. LrrHOQLTPHUlB ZOKATUS, n. sp.
Shell oblicular, hemispherical; spire
yeiy small ; aperture large, verj oblique ;
umbilicus wide and shaUow, with an
open fissure in the young shell ; lip con-
tinuous in front with the umbilical ridge ;
columella callous, ultimately covering Ihe
fissure ; .body-whorl flattened, pale oliva-
ceous, with two brown bands, darker at
the apex ; lines of growth crossed by
numerous oblique, interrupted strise.
Testa orbictdaria, hemisphaericaf loieum-
biHca;ta (apud junior rimata), spira
minvJta ; aperiura magna^ voids ob-
liqua ; Idbio caXtoso (in testa aduUa
rimam iegente) ; palUde oHvirceOj/as-
ciis duabusfuaciszonata; lineisincre^
menti striolis interruptis obUquatim
deeussatis.
4. KeLAKIA (MiXLANELUL) NA8SA, n. Sp.
Shell ovate, strong, pale brown, with
(sometimes) two dark bands ; spire
shorter than the aperture ; whorls flat-
tened, ornamented with six brown spiral
ridges crossed by a variable number of
white, tuberculated, transverse ribs ; base
of body-whorl with eight turberculated
spiral ridges variegated with white and
brown ; aperture sinuated in firont ; outer
lip simple ; inner lip callous.
Tssta ovata, solidaj paJUdefuscOt tonis
2 nigricantibus aUquando notata ;
spira apertura breuiore ; anfracUbus
plantdatiSj Uneis 6 fuscis spiraUbus
et costis ^Aerevialis omaUs ; aper-
iura anUce sinuaia ; labro simpUd ;
labia caihso.
P. S. July 2nh.— In addition to the
foregoing shells, several others were col-
lected by Gapt. Speke, when employed,
under the command of Capt Burton, in
exploring Central AMca in the years
1856-69; these were depositni i: n-
Greographical Sodetj, and are iiawr=>
ferred to the British Moseom.
A specimen of AntpuBaria {LasMe
sinistrarsa, Lea, and odd valves of rr
species of Uhio both smooth and .1-:*'
coloured, were picked tip in the Zfe
district, an elevated plateau in laL € -.
)o a, long. 34o to85a £.
A large ^eAa<^ most nearly reiiiK
to A. ghiUnoaOt Pfr., is the ^coitsr.
snail " of the region between lake Tc-
gany ika and the East ooaat Foasil spec-
mens were obtained in the Usagan i>
trict^ at a place called Maroio, 30O0 Uk
above the sea^ overlooking the Lcir
River, where it intersect the coast-ia^
(lat 7o to 8« S., long. S6o to 37« £.)
Another common land-snail of u<
same district is the well-known ^ Bur
mus caiUaudi, Pfh,'* a shell more ne^i;
related to AeJiatina than Buiiinus.
Captain Speke also found a 80j:i?
example of Bukmus ovoidetu, Brag^ z: >
musjid on the island of Kilwa (lat. 9 £.
long. 39e to 40o K) This speda s
identical with R grandis, I>esL, &:^
the island of Nosse B6, Madagascar^ esi
very closely allied to B, Kberianus, Le.
from Guinea.
P.S.— It may be interestxng is
well as useful to many readers of
this Magazine, to know that Dr.
Petermann is '^ now drawing np al
Knohlicher's astronomioaJ ofasem-
tionsi and intends to make a nap
shortly of the Upper Nile, as far ts
he has seen it.*' These obaaratioBg
are the ones alluded to in the body
of my journal, and, as I meotiooed
there, were kindly furnished me by Dr.
Petermann.
P.P.S. — For a more compfete
knowledge of the countries I hare
aimed to describe, I would recomntend
geographical inquirers to apply to the
Boyal Geographical Society of Loo-
don a few weeks hence, when all my
observations wUi have been compated,
and a correct map will have btes
drawn up from them.
J. H. Speke, Captain, F.RG.S*
46^ RegL, Bengal K L
Surveyor to the E. A. Expedition
1859]
A Week in Florence.
588
A WEEK IH PLORBNOB.
First day— A Fog.— There is a
great deal to be said about fo^s.
Bat for the foolish general prejudice
against those caprices of nature, a fo^
is Dot to be despised among the acci-
dents of climate. I do not know that
there is any other phase of our unfail-
ing insular theme, The Weather, any-
thing like so dramatic and interesting.
A bright day— very well, there it k
— what more can you make of it ? —
deecribe the sunshine, how it drops
through the leaves (if there are any)
and throws down irregular gleams
through the house-tope, and falls in
misty, moty, dazzling breadth through
the long, languid, fainting street —
and when you have said all, you will
find it much more forcible and em-
phatic to turn back to your first
phra^, and repeat it is a bright day.
And then as for rain — what is to be
said about rain ? Either it sweeps in
sheets of falling water, oblique and
white, from heaven to earth — or it
tumbles down in cloudfuls, impe-
tuoas and sharp, a stray overflow of
mischief from some angelic carnival
— or it drizzles down still and spite-
ful and persistent, like — February.
But fog is piquant and mysterious,
a totally different influence. Let us
cross over to this low stone-wall.
Who can tell what that river is, nes-
tling down below there ? It might be
the Thames, it might be the Seine, it
might be a nob(^y of a stream, un-
known in polite society. It is, how-
ever, the Amo. And having thus
introduced this august individual to
your acquaintance, who will venture
to say what are the surrounding cir-
cumstances, to us invisible, which fill
up this landscape which we cannot
see? Here is nothing in the world
but a flow of water, running strong,
yet running calm, a little brown from
the hills, and which we cannot trace
to its opposite bank. A little way to
the left, something hangs dimly in
mid-sky, as one might suppose — or
rather la mid-distance, there being
no sky, no heaven, no earth, nothing
but fog— which is a bridge. Where
does that bridfi;e cross to, oo you sup-
pose? Whiuer flows this myste-
rious stream, of which the coming and
the going are equally lost in that
white obscure? What mysterious
enchanted palaces and people may be
dreaming yonder, on that other side,
which is to us no human limited
locality, but Infinitude and The Un-
known ? Out of that visionary blank
it requires no strain of imagination
to raise such glories as become the
Medicean capital. Free Italy, grace-
ful, glorious, alive with art and polity
in her subtle heart, with youth and
freshness in her veins, with her mar-
ble unsmirched, and her robes unsoil-
ed, waits for us behind this vapour-
veil. Yes, it 19 a fog — ^and for one
day more Dante's Florence is the in-
conceivable city, the home of the
imagination, that place which people
set out to discover wherever they
travel to, but never find.
This, then, being the complexion
of our first day in Florence, I ask
everybody, what better we could do
than find out the perfections of the
fog. It was not like that fog which
shrouded London a fortnight since.
Those profound brown shadows, that
lurid gloom, those rolling ghosts of
smoke, are not in the Italian skiee.
This is the fog of hills and rivers —
pure, white, shadowy — veiling off a
majestic personage whose grand pro-
portions are dimly visible at points
nere and there when you approach
the veil. However, it is a little un-
fortunate for practical purposes-
there is not much to be seen — that
must be granted ; for Florence might
be situated on a vast plain, or near
the sea-shore, or at the foot of Mont
Blanc, for anything we could say to
the contrary. Here, however, is the
Lung* Arno, the *< Along Amo," the
familiar affectionately-titled promen-
ade of the Florentines, with its low
river-wail on one side, and its impos-
ing line of lofty hotels and lodging-
houses on the other, and its irregular
pavement, where carriages and people
get along together, each at his own
respective risk, and small Italian
" fast '' equipages, dart at full gallop
whenever they can get a cbimcc,
through the crowd. There is DOt
684
A Week in Florence.
much of a crowd here today. There
are nooe of those provioclal fine ladies,
with alarmirigly small bonnets and
prodigious crinoline, whom we shall
Fee hereafter. Stout fellows enongb,
ruddy and hearty, lounge about at
the street comers, with greatcoats
buttoned round their necks, and the
sleeves hanging loose and graceful
from their shoulders; and homely
women, with coloured cotton hand-
kerchiefs tied over their ears, trot
about on domestic errands, which
cannot be put off even for the fog —
with, amongst them, of course, that
unfailing sprii^Iing of enterprising
English, who will keep abroad, what-
ever the weather ma^ be, and insist
on carrying on their sight-seeing,
though it is next to impos&ible to see
anything. One can even see forlorn
carriages looming through the fog —
those carriages where the commis-
Bionaire on the box answers all the
purpose of a peripatetic signboard —
which are conveying back to their
hotels unfortunate people who have
eiven in, and acknowledge the hope-
lessness of their business. Now and
then a little group stop as we do, at
the windows of the little mosaic
thops. These are the only embellish-
ments to-day of the deserted and half-
invisible promenade. "Windows full
of row upon row of unset brooches,
each with its dainty cluster of tiny
flowers — a petrified flower-garden.
If I were an English papa, with a
grown-up daughter on each arm of
me, like that worthy gentleman before
ns, I would not stop to look in at
Blanchini^s window in a fog. The
said fog begins to melt in milky dew
as one looks on — the pavement grows
wet, one cannot tell now— the damp
rises into one's throat But for the
name of the thing, one might as
well have dropped into the midst of
an easterly haar at St. Andrews, or
fallen upon a misty day in Cambridge,
or the Fens — and there is nothing for
it but to wind our melancholy way
back to our hotel.
1'he hotel is a castle — a barrack —
a small principality of itself. You
turn to the left when yon have reach-
ed the first floor, and then you turn
to the right, and then you turn to
the left again ere you reach, after a
quarter of an hour's walk, our apart-
[No.
ment, where Jack Froet hiniadf bs
taken refuge before ns, aiid \gik
possession stoutly. Pile high tk
hissing logs, draw the chairs to tk
fire, keep out the dranghts! Akf,
it is more easily said than deiE.
There is a door at your right ha^^
and a door at your left hand, and i
door behind — they all open into :s-
terminable suites of roomsy one wit^
in another, with not one door k
fifty which fits tight For yoQ an
in Italy, a country of the san— joc
have reached the sunny aonth ! Tk
floor is tiled, and carpeted from the
thin looms of Kidderminster ; tbm
is nothing but stone and marble, msA
universal chill — and another qoarta
of an hour's walk through thox
ghostly stone passages ere yon caa
ope for dinner. Oh mac»-abcsed
climate of England, where the ooU
keeps out of doors, and comfort Htbi
within I Shall we ever speak ill of
thee again ?
But here let me paose to note tk
odd fact, not sufficiently appreciate!,
of the superior endurance of tboet
** fervid children of the south" — those
passionate populations ripened bj
" the glowing skies of Italy'' — and
so on«-as we have all heard a hnr-
dred times. We, in England, scp-
poee that nobody can b^ coki or
storm like ourselves. Mr. Kingsfe;
likes the east wind, and moaeubr
Christianity prides itself in believis;
that English sports in general beloog
to bad weather, and that thus we shov
our innate Anglo-Saxon saperioricf
to the ills of nature. What a piece
of humbug! Giacomo down below
there, with his arms out of his deeves,
is twenty times aa good a philoso-
pher as Mr. Kingsley ; instead of
making convulsive enorta to keep
himself warm as an Englishman
would do in his position, the good-
natured fellow does nothing more
than dance from one foot to l£e other
aa he hums his barcarolle, and hags
up under the greatcoat which hangs
from his shoulders a certain earthen-
ware vessel which we shall see to-
morrow. The chances are that there
is not a fire-place of any descriptioa,
save the charcoal stove which boils
the soup in the paternal roannoii
from which he comes, and that from
autumn to spring he never sees a fire
1859.]
A Week in Florence.
585
Xeilher are there any carpets, even
of KiddermiDster, opon Giaoomo's
tiles. He lives in a Spartan defiance
of the cold — firdess, comfortless —
with stone walls and a stone floor
sarroandiog his bed, braving oat a
hard winter in gaunt cold houses
which are made to defend him against
the heat, and which, somehow, have
managed to ignore the harder sesason ;
and it is only when he sees the
shivering Englishman — the Anslo-
Saxon— croacnine over his fire, Uiat
the light-hearted Florentine learns
what it is to gmmble at the cold.
Yes, it is we who have imported
stoves and carpets into the stone
houses of Italy. It is we who find
the chill overpowering when grim
winter takes np his yearly dwelling
in those marble halls ; and then we
go bragging over onr foxhunting and
oar shooting, and protest that *' we
are a stern people, and winter suits
us !" Oh bootless boast I Withoat
any defence but that greatcoat with
its empty sleeves, and the mysterious
earthenware pan in his hand, 6ia-
como th^re, with his downy adoles-
cent cheeks like dark peaches, and
his good -nature and his barcarolle,
will beat us an<^ our winter experi-
ences all to nothing — though nobody
will pretend to say that be is of a
stern people, or that winter suits the
sun-loving Etruscan race.
Let me note here also another
rather odd fact which deserves in-
uiry — Why is it that one so often
inds one's-self a sudden intruder up-
on a merry English dinner-part^ when
one takes one^a seat at a continental
tdble-d'hdU ? Are the other inhab-
itants of the world too wise to run
their chance of fogs on the Arno, or
bad weather elsewhere ? It is a curi-
ous field of inquiry, worthy of investi-
gation ; but let us not say English^
English - speaking. That ineffable
personage opposite is far too splen-
didly got up for a Britisher. If one
listens a little one will find out that
the lady is moved by a perpetual
desire to know whetbier people she
meets are Eo^lish or Americans — a
kind of curiosity which never enters
into [our obtuse insular understand-
ings. Next to her are two sisters —
one, an old aquiline young lady, the
other, snub and stout — wno are ex-
I
changing experiences with the mili-
tary gentleman over the-way. There
are great lamentations over the fog.
'*Bat did yoa observe how dry it
was ?" asks one of the sisters — "so
dry ! quite different from fogs in
England" — at which a polite silence
falls upon the table, and her inter-
locutor makes a little amazed bow to
save himself from the positive fix
of an assent. Then there is an Irish-
man who has been a long walk to
see Mario's villa, and is ffreat upon
the cigara, and pipes, and tobacco-
boxes of that illustrious retreat, in
which the aquiline sister takes a
dignified interest, and which calls
forth a smothered anecdote from the
very fine lady about the habits of
Mario and a visit to America. Then
the military gentleman strikes in,
not to be outdone. He has been
into the Archducal gardens, which
to-day are open to the populace.
He thinks the people are ^' a villan-
ous set of fellows ; I was ver^ glad
to know I had my stiletto m my
pocket," he says. I am afraid he is
only, after all, a disguised shopkeep-
er in mustaches. Poor Giacomo out
of doors ! Could these dangling
sleeves of thine belie thy peach
cheeks and make thee villanous ? I
think II Signore Inglese, with his
stiletto in his pocket, was a worse
apparition under the cypress trees.
It is strange to look out upon the
night, all veiled and lost in this mist,
with its little circle of vbible lamps,
shining double in the little spot of
visible water, and an unknown town
throbbing around, hidden away in
the fog, and sending up its hum and
its outcries in a strange language,
unfamiliar to one*s ears. I don't
know whether the impression which
came upon me here is at all a com-
mon one ; but somehow the strange-
ness, the invisibleness, of the un-
known place where we knew nobody,
seemed to convey a certain miracu-
lous character to it like a dream.
Those great events of the past which
make such changes in one^s personal
history, somehow went out of my
recollection. Coming in from the
night, an involuntary impression
came upon me of writing all about it
to my father and my mother, who.
Heaven help us, were long ago oat of
586
A Week in Florence.
[Kw.
reach of wriiiog ; and I remembered
that, like a momentary pang, as if
I had heard the news for the first
time. This strange feeling remains
with me. I cannot tell how. I
don't think I shoald be sarprised to
see in the crowd old friends passing,
who are dead ; and once at charch
daring prayers, when somebody came
rustling into the seat close by me, I
conld not describe to anybody the
strange impression I had, that when
I raised my head I should see the
two old people there, in all their
well - remembered dress, bv whoee
side I had sat at charch for years,
Strange pranks of fancy I — involan-
tary protestations of the heart how
slight a thin^ death is after all ; and
how there is an unknown coantry
where, once arrived, Death is dead
and over — and where they all wait
for UE — they, who are neither at home
nor hera
Second Day. — A fog at Florence is
not necessarily limited to one day.
However, here is a bright cheerfal
sanshiny morning, and that opposite
bank of the river which was Infini-
tude yesterday, is to-day a line of
tall houses with green shutters, a
dome, and a campanile shining over
them, a cloudless sky, and a dazzling
breadth of sunshine. And figures
move like bees on the Lung' Arno.
Here they are once more, those
youthful Giacomos, with their
peachy cheeks — big, large -limbed,
well - looking^ — nay, honest - looking
lads, who might Eurely be good for
something ; some of tbem with great
cloaks wrapped round them, and
pictureequely thrown over • the left
shoulder — not without a revelation
of coloured lining, if the vestment is
so fortunate as to possess it ; some
with the universal greatcoat, and
its vacant sleeves — ^all wearing round
hats of black felt, low, and with
turned-np brims, much like the pre-
sent fashion for little boys at home.
The young women of the same class
have enormous hats of straw, the
native manufacture of this place,
pinned on to the back of the head,
and helplessly flapping in the wind,
good for noUiing that one can per-
ceive but to act as a gigantic fan or
flapper to the unlucky wearer, whose
head is completely exposed, and who
18 quite withoot shelter eitber froa
cold or sun. And now, in tbedajlifk,
it is easy to perceive this odd httk
round pan of earthenware, with t
handle across by which it ia earned
like a basket, which is in evcy-
body's hand. Serving-women gtst^
to market cuddle it nnder ths
shawls ; old people, sitting on tbe
little ledge of pavement in tl» ess,
hold it on their knees and norse h
there like a child. The jooi^ S^km
permit the edg^ of it to be seen be-
Death their cloaks as they carry t
swinging by their side. There is ok
in the sentiners seotry-box for las
occasional refreshment — and the be^
gar comes up to yon mbbicg bs
hands over the handle of hk, and
chanting across it his melancbolT
supplication. What do joa sup-
pose this universal consoler is — H^
bo8om friend ? It is a little pas of
charcoal smouldering in white a^
—and it is thus that every man cv*
ries along with him his own fire.
Now for what was to be sees.
The first thin^ to be seen, as it ap-
pears to me, IS this bright,, dear, d^
lightful sunny river, where evey-
thiog shines in a wonderfnl glory of
reflection not to be described. Twc
tall rows of tall heuses — by grace
of necessity and good taste anything
but regular — of different heights aad
different dimensions, with windows
breaking out at all sorts of prepos-
terous levels, with open gall^-ira <m
the roof, and those naive and di^e-
turreted little towers, which baag
made for the plain reason than an-
other room was wanted, and not s
whole floor, takes grace of the atil-
ity, and are a characteristic featare
in Italian architecture — diine in it
all day long, with all their twinkks
of green shutters and windows, and
all the groups at the same. Ajid to
us the dark span of the luidge, the
solid arch above, and the shadowy
arch below, and the circles of light
and sunshine, and indescribable col-
our that pierces through bet wees,
crossing over that light air betveec
the bright sky and the river, iriiich
answers to every passing shade of
reflection has in it something of hs
cination and magic. It is not aoy-
thing very wonderful in the view,
though there are snow-hills on tbe
1859.]
A We^ in Fhrma.
687
horizon that toQch into a cUmftz
with thin Bil?ery white the perfec-
tion of li^fat and ooloar in the scene ;
it is an indeseribable Bomething, an
atmosphere, a breadth, a glory of the
elements. It reminded me a little
(Dot that it bears the slightest re-
semblance to it, bat that the effect
is partiallT the same) of that picture
of Millaiss of two years ago, where
everybody foond the horse wooden,
and where the figures were supposed
to verge on the. ludicrous, but which,
Dotwithstandiog, carried a wonder-
fal yisiooary, inexplainable air about
it — a breath of the middle ages — of
real nuns upon the river-side, and
the meditative eve, which leaped
past all criticism into one*8 heart.
The Arno does the like; one can-
not say the bouses are grand except
in height, but the scene is magical
— It is air, it is water, it is reflec-
tion ; it is sunshine flooded over an
irregular mass of stone; it is the
refined and glorified image of real
things presented in an ideal mirror
— every river does so more or less —
but I never saw any river do it so
entirely as this.
And up above us yonder is the
old bridge with all its little crazy
tenements, and tints of green and
pink and yelIow~a street as well as
a bridge, covered with the low old
houses of the goldsmiths' craft. In
the centre, the painter's eve* of its
architect has divided the close little
clinging houses, which seem to grow
on and cling there like some produc-
tion of nature, and left an open space
arched and vaulted over, through
which there comes, like a framed
pictare, a glance of the upper river,
of the knolls and the trees on the
projecting bank, and of the moun-
taiDS themselves beyond all. What
strange instinctive perceptions of
what was best these poor old igno-
rant benighted people had in their
day, when one comes to think of it !
Who would dream nowadays of send-
ing a painter from his easel to build
a bridge? But, for my own part, I
bad rather have that open arch in
the Ponte Yecchio than an unim-
peachable Taddeo Gaddi of the more
orthodox kind. This city of Florence
belongs altogether to that old time.
There is no to-day in it to jostle out
the grand, stately, narrow, boastful,
municipal yesterday off the 8*^ene;
and one can comprehend how a man,
the moment there was proved to be
something in him, was set to work
with all his faculties, not to paint
pictures merely, but to glorify and
beautify the town, and make Florence
splendid and princely however he
could do it beet, himEclf being as
jealous for the success of the brag as
any other man. It is all very well
to speak of art and the progress of
art as an object of life ; but I suspect
when the abstract object was Flor-
ence instead of Art — when this tan-
gible city, fair of natnre, bad to be
exalted over all the Pisas, and Bo-
lognas, and Siennas of the neigh-
bourhood, a work which any burgW
had as much heart to as a Medici —
when patriotism was intensified into
local attachment, and the people re-
garded their city with all the caress-
ing and adorning love which sur-
rounds a beautifbl bride or a favourite
sister, the impulse was more personal,
the inspiration more direct The in-
fluence of this sentiment is visible
throughout the whole town ; every-
thing done in the grand days of
Florence carries a certain defiance
and brag in its beauty. - Can any-
body else show such a cathedral?
— such towers, such palaces, such
churches? Was ever town so per-
fect, so noble, so splendidly adorned ?
Nothing but this could have moved
to such superb liberality the citizens
of that gorgeous time; perhaps no-
thing could have so stimulated the
exertions of everybody engaged. It
was a matter of personal exaltation
to employers and employed ; the very
workmen wroaght with inspiration,
and felt their national credit involved.
It is an amusing comment enough
rthe politico - philantb topical
of an united Italy. But these
times return no more. Art nowadays
must be cosmopolitan, and forgets
that when art was at its grandest,
art was local, and that the magnifi-
cence of these old towers, which all
the world goes to visit, arises from
the fact that Glenius, lees careful of
itself than nowadays, set to work
heartily, not to produce works of one
description to be scattered among
connoisseurs throughout the world,
588
A Wmk in Flarmue.
[Kor.
bot throwing itself into everything
needfal, be it bridge, be it gate, be
it fortificatioo, be it pictore, Uboured
with tbe cheerfal daylight form of m
Sacticable and visible purpose. Mr.
DskiD, who thinks it is a sio to
spend money upon Manchester draw-
ing-rooms, and wonld have the cot-
ton-spinning magnates bay Verona
instead, might almost find a more
palatable lesson to preach to them
from the text of this Florence. Sap-
pose an artist might have something
else to do in this world than paint
cabinet pictures? Suppose he fell
into love with his native town, as
Michael Angelo did, and made a
visionary bride to himself out of his
Florence, and cet his wits to work
how to array her forth, how to shape
her outline, and adorn her frame?
This is the impulse which made
Verona — perhaps it might make a
great deal even of a Manchester —
and it is certain that the result is
more real and tangible, more dis-
tinctly to be realised and identified,
than even tbe treasury of a picture-
gallery. And it is impossible to find
a clearer interpretation of the dif-
ference between art ancient and art
modern than is to be found in
Florence. A strait society, confined
within those turreted and castled
widls— an intense local pride, love,
and vanitv, which had no objects so
close at heart as the humiliation of
its neighbours by the exhibition of
its own wealth and glory — a civic
population, where every man knew
every other man^s origin, and where,
at tbe height of fame and popu-
larity, the great painter was still the
son of the garlana-maker, and content
to glorify that distinction. These were
the days when the artist carried on
embassies, conducted fortifications,
bore a hand in wars; but when he
returned to work, carried with him,
into whatever he was about, tbe
enthusiastic sympathy of scores of
shopkeepers and workmen and sim-
ple baurgoisie, who bad been at
school with the lad, and had known
him all their lives, and took honour
in his triumph. And thus the fami-
liar popular regard grew round him,
and stimulated bis hands. He was
a capable man, ready for whatever
might be needed, not a student vith
bis brashes and his palette aad ■&-
thing else to ataod upon. Wba
anything new was to be dfloe, a
quarts part of tbe town 'tomei
eager eyes upon him. Perhaps the
other quarters had eatA their ovt
champion. Then canoe aoch ooa^
petitions as the world does not «
nowadays — where every man's heui
was in the strife — where the mietcr
fell into a burst of simple admn-
tion over bis own work when be
had finished it, yet, mago»mmai&f
amazed at the excellence of hm rivii,
cried out, in simple-hearted acfcnov-
ledgment of a superior, ** To thee k
is given to make the Christ — to be
the Contadini;" and where the citi-
zen's delight in the glorification d
bis town seems to have been eaa^
to neutralise the artiaVs dinppoiEt-
ment when another hand waa dioaa
to do it. These were the days wb^
all Tuscany had a festival becaiae t
gate was fixed at the Baptistery, aod
when everybody worshipped with ao
af^tionate superlative admiratioo
the accomplished glories of la Uik
Firenze, the city of their hearta
Thick of that proud Fiorentlnev la-
bouring hugely all day long in hk
own arrogant fashion for tbe aasa
embellishment, who coants these Bsp-
tistery gates of it for gates of heafco,
and challenges Donatello's Mareo to
speak to him, and has himself boried,
that invincible, nnslayabie sool, who
could not comprehend dying, when be
could still see Branelleschi's dome;
the pride of Florence, rising grsod
into the Italian skies I Tea, thisk
of Michael Angelo, with his gi^
rampart yonder defendin|^ the jbpe
where San Mlniato shines in tbe
sunshine, and where the Aostrian
bullets still appear imbedded in tbe
mediicval wall — with his big David
in the busy Piazza, and his bagger
shadow pervadinff with its fervent
home-love, its heroic admihLtioD,
its arrogant local pride, the toss
of Florence,' and then think of ta
Engli^ painter in his etadio, with
hopes of the Boyal Academy, and
dazzling dreams of society — wbose
''success^' is to have pioture-dealen
squabbling over his works, and to
be taken "out" perpetaaUy, and
perhaps to ruin himself in a vau
emulation, and oonnt it for bis
859.]
A Week in Fbraua.
iffhest social glory that a Duke or
. Marqaifl honour^ the artist's board.
?here he is, lost ia London, which
•erhaps he hates, and most likdy
ever wastes a thought npon, stmg-
ling up in the crowd, intent npon
aonnting on the shonlders of fame
Dd getting on in the world; or, if
le does not do so, a very blamable
lerson, without any regard for the
otereats of his iiunily, as everybody
7ill allow. Is it wonderfol that the
nen have changed with the times?
Does anybody's heart go into the
looses of Parliament? Is it any
onger possible to adorn with all the
oviog fancies of genins one*s home,
vfaere one knows every lane and
corner where one's forefathers have
ived, and where one's children will
)e. and where everybody knows the
)ngin and the story, the rise and
be progress, of the homeborn poet?
N^ay, must not the yoong genins
iiurry off rather into Uie mnltitode,
where no man shall be able to call
iiim Andrew of the Tailor, or re-
member bis &ther's shop, where
ihame of his humble birth will make
[)im either boast of it, or be silent
IS death on the subject, and where
ill bis energies shall be directed, by
neane of his pictures, to ^t on in
the world ? Very well, getting on in
the world is a perfectly honest and
legitimate ambition. But that is
one reason why there is no Florence
in England, and not a Michael
Angelo, nor even an Andrea del
Sarto, to be heard of at present in
the artistic world.
It is not possible to avoid some
little digression of thought on this
subject in entering such a place. For
Florence is pervaded by &e memory
of those men of the past, and by
their enthusiasm and admiration for
those lovely everlasting monuments
of art which were new m their days,
and are shrines and places of pil-
grimage to us. It is not easv to pass
unmoved by that marble slab in the
wall which commemorates the snot
where Dante sat on summer nights
gazing at Giotto's tower, or to look
without a certain thrill at that hard
Roman visage in Santa Oroce, which
looks through the opened doors to-
wards the beloved Duomo and its
glorious dome. Who can say how
often he looks through his own eyes
of stone upon that distant and lofty
vision; or when the passage yonder
ma^ be yielded to us with a stately
invisible grace by a still greater
one of the immortals? The very
streets are inspired with this living
love of those dead men. Their
visionary presence watches over the
city they loved better than an army.
Here they were born, and out of
here they will never die.
And it is under similar conditions
that all the great art-cities of the
world have grown into that complete
enrichment and adorning in which
we wonder .to find them standing
" like a bride arrayed for her hus-
band ''—whether it be in Flemish
coif and mifles, or in Italian robe and
veil. To be sore old Nuremberg in
its Bavarian plain, or those quaint
wealthy buraher-boasts, which stud
like bosses of rich ornament the rich
lowlands of Flanders, are perhaps
more complete and perfect specimens
of their kind than is this city of
Florence, though none can boast so
illustrious a confraternity. And we
go and crib '' examples " out of them
like sages,- as we are, and think it is
all because of the particular period
of their Gothic, or fashion of their
decoration, and so build a (Gothic of
our own in imitation, and wonder
how it fails of the effect, without ever
finding out that it is not Gothic but
local love and pride, and wealth and
boasting, and the universal primitive
ailectionate vanity which is resolute
to make its own dwelling fairer than
its neighbour's, and loves to adorn,
wherever adorning is possible, its
dear hereditary home. As for us, on
the contrary, so far from making love
to our town and priding ourselves
upon its beauty, our aim is to get as
far away as posdble-— so far, that our
grandfothers would have taken a
week to think about sudi a journey
as we make calmly every morning
into business, if that afflicting neces-
sity exists for us;; and there is no
mora popular English sentiment than
that **God made the country, but
man made the town." Taking this
for our creed, we let the bricklayer
and the town surveyor do the meaner
business for us, and despise the
whole affair; and Mr. Buskin going
590
A Widt in Monnci,
to Mancbester finds onl^ brick BheHs
of warehoasei ten BtorieB high, and
Bbam PalladiaD fronti of offices and
hospitals, belted roond at a respect-
fol distance by groves of villas, where
the iDsensible cotton-spinners do de-
ooration in their drawing-rooms, and
spend no end of money in upholstery
and gardening -J and that eccentric
oracle flashes into glorious descrip-
tions of the old glorions cities which
men have loved and lived for, and
bids the English trader buy YerOna,
as the only impossible, faotastie, half
sincere, half contemptaons advice
which can be Riven nim under his
drcnmstanoies. We ar^ tempted to
try another eqaally impossible, and
oat of tima What if all those rich,
well-intentioned people were bat to
live in Manchester, and taking to
liking and growinff proad of it?
What if the artbt-tithe of the popu-
lation, instead of strainiog its ambi-
tions soul exdosively on pictoree,
were to tarn its ready hand to every-
thing, and find stones and bricks as
worthy implements as brashes and
pigments? What if the ootton-
spinniog world, ignoring the ''sea-
son," and scorning fashion, and
proving itself superior to the bland-
ishments of London, were to throw
its whole heart into the uphill en-
terprise of making its own dwelling-
plaoe the finest town in Christendom,
and embellishing its daily paths with
all the delicate fancy and affectionate
ornament which it was in the local
heart to devise? The result might
look odd enough perhaps in this
first generation ; bat a few hundred
years of time improves composition
.mightily, and has a wonderful pic-
turesque effect upon everything that
has the least possibility of beauty in
it We shall never eee that reforma-
tory movemenl^-^that change in the
economy of great towns; bat there
is more reasonableness in this im-
poesibitity than in that other impos-
sibility touchiog the purchase of
Yerona, and there can be very little
doubt that this is how all these
Yerooaa and Florences, these Ghents
and Nnrembergs, came to be what
they are.
If all this digression originated in
the bridge, whidi is—^as much as all
those saints gazing at us with serene
[Nw.
sweet faces, from their gilt hi^.
ground and little . frames of Uber-
nacle-work, which are more noof-
nisable by that iiame--a geooK
Taddeo GMdi — ^it becomeB u to
bring the reader straightway vidiia
sight of a greater painter's more at-
morable work. Through the oanoi
streets where great palaces &ovi
upon the way, where this wt
Strozzi Palazzo glooms like to opa
Newgate in the sunahioe, grd
enough, I suppose, but dismal, viti
its massive courses of unhewn itoa,
embellished here and there bv greti
iron rings fixed into the walls, ibI
meant to support torches for a
illumination, but looking rather lie
disnsed fetters tiirost out^ as appn-
priate decoration upon the ioTiodbfe
prison front,— throng the deep gailj
of this darkling pass, where no^
never reaches beyond the third ^,
and where, deep down in the sbi^
at doors of odlars and steps of hoa»
sheaves of lilies of the vall^ tooek
the February weather ioto sprii>|
we make our way to the heart oi
Florence. Stand here in the opea
space beside this movable shop d
humble drapery, with its coIodk^
handkerchiefia and homely gown ami
aprons. Never mind that low Fooad
building at your left hand, tboi^b
that is Dante's '* Mio bel saa 6»
vanni," and there are Gbibcrti'i
matchless gates. Look jooder.
straight before you— saw yoa f*
mortal piece of masonrjr go op '^
the ^es so clear, so fair, with m
an exquisite poise of strength m
grace ? It is but a Biqiitfe tofff,
without either spire or piDnad& u
neither springs firom the earth istft
olustering arch and shafk flovcriEf
forth in imperishable stone, like ^
northern Gothic, nor sets steidw
pillars down upon the soil, m
weights the world with its hlanj
beauty, like the sightless Mas e(
Greece ; yet out of that simplest ftn»
what loftiness, what ligbtDesa, vw
solidity! how assured aod grsM t»
line of that calm emiDeDee,ho^^
the solitary attitude, the light p^
ing all around it, as one feeb »^
the winds and the storms might o(^
without sending a tranor thToago id
stead&st frame, or detaehiog w ffi]-
oament from the walls. So higb. so
1859.]
A Wetk m Flormte.
591
pare, bo simple, i^ triampb of poiM
and proportloo, perhaps dall atone
woola have made this grand fancy
austere, bat its delicate marble gives
perfect expression to the sentiment
of the design. Soft in every tone
and tint of coloar, with a polish and
a dazzle as of snow, where the sun-
shine lights upon that virgin panel,
which is white as light itself, and will
bear no other comparison. Yet not
much 'of white, not snow-cold and
passionless, like an alabaster model
or a marble statue; creaming into
tints of yellow, of brown, of everv
indescribable gradation of hue — col-
our seems almost too strong a word
— there is nothing blank or dead in
this wonderful monument, but in-
stead, a living variety and animation
which under all changes of the at-
mosphere preserves its interest, and
gleams forth when the sun comes
with its interpretinfl: touches, in a
perfect revelation. It was not here,
but at the other side of the long pi<
azza, that yonder mysterious man
who had been among the spirits,
came to the stone bench by the wall,
and sat in the sweet evening air, gaz-
ing at that tower. How the sun-
shine, which had long since left the
deep shade of the streets, played
aboat its upper lines, flashioe out the
snowy facets one by one, and burning
into richer tints the veins of yellow
and olive and brown high up yonder
in the arid heaven; — how that light
stole and lingered away, with a last
and yet & last return, to those gleam-
ing lines and panels;— how at last,
all cooled and grave out of that il-
lumination, the fair Campanile, grow-
ing whiter and greyer, stood calm
against the sky over which rosy
sunset shades came and faded, and
smiled through the air, all' murmur-
ous with bums of voices^ a house-
bold presence, dear and - lovely,
a Michael or a Baphael, wrapt and
pale; until at last the Italian stars
gleamed soft in silvery reflections
on its delicate grandeur, and the
outline of its form grew faint, yet
perfect, against the night There
was no dome that night rbing on
its majestic piers to share the glory.
Pale walls, but half completed, glist-
ened in the starlight, and the Flo-
rentines sauntered by in their even-
ing leisure to see the progress of this-
great temple, which should be yet
near a hundred years a - buildmg,
and which was to be the boast of
Florence, and whispered aside and
pointed to their cbildren the num
who had been in hell and in purga-
tory, and who even now, it was easy
to perceive, saw things which no
other man could see, in that dim air
and sky, and round the silent glorv
of Giotto's To^er. And so he did,
can any one doubt, with those mvs-
terious eyes of his. Perhaps bis
Giotto dead, smiling down upon the
completed triumph which tne old
painter made to the glory of God —
perhaps that Beatrice, who was more
than an angel— and so sat companioop
ed though alone, in the Italian night,
sad, yet not without a smile — sore
from the wounds and losses of this
life, taking comfort in those wonder-
ful silent things, silent as his heart,
which neither mortify nor deceive.
The GaiDpanile of Giotto is en-
riched over all its surface with pan-
elled groups in relief, rich ribbons
of sculpture, and with figures of more
than life-size saints and prophets.
These, however, sink into mere en-
richment as one looks at this tower,
which might have been bald without
them, but needs only their visible
presence to make it perfect I can-
not give anybody any assistance in
^amining these treasures. They are
there full of quaint and noble ezpres-
slon, for all who would see, with not
a single mechanical chisel raised
upon the whole, nor hand ungifted,
but simple-hearted Genius, working
unanimous and cordial for the work's
sake, uncareful for the glory, such a
man as Luca della lS>bia helping
to work out the painter-master's de-
signs, and the whole splendid, simple,
honest confraternity in one fervent
consent and unanimity, doing what-
ever was most needful to bring all
to perfection. Even here, and then,
these marbles were costly beyond
common counting, but Florence was^
resolute in her ma^^nificent boast;'
and if ever sacred chimes came forth
of a nobler enclosure, that Campanile
must have been built in dreams.
And after all, this tower is but the
corner, a single point in the magnifi-
cent group which now fills the piazza.
592
A Week in Florence.
[Nov.
There sweeps fbo cathedral upward
in its grand and rounded lines, fnll,
large, and splendid, like a matron
Jnno. Here at once one learns the
difference between the Northern
Gothic, fancifal and imaginative,
and this broad and calm Italian,
the mediseval handwriting in stone.
Here is no visionary upward spring,
no dainty frostwork of invention, no
veil of fantasy over the strength
which stands like the rocks, and yet
blossoms like the flowers. All those
picturesque inequalities, those thou-
sand fretted points that trap the sun-
shine, those niches and canopies, and
spires and pinnacles — all that tender
show of lightness and airpr grace
which charms us by its magical con-
trast to the solid nnreflective stone
in which these visionary fancies work
themselves into beins;, we have left
behind on the other side of the Alps.
Here is no longer that spiritual ima-
ginative ascent of graceful height upon
height, climbing upward with all the
profusion and variety of nature her-
self, to the central point and crown-
ing spire. The architectural muse of
Italy is •* a spirit, but a woman too."
This great structure rises upward
with a broad and noble swell of un-
broken outline, vast, solid, grandiose
— a grave unchangeable everlasting
embodiment, not of fancy and vision,
but of plan and thought — ^no projec-
tion except that solemn repetition of
minute angles, perpendicular ledges
of masonrv, by which the level wall
sets into the rounding of that grand
circle which supports the dome,
breaks here upon the unity of line.
The whole immense building rises in
an undisturbable repose and solem-
nity towards the vast dome, too nobly
proportioned to disclose its vastnesS.
which swells forth from the smaller
domes of the bays upon a sky, which
repeats in a climax its absolute per-
fection, and glows an unbroken hea-
ven, without a cloudy over the un-
broken grandeur of this great temple
• of God. The cathedrals of the North
are more picturesque, more dramatic,
perhaps more lovable; but none of
them possess this complete and silent
majesty, nor convey any such im«
pressions of magnificence, restrained
and chastened of force and vigour,
bent to the curb of a determined will
and settled purpose. One can per-
ceive by the rich tracery of those
slender windows what the great im-
agination labouring here cQuId have
done if it might ; but the whole is con-
trolled, kept under, commanded, per-
mitted just to show itself, to throw
the delicate thread of an embroid-
ered parapet about some of those dis-
tant galleries rouod the dome, and
to lure the dainty window-arch from
its web of graceful fancy, but nothing
more nor rarther; and the retioenoe
gives a noble modesty and reserve,
the self-restraint of power, to the
grand erection. But it is true that
nothing less than this soft sweet
marble could have made such reti-
cence practicable. From the base,
where liberal ledges make their foot-
ing firm, and round which ruDs a
broad snowy beach, hospitable and
princely, where one loves to fancy
pilgrims resting from their jouroeya
long ago— every inch of those great
walls is panelled with marble ; black
and white, perhaps, you ^1 say,
dear spectator, if you do not care
much about the matter. Yes, black
and white! — black, which is brown,
which is green, which is olive, as the
sun and your eyes change — white
which is snow, which is foam, which
is gold, pale and tender as the locks
of angels — two cardinal colours with
every tint in the world hidden in
them, and bursting forth in tender
glints and shades as the prism of
daylight turns from dawn to night
Nobody who thinks of a dull marble
arch, or a dead-white statue, can
appreciate the marble of this cathe-
dral of Florence. The sound is grand,
but the idea is chilly in that accepta-
tion. A. dazzling polished blank,
where one dead funeral line con-
trasts another, is something whidi
the imagination shrinks from; and
there may be still extant some nn-
travelled individual like myself, who
has owned in his or her secret soul
an undivulged shiver over the
thought. But here is no chill, oo
dead precision, no blank of alabaster
white nor bar of jet — the warm living
variety of tone is indescribable ; here
and there a point of snow flashes oat
from the wall like a sudden decora-
1 859.] A Wt^k in Fhrenoe. 598
lion anfieroeiyed before; bat for the the golden gates which might be
most part the very white is cream- gates of Paradise, and side by side
white, relieving itself qi>oq the veins with the unfaded glories of Giotti^s
of profound green, the rich olive, and Tower.
san- brown which frame it in. And Yes, there they are as the^ stand
for borders to this panelling are in Italy, a wonderfal pathetic alle-
ribbons of mosaic, as delicate, as gory — the old time alive and glorioos,
minute, and as perfect as those ivory warm in its old love and faith and
Indian mosaics on blotting • books smiles; and the present time, the
and card - cases, which everybody forlorn to - day, down • looking and
wonders at. These delicate cinctares hopeless, accustomed to its misery,
surround the whole immense extent waitjog till somebody does something
uninjured in their mionte and regular for it, beyond the idea of any effort
beauty, as fresh as though Brunei* to help itself. TVho does not know
leschi 8 workman were still at work how tnat disease of dependence eats
upon the dome; the entire face of and spreads? I wish Italy herself
the building is intact and uninjured, were not so like that unhappy facade
strong in its delicacy, all but one — ^I wish they would do something
part Be slow to come round to out of their own heart, if it were but
this fa9ade, . opposite to which are sham marble, to redeem the dreary
Ghiberti's gates. Once, upon a time vaoaity which belongs to so much
there lived at Florence an ogre beauty. But they only keep coant-
named by the appropriate name of ing np and reckoning the cost, and
Uquccione, to whom there occurred find it impossible, tul some Anglo-
tbe splendid ambition of immortalis- Saxon committee or despotic em-
ing himself after a fashion unusual peror is moved to take the work in
to his conntrymea The facade was haod, and halfindignanUy, half-con-
then worthy of the remainder of the temptuonsly, do it for them. For
building, enriched with sculpture, them? No — for Giotti and Brunel-
the work and pride of the same leschi, and for the sake of his shadow
artist fraternity which had given its who sits by the wall yonder upon
whole h&art to the decoration of the the seat of stone which has long
Campanile. This worthy Florentine since mouldered into fragments,
dashed down the statues from their watching the sunset fade from the
places, tore the marbles from the Painter's Tower,
wall, and left the front of one of the The Baptisterv is directly opposite,
most splendid buildings in the world ^ith only the breadth of a street
a grim vast gable of brown plaster between a low, round, ancient place,
with faint indications on its stripped which the sun reaches more rarely,
and humiliated breadth of sometnlng and which feels the want of his warm
which has been there — something influence on its marble — marble
which might be anything. The wall which is colder, paler, set in larger
of a drawing-room stripped of its panels, and where the lines of the
paper, and with its outer plaster darker framework remind one uu-
scraped off, could not show a more comfortably of the black crossbeams
entire, a more dismal shabbiness— of German country - houses. And I
u^,. V x^ -.,_ , ,. , , ^ill no^i pretend to describe the gates.
85i.^.£'d15rS.:^», , Wm np/Mich«l Angelo . very, good
authority f — and he has not hesitated
That is three hundred years ago — to leave his opinion on record. Then
but no second spring has come to there are prints and photographs
Florence, nor any renewing of her without number, which anybody may
youth ; and there in the sunshine, see. I speak of Florence, not of iu
without an effort made to amend or individual works of art The ereat
cover it, honest at least in its humilia- Ghiberti gate, with its earnest heads
tion, stands— human vanity disclosed full of interest and expression, bend-
and visible, as in a fable of the ing out from the borders, and all its
eighteenth century—the dismal front wonderfal panelled groups encloatjd
of that magnificent Baomo, opposite in that binding, does almost all that
594
A Week in Florence.
[\0T.
mortal work can do to jostify tbat
big bjberbole. Tbe Baptistery within,
where Dante broke the font, and
where all the little Florentines are
still*' made Christians/' is dark and
cold, as all other churches are at this
time, looking ont from Pisano's gate
tipon the dazzling sunshine, which
does not reach this spot. It is diffi-
cnlt, even by contrast from the light
out of doors, to see more than the
lofty narrow gallery, supported on
those great pillars^ which runs round
the walls, and opens here and there
intd a little cell-oratory, with tiny
altar and homely pictures— and the
dim wonders of the roof, where sits
in gigantic and solemn, but some-
what grim mosaic, a throned figure
of our Lord, presiding over a last
judgment, which does not want its
usual grotesque horrors. The great
area of the whole, the noble circle
of the apse, with its chapels, dis-
tinguished by the jewelled gleams
of painted glass, and the twinkle of
votive candles, rather than by any
general light which could enable us
to see them, leaves a certain imposing
expression of size and grandeur on the
mind— but is not by any means so
characteristic and individual, not to
say majestic and commanding, as the
exterior. There are pictures, to be
sure, upon all the altars— yards of
canvass, deserts of paint— but even
shpposiog them to be worth the
while, which is doubtful, there is no
light to see them by. Behind the
great rood which crowns the high
altar, is the last work of Michael
Angelo, a great unfinished Pieta,
which he meant for his own tomb —
but even around that the li^ht is
faint, th6 rich small window m the
central chapel of the apse being half
veiled with a curtain, and the grey
dim atmospheric circle of Yasari's
painted roof having no reflection to
send down upon the group below. A
very few people are m the church —
now and then one individual crosses
the marble pavement, and drops sud-
denly, without noise, on the step of
one of the altars — and a group of
men in white muslin Jackets, with
black round caps upon their heads,
Bang about the sacristy door, where
there is a little commotion and put-
ting on of vestmeotB, for it dnira
near the hour for Tespers. Batfg
will not wait for vespers— the plia
is chill, mysterious, dead, with its
candles twinkling in tbe dull isj-
light, and its sinele worshippers, iiR
moths, attracted by the light TV
sun shines still ont of doors— brik
life, such as it is, moves in tbe stretti.
Provincial life — wonderfol eibibi-
tions of fashion, far beyond Looda
or even Paris — feminine skirta ti-
ply voluminous, feminine faces vid
the ears fully revealed for the edi&i^
tion of the public, and bonnets vbid
can only be seen from behind. ^
diers, gray -coated and comfortibie,
many of them almost boys. HeaT?
dragoons of five feet- two — gendariBe-
rie, with brigand *s hats and cod^
feathers. Then those lounging U^
of better size and looks than tbe sol-
diers, who form so large a portloQ of
every crowd in this place, and m
peculiar a one — always with a doit
over the left shoulder, or their ars
out of their sleeves. In this stxeet
every fifth house is a cafft, a longstiip
of a room with little marble tabs,
opening direct upon the street, vbp
people sit in modest dissipatioo vi^
a cup of cofiee and a glass of wats-
or a thimbleful of punch, or a mfti
potation of Marsala — ^but alwajs the
glass of water. Then coming dovp
through the narrow streets ber^ ^
once more the Lung' Amo, througd
with its afternoon crowd, carriages «
all descriptions hastening past to ^
Oascine, the fashionable drire an
park of Florence, where all tbe watt
goes at this hour. Good speed to all
the world ! if other people come hee
to see a bit of an imitation of Hjo?
Park, or a cut out of tbe Chsh^
Elyseei, we did no such thing-jj
us find oar way about the town uA
lose ourselves among the streets -
those streets with their vast pato
sombre, gloomy, and stroDg. OQ^ ^
which the old Ufe and splendour bavt
departed. Kor is it only the pftl*««
which are interesting. More p
turesque still than that ToscaQ ^'
pet which projects from tbe roofjw
of those palazzos, is the irregnltf QO^
of less distinguished houses of a dfseo
difierent altitudes, which tbe ^
loves. Here there is a sadden cat
1869.]
A Week in Fhrente.
695
down ID tbe deep sbadow, lettiDg the
Ban in to opposite windows, two and
DO more ont- of twentj. Here an
onezpected elevatioD, blotting <mt
the light from one-half of the house
across the way, and holding even the
gallery on its roof in shadow np to a
certain point, where the sun ponrs in
with double force over the lower level
of the next roof-Huid so the Kne goes
dripping and dropping in bursts of
light, and oblique falte of shadow,
along its irregular and picturesque
course, with a delightful appearance
of caprice and wilfulness. But com-
ing out of the broad sunshine which
beams over the river, and the bridges,
and the Lung* Arno— you cannot con-
ceive, yon chilly grumbling Britishers,
who make endleas discomfort out of
your owu honest comprehensible cli-
mate, how ice-cold and petrifying are
the deep ravines of shadow in these
streets.
Third Day, — ^I do not promise
that this is to-morrow — ^but as I
cannot see how that can make the
slightest difference to you, never
mind, bat understand that it is Thurs-
day, a day which has privileges. It
is OarnivflU time in Florence, and all
the world is out of its wks. Not in
an imperial overpowering madness,
like Rome at the same period— a
mild imbecility which goes over a
month, wraps the Florentine soul.
Wherever jou go to-day there are
groups of maskers, mummers, extra-
ordinary figures in the absurdest
dresses, with hideous black masks,
or. comic ** fause faces," as they used
to be caUed in Scotland — covering
their proper countenances. There is
DO great invention displayed in these
dresses, though some are ridicnions
enough ; but at the present moment
the crowd moves towards the court
of the Uffizi, where, thb being a ftsta
and great day, tbe maskers con-
gregate. The Court of the Uffizi is
a long narrow oblong, with a colon-
nade on each side, opening at one
end into the busiest piazza of the
city, and at the other concluding in
open arches, through which you pass
to an unfrequented end of the Lung'
Arno, close upon the river. On ordi-
nary days this open space, which is
scarcely wider than a street, and very
much like one, is frequented by peri-
patetic stalls of homely merchandise,
coloured cotton handkerchiefs, and
bundles of those checked and dotted
cotton fabrics which even tbe old
women of England patronise no
longer; while under the colonnades
are stalls and glas»<»se8 of cheap
jewellery, toys, and books. All this
18 cleared away to*day, and though
there is nothing very wonderful in tbe
sight, the crowd, half in the sun half
in the shade, with its nerpetnal change
and motion, diversined as it is by
groune of maskers, who form perhaps
one-tnird of the whole assembly, is a
sufficiently animated and amusine
Bight There are a few historical
dresses, on which some care has been
bestowed ; no end of jesters and har-
lequins, with jingling bells ; brigands
with harmless guns over their shoul-
ders ; and mummers, without regard
to character, in loose white <»shmere
coats, fantastically ornamented, and
sugar-loaf hats decked with ribbons.
Some dozen of shepherdesses, in white
muslin and tinsel, with little straw
hatp stuck on the back of their heads,
form the feminine element; and a
floating mass of mysterious figures
in black dominoes, fill up the scene.
All are masked after one fashion or
another ; half of them, from the tags
of theur dress, or the little switches
they carry, keep up a little sound of
bells ; and it is the etiquette of the
masquerade to speak in a falsetto
Sieak, in which shrill nndistinguish-
le tone the disguised assail their
friends on all sides, to the frequent
confusion of the unmasked portion
of the company. This is the fun of
the whole, and it is laughable enough
lor a time; but, heaven preserve
their witsl think of three weeks of
it. The bells and the squeaks and
the occasional rush of a little party
of maskers through the crowd, tlie
&int laughter and hum of the crowd
itself never rises into excitement
Tet there they move about for hours,
glancing in and out of the light, with
the high walls of the great picture-
gallery enclosing them, and modem
inexpensive statues, white and dull,
looking down from between the col-
umns of the colonnade. Up yonder
in that gallery are Raphaelti, Titians,
596
A WeAmlhnnu.
[Nof.
Aodreas, a nobler compaDy ; there is
tbe Medioean Yenos, the Niobe» and
ID a bandred tender reoderiogs, the
Yirgia Mother with her Child. No,
hot we most not go ap all these
Btaira to-day, and are not ooDooia-
aeors, and cannot eajr oor mind about
piclares. I think, it very likely I
ahoald fail of the proper ecataaies be-
fore that Yenns; let as rather make
haste oat of tbe tamolt to glance
into the evergreen alleys of the arch-
dQcal gardens, this day open to the
unprivileged public, before we climb
the breathless hill where all the
marbles oi San Minlato glisten and
glimmer in tbe sun.
The street is fall of little bandf
of maskers hastening towards the
UflBzi. Wonderful charm of mystery,
is it not, which can tempt any woman
to hide her face behind that hideous
black mask ? The comic faces have
still some hamanitv in them, but
they are not worn by women. Fun
and fashion, it seems, are stronger
than vanity. Up above our heads,
as we hasten towards the old bridge,
passes with stealthy privacy tbe
secret passage which winds along
the sides of the houses, and across
the goldsmiths' shops on the Ponto*
veccbio towards the Tuscan Sove-
reign's palace,— an invisible road,
fasteninsr on with arrogant despot-
ism to l£e habitations in its way, and
throwing its lofty covered arch over
the narrow streets, by which the
Medicean rulers could make their
unsuspected way from their palace
to the seat of government, and by
which his present Highness could
doubtless do the same, if anything
in his little way of government de-
manded such a precantion. This
secret passage opens into the Ufifizi,
which, in its turn, communicates
with the Palazzo Yecchio, a noble
old building, built before the prison-
era of Florentine architecture. The
Palazzo Pitti, tbe archducal palace,
stands upon a little eminence with
tbe gum trees and slopes of the
'Boboli gardens ascending behind,
frowning with beetle brows and turn-
key grandeur upon the sunny semi-
circle at its feet It is very imposing,
commanding, magnificent, the people
bay. It 18, however, each a Newgate
front with which it meets tk ^i
that I am quite anable to seeuj"
thing fine in it Behind tbe palss-
the hill ascends in straight lioes «{
road, with living walls of baj aai
laurel on either side, some nine «
ten feet high, which now and tfaa
open upon an amphitheatre of siuk;
turf on a round embosomed littk
valley, with a row of leaflen rm
for a railing, and the grass spao^
with tender anemooes groinog wild.
in every ddicate variety of wmteBea
upon slops of greensward. Bat staf.
I bad meant to show yoa FIorlob
from this height ; bat what is tlis
height to San Miniato ? Lofk over
to the other side, to the coontfj, to
the soft grey olives on tbe slopes, to
the distant round of Galileo's toicr,
to the white villa on BiiloBqatrdo,
dazzling in tbe sanshine. Tbk b
the only break in the circle of moon-
tains which watch over Floreooe;
these are not mountains, they uf
tender little hills which recall to ooeie
spite of ooeVself the tender pastonl
adjurations of Scriptare-— " Ye little
hills like lambs !" — dipping don
into those sweet dopes, rising to Eodi
pure mid-beights of^ sunshine, foldjii
over each other, so soft^ so perfects)
varied, in such inexhaostible grosjs,
as though the Italian soil was too
rich and warm to content itself vitb
our level, and could not choose bsS
swell upward to meet tbe willii^
sunl
Ban Miniato is bejond the pM
on the other side of that sham vtO.
which a char^ of artillery wsg|[ODs
could break down at any time vitli-
ont trouble to their guns. The steep
line of causeway alK>ve has bea <
pilgrim's road ; and here, where oeD
and women sit in the sun, knittiog,
talking, gosuping, happy eooogii, 0
it appears, till you approach, wim
every hand is extended, and utelsB*
cboly voices appeal to your ehsritf
"for t!ie love of Marie," penitents
once toiled and trembled oo their
knees from cross to cross, worluQ^
out their sins by means of a peoaoce
which modem pilgrims do cbeer
fully afoot for sake of the vie*.
And yonder lies Florence io its til-
ley, the great dome thI io the afte^
noon sonshine, and by iu side, It^
L859.]
A WM tn Flfir€ne$.
wr
I spiritoal f)re80noe, that pale> noble,
ridioDory sentinel^ pore like an angel,
iniong the darker towers. However
^ou turn, the dome and the Campa-
lile are the centre of the scene — ^the
jeart of its humanity. And yonder
s the lower dome of San Lorenzo,
ivhere sleep the Medici, with Michael
ingelo^s white gaardians watching
iheir dust; and here the pictnresqne,
iuaint tower of the Palazzo Vecchio,
md yonder another, and yet another
Z/ampanile, with the dear glimmer
)f the river, crossed by bridges and
ihadows threading through the mid^t ;
Lnd fronts of lofty houses, and up-
ward thrusts of domestic towers,
ind galleries perched upon house-
ops, and golden arrows of sunshine
ailing down through invisible nar-
*ow streets, which break the mass
IS though some fairy power had
}ut its mighty shadow through.
b'urther off the hills heave upwards
:o the horizon, olive>brown against
;he frky, with glimmers of white
louses thrust into every fold and
>lope, and dropping down along the
n visible distance of the valley be-
tween Florence and the further
nountaiiis, into dots and spots of
Mrhite gleatning out of an nnperceiv-
ible soil, so that one could fancy one
zazed upon the sea — till the white
ridges to the west, where this valley
of the Arno closes in an invisible
i^orge, limit the horizon with airy
[>eaks of snow — peaks which may be
a thousand miles away, so magical
is the distance, and so strange the
gleam of those &r-off specks of
houses out of the invisible level and
sunny air below. The whole scene
is magical and extraordinary: the
solitary slopes of yonder hills in-
vaded and penetrated by these
human habitations — the vision of a
lower mount just visible between
two great heads of ^he range, bear-
ing a grey mass of building on its
crest, and betraying all about it^ on
every knoll and eminence, the same
white gleams of population, like a
great host encamped, with pickets
ou all the hilU, rather than the
steady overflow of a great city — ^be-
trays the gazer into that sudden
surprise of delight which is half a
fancy, and somehow sweeps ezpe-
rience, thought, fancy, every ezer-
dse of one's own mind, away into
the mere satisfaction of gazing on
something more perfect than thought.
I do not know how other people are
affected; but for my own part I
could no more speculate, sitting
here upon thia convent wall, upon
what the people are doing and think-
ing yonder, how they live, and what
they are, than J could fly to the
opposite peak. I have no time for
thinking; the scene absorbs me with
an unreasoning silent delight, which
leaves no room for fancy. In sight
of such, thought and imagination
look like mere mechanical instm-
ment^, which are no longer needed
when God himself takes that magi-
cal divine pencil, and with the air
and the sunshine, the elements and
the accidents of nature, shows us a
profound and simple perfectness, on
which we can do nothing but gaze
and satisfy our hearts. It is not an
intellectual pleasure; it is some-
thing which takes words out of our
mouths, and thoughts out of our
minda, yet rewards us by the inef-
fable unreason of something greater
than either thoughts or words, —
** On a fair Isndscape some htkve looked.
And felt, aa 1 have heard them say,
As though the fleeting Time had been
A thing as steadfiut as the scene
On which they gazed themselves away."
I cannot help thinking, for my
own part, that this kind of contem-
plation— ^if contemplation it can be
called — ^is one of the unsations of
heaven.
Now we pass on past this great
convent, a little higher, to San
Miniato, a melancholy mortuary
church, wonderfully perfect and
beautiful, which is gradually being
made into a burying-ground. It is
amazing, to ascend the steps into
the choir and sanctuary, to And the
richest mosaic in the most perfect
condition, and the noble originality
of the place, which, I think, for un-
injured wealth, has scarcely a rival
in Florence, but which is gradually
and quietly being made into a ne-
cropolis, full of dead nieu^s bones.
A profusion of the most splen/lid
and delicate ornament, rich, minute
mosaics, and beautiful marble, re-
main in the utmost perfection on
the pulpit, which is never used, on
YOU LXZZYI.
89
is9e
A Wnk f» IfofMtfn
Pff.
tbd MiHog which no longer divides
the mosl holy from the hoij place,
and even on the pavement below,
where one Ptnmbles over the votive
wreaths of French sentiment-«-tlie
immortelles and vasee of flower» set
upon the jrraves. We npbraid onr-
selveB in England for carelessness of
onr nioDuments of art; but there
never was chnrchwarden of fifty
years ago more barbarous than the
sturdy friar*, who make money oat
of their church, and displace the
mosaic pavement for gravestones,
and make a desert of the place
which even Time has had the heart
to spare. It is grievous to look at
the freHCoes on the walls, at the per-
fectiim of the building, at the golden
ligiit wliich steels into the desert-
ed sanctuary through windows not
made of glass, but of transparent
golden sheets of marble, without a
secret anathema upon the monkish
custodiers of fo fair a p?ace. But
there are special ressons certainly
in Fl )rence why people should desire
a shelter for their dead witliin con-
secrated walls. Here the dreadful
custom of the town is to convey the
dead by night to a buryinj^-ground
some miles away, when, unattended,
and undistinguished, the nameless
companions of this gloomy journey
are dropped into a common grave, no
one knowing where they lie. For sani-
tary reasons — for the health of the liv-
ing, say the philosophers — and the
poor Indians, let us hope, are suffi-
ciently philosophical to appreciate the
reason ; but it is a horrible conclusion
certainly ; and it is hard to gradge
even those precious marbles for the
shelter of those who might have no
other alternative than that mi^lnight
journey, with the pit at the end.
And litre vast bouquets are visible,
laid within one little enclosure, to
wither and rot into vegetable decay ;
and there, a vase of cut flowers, such
as might be placed on a table, stands
at the head of another ; and yonder
lie wreaths — of immortellet — of white
artiticiiil fiower?, covered with gauze
to protect them; and of laurel leaves,
with ribbons fastened to them, and
votive inscriptions — a strange mil-
linery and frippery of grief — which
show:4 6till more remarkable in com-
parison with that general indiffer-
ence wiiieb can make ttie emsss
mode of sepnltore poeeible. And t^
visiters wander aboat readini: tb
names with a distracted attesticA,
drawn by that hniitAn euriitflty g;^.
wistfulnesa for which Drath Li»
always a certain strange 8UrMr:.<<,
and look with half their eyes a^ t>.
place, thinking upon the inhtbE.:-
ants; and outside the sniehiDe i
warm upon the terrace, and yoa m
see Florence smiling^ in the Tilkr.
and look down upon the hromt
strong fortifications of tite c^lope, wiu
the bullets, as they sav, Biili be^^
in the wall, which have left an u^
signet of Michael An^lu opoo tfe
outlying hiil. Down below, \\x
vines and the olives rise out of the
grass in sunny shelter, and the kI
war and the old defences are fiootM
by the sun ; and in the town ii i*
Osrnival, and the maskers and 1i^
masked are alike roshing to t^
Corsio. Oonie; we are still id liict
But if ever dulness made itse?r s
fitting pastime, I believe it wsi
have been this Oorso — two soi^i
lines of carriages crossing eadi otW
— solemn people in their best cbtife.
some with baskets full of fiuwin
the best sight of the whole, to ^e
thrown into the oarriag?es and Lspe
of their acquaintance in pa^^i^
now and then a c»&chfol of m^b
enlivening the crowd — a lew gr^
equipages, with liveries incfiabl^
and one American driv^ing ten is
hand, with intent face and swfu
gravity, as if the world depended •%
the safety and success of his tesrc
I saw a little girl at a window wish-
fully looking dewn u|ion the hea}><<f
flowers in a carriage below, &q^-
wondering where the prsttj misirts
were to be thrown— for none of tfea:
play was going on at ttie monKtt
**They otdy throw tbt-m to their
friends, my dear,'* said mamou.
'*Tben I wish tee were frieiHls to
these people,*' said tlie little womas,
with an ingenuous sigh. That Mut
and disinterested aspiration wai^ tfce
most amusing incident of tlie Cccfo,
which Went rattling along into twi-
light an<l weariness, till at last the
crowd dispersed, the carriages dis-
appeared, and everybody went boine
to dinner. Melancholy nece^ttj <^
nature I Perennial aad indestractibie
1859.]
A ^w^Bm w^ JfwOT0M$»
999
Dstitation of fauraiuiHyt'-almcMt 1^
)nly ordinary act of life which Oar^
lival itself cannot abrogate even in
in Ttftlian town.
Fourth Day, — ^I ootift^ae it is not
^ithont relaotance that I set out npon
in expedition to the pictare-galleries
)ven on finch a day as this, when
5 very thing will smile in the bright
layliglit which ont of doors is »o full
)f snnshine : not for want of regard
0 the pictures, bnt then, dear oritto,
ron have heard so ranch of these pio-
ares. Everybody's raptores on the
lobject pnt nie ont, who am not
'aptaroua, and I am bonnd to admit
hat a great many pictares every-
where strilce me no otherwise than
IS paint and canyaas, so mnch, or in
tnch proportions; and I donH feel
][uite caiHible of espressing to yon
ny private and individnal sentiments
respecting the smaller portion which
[ am able to appreciate. However,
^ve me your hand and let us go.
The picture gallery of the Palazso
?itti is contained in a soccession of
ine rooms called by absurd mytholo-
,nca1 names, rich in marble floors and
tvonderful tables of mosaic, and in-
habited by a little army of picture-
spiers. Half-a-doeen of Uiese in
)very apartment, each man in posr
\^9\ox\ of one of the finest pictures
n the room, is a little startling to an
nexperienced visitor. Yes, strange
md sad, bnt indisputable, these pto-
:nres which artists come irom the
mds of the earth to see, which the
jToung Ganls and Anglo Saxons make
:>ilgrimagee to, and which are sup-
)osed to stimulate yoang genius, and
;rain the eye and band to modem
triumphs — ^these lovely evidences of
;ho life and power of art, have killed
irt where they dwell. These are
;he modern snccessors of Andrea del
^arto and Michael Angelo, these
(teady imitators working at their
X)pie8. Here is one man copying a
bvonderfnl female head of Titian
A'ith a mechanical precision and
lioety which marks his entire ao-
maintance with his subject. That
Venetian lady is bis prof^ion, his
iving, his mnse, and his breadwin-
ler. When he has finished that
3opy he will b^n another, dailv set-
ting up his easel nnder the liberal
protection of aathority in lintt grand
atndio, hang with 1^ best works of
a score of masters, in presence of
whose familiar fiices this Florentine
Jogs npon his way, looking only npon
the Raphael or the Murillo opposite
as the estate and living of bis brother
painter who makes daily bread oot
of that immortal investment, as he
himself does ont of the ^* Bella di Ti-
ziano.'^ Can anybody tell ns what
principle of homan nature will ac-
count for this ? The merest descrip-
tion of these rooms, with all the
wealth on their walls, is enongh to
rouse to instant longing, to fire with
renewed ambition, the young men at
home who have made Art their choice.
Think of working all day within
sight of snch — working with those
same tools, perfected by centuries
of mechanical improvement, which
have produced such wonders, and
remaining unstimulated, unroused,
withont a glimmer of discontent or
ambition in one's well - regulated
heart, working calm as a weaver or i
a cotton-spinner on the skilful per-
fection of one's hnndredth copy!
Wonderfnl men! I look at them
with reverence, with amazement,
with humility I Their heaven of
satisfaction is too high for my undei>
standing. Perhaps, seeing all that
art has done, these lofty optimiats
have given up in despair the hope of
embo<1ying an ideal which Raphael
and Titian prove to them cannot be
reached in this world. Perhaps a
fancy which soars beyond the mas-
ters has put theee modem stoics out
of heart with the endeavour only to
come up to them; perhajjs reasons
of a less lofty description have weight
among the brotherhood. But there
he stands npon his stage with his
palette and his sheaf of brushes, his
mustache and his working blouse
of dark linen, his charcoal pan and
his little table, with the Bella di
Tiziano or the Madonna della Seggi-
ola in the best posable light before
him, not without an eye upon wan-
dering parties of English, nor an ear
for the wise remarlu of the comfma-^
9i&naiT€ who conducts them, and
who is a friend and patron of our
painter ; there he stands, the ripened
fruit of Italian art and Italian skies,
in the nineteenth century — ^the pro-
duct of ages of art, educated amidat
A WM m Mo9me$,
[fo
the grandwt iwsootatieiM. the most
splendid ezaniples foetered bj liberal
protection and patronage, wmt out
from nothing wliioh oan advance or
farther him in his craft I— bat alas I
one mast turn from the processes of
nature to the rules ol. chemistry be-
fore one can find words to describe
him ; he is not the fruit hut the de-
posit. The spirit had evaporated
out of the golden bowl ; there is only
this dasty precipitate left behind.
English painteni, however, can hot
admire and wonder at the facilities
under which this Florentine artist,
such as he is, pursoes his worlc. Yon
can see the finest pictures in the
room only by glimpses, so com-
pletely are they appropriated; and
1 fear, I fear, my dear country folk,
.that you have a considerable hand
in all this, as you have in most of the
mischief perpetrated under the sun.
One can trace the general character
of your likings and decorous fancies
in the works under hand. What do
you want with all these pictures?
What benefit is there in having just
such a set of copies as your neigh lK>nr
has ?— orthodox evidences that you
have been in Italy with yoor foolish
purse full of money, and a latent de-
sire to signalise yourself in your
heart? What business have you to
oome here, you comfortable, well-to-
do tourists, to murder the souls of
these poor Italians (as Mr. Buskin
would say) by making them work
all their lives out copying fur you?
Can you not t»ee with half un eye how
the soul evaporates out of the picture
as the work goes on ? and how it is
no longer Raphael or Titian, but Sig-
ner Antonio who looks out of the
black beautiful face yon have pur-
chased— ^an excellent copy I — save
only for this small drawback that -
Spirit is too subtle to embo<ly mure
than once in the skilfullest combina-
tion of colours. As much as can be
done this akilfol craftsman does. I
daret^y some of them could almost
do it blindfald^ ao familiar is every
line of the ofl-repeate<l picture; bat
perhaps that does not improve the
power of expression ; and it Certainly
does not add to tlie value and merit
of the work.
All thid while, I presnme, yon will
a^y we have seen vary little of the
pioturea; that » tnia-^bsca«
pictares throagh the heads c^ of ?
ists?— who but €€9 Mmtiewt-lir^
are bargaining at so msnj dv£in
for another copy ? Let us go wii
Uffizi, to tho other grud pk^,
which is stUl more exteosre di;
the PittL We cannot psss mj^^
cusly from one to the (^er tbn-d^
that secret gallery among the bpfk-
tops, as Oosimo oould; bat weca
make our way through tb« atntit
where it is a holiday^ and BblUe^
veil the blue aheen of thetorqat^
and the glimmer of the pwl: ^
the Jewellers' Bridge. Bm &
again banda of maskers dispt^^
among the ordinary passecgerNbwi-
ing penny tram pets, ntteria^ it^
shrieks, and striking about theuvt
resound i ng bladders. Is this a pen/
of maskers too ? Some dcoen Sb
marching in qnick time ia frod^ (
black linen belted round the «i>
with a kind of veil of the iti*
material pierced with buks for '::
eyes covering their &cea, csTrjutf a
their shoulders something that U^
like a bier, covered with bUck W
ther, a mysteriona dismal spparicui
among the gay dresses of the cxv'vc.
But do not shrink aside; it i-^
Death, to make the last coavn&^i
gloom and silence, to all this msLr
mery. It is charity in nut<^oert^
it is the Miserioordia, the mo»t po[H^
lar and benevolent oonfrstermt; u
Florence, a body of volaotarf »['
vants of the public who cany tbesia
to the hospitals, and take cbv^ ^
the accidentally wounded. Oai^
march, looking neither to the rip:
hand nor the left, mirecogDiesble j^J
wife or child, mother or brother, ^»
rotiaries over Uieir anna, and thtp^
patient under that mysterious o/rc/
carried very softly, very 8iesdily,i£
spite of the rapid pace. Bot wiij
human kindness and neig^^^
primitive help should be fihrouW
under such a penitential dlsgai>i^^
is hard to say. Through the jj*
Hhine and the maskers the b{«^
figures harry along silently, the ^-'t
finding no responjie in their somuc
habiliments, a picturesque a^u( |
group out of the middle Bget, <^^^^'
body pausing a moment to look r^
them, and sospending for thit io*
ataat the fan and fbUy of their €ii>>'
869.]
A Week in FUirmo^
¥Si
'a1 spiriK Then the mareh of tteadj
iteps falls out of hearing, and the
lonsense begins again, all rery na-
ural, and as it shonld be; but why
ilionld it be a mortification of the
lesh, a sorrowful vocation, a work
'eqairing that dismal disgnfse, the
acred merdfdi doty of helping one's
ellow-men?
Now we are !n the ITflW — a
ong parallelogram — ^two chilly stony
itretches of corridor forming the two
ides of that court where the mask-
trs congregated, with rooms open-
ng off from them, where again there
tre copyists at the finest pictures,
md little groups of English loitering
ibont, the possible purchasers of the
ame. In the principal apartment,
he Tribune, are the "Venus de
tfedici," the *' Dancing Eawn,'' L'Ar-
otino, and other famous figures, sur-
•ounded by many fine pictures of all
he greatest names of art. Vennses
)f Titian, Madonnas of Raphael — ^the
me less noble, if more lovely than
hat great master's snperb portraits,
he other tenderly, humanly, purely
)eantiful, with often a touch of the
[)ivine — Andrea del Sarto, Oaracci,
V'eronese, Guido, Oorreggio, Domenl-
;hino, make np the splendid crowd,
n which there is infinite repetition
tnd indescribable variety, as always
n religious art, when every man's
nost notable endeavour is a iutdonna,
md every heart apprehends with a
lifference that favourite type of na-
ural piety. Then Fra Angelico's
«nder heads shining fiiir out of their
golden backgrounds, that delicate
)oet-monk, with his cloistral fknoies
md womanish heart 1 Somebody is
here copying even Angelico, with the
rold ground like to perfection! a
hiinty embellishment far some dainty
3igh Chnrch oratory where ladles
)f Belgravia may confess their fash-
enable shortcomings. And here
hat picture, the Visitation or Salu-
ation, as people choose to call it — a
vonian's picture— which I could par-
Ion anybody for buying as a present
o his young wife. When the old
Elizabeth, with a grave and anxious
oy, gazes into the face of the young
jonscious Mary with her downcast
iyes, her awe, her wonder, her mys-
^erioQs humility of self-regard, the
ilmost mother— St Elizabeth and
^e blessed Yii^n are but names —
the hnman sentiment Is of to-day,
and of all times — as long as mothers
and daughters, and those tender and
wonderful vieissitndes of female life,
remain in the world.
And absolutely, I believe, one can
better bear to see a secondary pictnre
in the hands of a copyist, than one
of first class — ^there is less profana-
tion and less harm done. Look
here, by this window is the corridor,
where a little mannfM)tory goes on
quietly, under cover of a snperb
V enetian noble, whose face has grown
immortal through Titian's hand —
here is a qnlet old man, painting
diligently — elaborate little copies in
enamel, of which he has a dozen
various specimens on his table-*
miniatures of virgins and saints, of
old heroes and painters, and medi-
ffival nobles like this which is before
him. This hamble artist is quick to
hear the Bt«ps that approach his
chair. Ton perceive by their shape
that they are meant for brooches,
these tiny pictures — and perhaps he
wonld be glad to be accosted and
dispose of his deHeate merchandise ;
— ^but think of our national gallery,
onr royal collection of pictures made
accessible after this fashion! — think
of the new Paul Veronese moved ont
to the light beoanse somebody wanted
to make a sketch" of it, or carried off
bodily to a window! Imagine the
Queen and the Royal Acarlemy open-
ing their treasures all day long and
every day, providing stages and ao-
oommodatioos for ns, and giving ns
the tenderest permission to set np our
easels where we will ! However, let
ns be thankful — there is compensa-
tion in everything- Where Art is
most cherished and fostered in these
days — where ^.Art has the greatest
heritage, the *^ most splendid associa-
tions, the completest pedigree-^where
everything onght to contribute to a
fbller aifd more snperb development
of her powers than the world has yet
seen, and nothing is against her —
there, with no north wind of dii-
couragement to rouse her spirit, nor
Tramontttna to outcken the blood in
her veins, but only pnffi of lukewarm
air, and the calm of a perfect Past
around, Art, perverse and contra-
dictory, like every human principle,
does not flourish, bat dies.
Coming oat into the sanfehioe to
A Witkin BttrmtM,
Pp.
the Fiazsa al oar right hand, hara
ia Michael Ajigelo*s big David aide
by side wi(h a giant Heroales at the
door of the Palazzo Veoohio, that
pictaresqae tower and noble maaa of
Wldiog towering up above them,
and a row of little soldiers sitting on
a bench enjoying the air below. A
little further on a still bigger giants
a monster Neptane, with prodigiuos
nymphs and mips around him, pre-
sides over a noisv congregation of
waiting earaezs^ which it woald be
prosaic to call a cabstand. Across
the way is the post-ofBce, with a
I little crowd at each window ; and
here in the square are groups of men
standing together talking as in an
exchange, though these interlocutors
are not of the class generally to
be seen in such places. I cannot un-
dertake to tell yon what brings them
there, or what they talk about, but
they are picturesque enough to look
at — sanbumt, rustical, middle-aged
Italians, more dangerous fellows
than the youths who throng in the
streets — their coats still and always
banging from their shoulders with
vacant sleeves, coats with hoodsy
tasselled and ornamented, coarse
brown cloth worn and dirty, with
•liken embroideries of green or blue,
showing the grandeur which has
been. Among these strong vigorous
savage faces — bravo heads, reckless
and villanous, stealthy heads, down-
looking and sinister — visionary faces,
with blue eyes, which throw a ebill
upon the olive complexion and
tangled masses of black heir, but
these nnfrequent and few— alto-
gether a savage primitive physiog-
nomy, fiioes which somewhat belie
the simple good-nature of the young
Florentine countenance which, idle,
gossiping, and pleasure-loving, moves
aboQt among them, as it moves any-
where, humming airs from the opera,
and lounging along with well-devel-
oped vouthful limbs, which onght
to be n t for nobler exercise, A cer-
tain hum and bustle as of businesa
ia in the Piazza — business I — ^idea
worthy only of an insular under-
standing!— ^in this place which, by-
and-by, is to acknowledge the dust
and carriage-wheels of the Corsol —
But alwaya strange, always remark-
able, is the contrast between the
place and the people. Is Aita»
fining, an elevatiiifi^ inflaenoet-4si:
good for a country tliat there hi>
been great minded, and a fluis .i
genius at one period of her fai^im-
-^for it is impoeaible not to peror.Tt
that the charaoter» and ao mxsk€
good as there is ia these &oes, ir
savage, uncivilised, unrefined.
Fifth Jktjf. — Like every c4e
ancient town, Florenoe was ocs
greatly less exteosive tluua now; ai
the natural consequence u tk
churches and ]in{>ortant boiktse
crowd together, dra^ving as oeu^
possible, though in znanj oases si!
w»^A<m^ the circQtt of the jealoiL« <^iC
wall, to the little heart of the aiclti:
city. Two sncoesaive circles if vi
have burst, as too narrow for tk
swelling lifq within ; hot sdll vtt
congregation of chnrcbee and p6':u:
places in the vidnity of the D»^
and the Palazzo Vecchio show :!»
former state of things. One oi tie
most important of these ia the Si&
Croce; and one of the gayest in-
most perfectly adorned, the &ui6-
sima Annnnziata, which are the tf-
we shall select for examples of or
churcties of Florenoe.
The Santa Crooe cntaade is B&
the unhappy fityade of the Cdtbr
dral; it is bare, brown, oiui^ttij
plttster, marked with tlie coums oi
brick or small stones of which it i>
built, betraying exactly how care^
its builders were of any other fiiifi^
than the marbles which were ioksC-
ed at once to adorn and to cooo^
all ; these marbles which have ut^^
yet come out of the hard heart aft!
narrow hands of Time. There h M
a bricklayer in England who wo^ki
not feel himself eternally diagrieed
by leaving his work in sach a cod-
dition; but it is sufSoienUy ilJosin*
tive of the local character, that tt^
idea of the " neat,^* smooth, and per
feet concln8k>n to which work d
every kind, however humble, mvA
be brouglit with us, has ever enxtni
the popular nnd^^tanding here. Tm
ohnroh was meant to be aplendiii,
and left in its present ooodition oiiij
till its marble outer veature sbooii
be placed upon it; bnt marbles be-
ing long ago hopeless for the Sautt
Crooe, it does not enter into anv-
body^a mind to try any hcmelier aa'b-
869.]
j^ ISMk tA JBiMUfUS^
(dtnte, sDd the originy ittkedii6M
itandd himeetly but not very pbar
lantly diflolosed. Hsre, hcywever, the
(oinmon contrast of exterior bekotj
nrith deformity within ie elaboralely
^versed. Withia, eireiy thing is rioh^
iplendid, perC<betv and jeftlously eared
or. The chnroh is of the peeoUar
brm of a T cross, consisting of a
lave and tvo transepts only; al*
Dost the entire pavement of the
ranaepts and a great part of the
lave consists of iaoised tombstones
vonderfiilly rioh and perfeot^ and a
ine of Httle ohapeb snnk like cells in
ihe wall rans along the entire east end
>f the olinrch. Each of these is the
nortuary chapel of a noble family ;
nany have dark altarpieoes blocking
ip half the little window, and abat-
ing oat the light; bat notwithstand*
Dg fresooes are on all the walla, and
ivery where artist-skill, and some-
iraes geniaa, has given itself to the
ivork of decoration with a magna-
limons indifference, as it seems, whe-
iier its Uiboors coold be seen or
lot. On one side of the high altar
ire works <tf Giotto— look at the
[>lace — a little oblong cell, socne
»ght or nine feet wide, with a little
ivindow in the wall, raised by the
tieigbt of two or three marble steps
from the area of the charch, ^d de-
riving no light from that, as indeed
there is. no more there than is ur-
gently required; an altar-table on
mother step, with its tawdry deco-
rations and little black picture set
in a triangnlar framework, which
blocks np all bnt the top of the
window; and on the walk, for any
one who can see them, the fresooes
of Qtottol What possible good can
be derived from that ridioalons tri*
angle stack into the light / cannot
tell ; bat there it smirks and glit-
ters with its contemptible little gilt
diaper, sadly trying to any one's pa-
tience who cares the least for what
he has oome to see. After all, it is
only St Francis whose life, or rather
death, is pictared on theae walls; bnt
when the day is snnny St. Franois
looks oat finom his deathbed with saoh
a dostar of saintly thoagbtfal faces
roond him that the very glimpse
aggravates the spectator: and yet
I snppoee Giotto moat have known
all the time that hie work woald
g^ui them ftxr hanited»of years in
that imperfect Hght, and withool
lannfig over it, 2a I think a Eqyal
Aeademieitti might be pardoned for
doing, only painted it most like^
without saying a wovd for the gbry
of God. In oar days, in Puseyile
memorial inscriptions^ one is tempted
to think these words rather pro&ne.
Bat they were not profane in the days
of Giotto when the sentiment wae
real, and when the offering of one's
best seemed still admissible, and the
metaphysical question whether one's
best, or anything ^mng of hamaiL
skill and human art, was a fit offen*
ing to God, had never come inlo
anybody's mind. It is possible-— I
will not say such questions are oat
of our range-^nt it is just possible
that this half-visible pictore on the
wall was like Mary's ointment, an
offering as acceptable as if it had
been sold for so maoh and given to
the poor.
Ttiroaghoat this entire range of
chapels the same oiroumstancas
hold. All are not Giotto's certainly,
though a large proportion of the
partially or wh(^y destroyed adorn*
ments of these walls are attributed
to him; bnt the greater proportion
are equally indistinct, withdrawn
into those narrow and gloomy al-
coves where there is little provision
for Mght^ and what little there \a is
obscured and interrupted. Bat the
amtngement of iJie church throws
no little light on the life of the time
which prwdoced it. In the deep
arms of the transepts are other
ohapels,^ all enriched to the ntmoet
extent of their space with pictoiesii
with marbles, with rich fresco and
sculpture, costly evidences of the
wealth and emnlation of the old
patrician families of Florence, wboae
names one can tell off as on a spleo^
did beadroll as one reckons up this
Hne of chapels, dim, rich, and mag*
nifioent, which, though modern ne-
^ect aud embeUishment have united
to debase them, the best art of the
time laboured to adorn.
In the lower end of the choreh,
great men's monnmenti alternate
with the altar»— the old Medkieaa
philoBophers exchange stony glaneea
vath Michael Angeh); and Alfieri's
graoelolmeiBorial, the paie and teoy
9H A WMi»
6tft modern oflMng of modem nt^
•tends by the pompoue moBument of
Dante. Bat in epite of these greet
nmmes, there is an interest more
eharacteristio in the fiunily chapels,
tdiich range in Hnes on Mtber side of
the high akai^-and where the lining
Palazzo Botghese ont of doors has
its oalra and oold representatiTe, its
other family dwelling, in the Capelk
Borghese here. Bat do not sappose
yon haye seen all, in seeing the
ohnrch itself. Here ont of the dinroh
is a large lofty square apartment,
with oaken presses, fitted along the
walls-Hibove them pictures on one
■Ide — frescoes on another, and at the
npper end, a little chapel divided
ttonii the room by an ornamental iron
screen. There is a wooden frame in
the middle of the apartment, on which
bangs a priestly vestment, white and
yellow. This is the sacristy, where
once the very doois of those priestly
wardrobes were rich with G-iotto^s
pictures, and still the place is Inmin-
ooB with works and names that will
never die — Gimabne, Giotto, the two
<}addei — and only a sacristy, where
the holy father vests himself in mild
self-complacency nnder the solemn
shadow of that grey andent pictured
cross*-Oimabue*s cross, the austere
symbol of that art, which was still
new to her implements, which had
all her future splendours in her heart
but not in her fingers — and still had
scarcely found the secret of beauty
ont
Without these walls are cloisters
enclosing a square quadrangle almost
fnll of the dead^-the dead whose
resting-places are distinguished by
lines of white marble let in in check-
work to the stone, with minute in-
scriptions of names, as close as
though those lines meant nothing
bat a pattern — a melancholy crowd-
ing which chills one's heart This
oocopadoD, it is evident, has been
stopped ere it was completed; yet
the very crowd betrays the natural
shrinking from a common sepulture,
and the natural last deare of person-
ality for an individual grave.
Let C8 make haste; we have al-
most fiUid our space. Now to the
fiantissima Annunziata, to all the
mlendours of gilding and ecolesiaa*
tseal finery, new crimson hangings
•adfiringosofgvM. Tbein
oeoapies one end of § isk j
which evTtes » preCtr nci
either side of it, and is ai^^i
pleasant to look apoo. A vt^
admits you Into a Maen
the wall to the height d.Txi
is oo^ered with stooei and ii'i
tions, memorial of the deidn
below. A quaint, cool, qsici ^
with its low arches and ethed
ure, where a brown moek. \
wandering on the other ade. J
his heavy wocdlen frock uci
and hood, his oord, and hi? r
presence, looks harmookws i
keeping. Perhi^ie he is ocl; i
ing of his dinner or soor i
vent intrigue; bnt it migbtl^lj
ditation tender and solemn ff
muses in sach a place. In tbip
light and open air a sweet tf
of oolocr shines round tbcee nt
Simmering away yond^ into^*
gentle shade too feu* off to be dK
guishable, and brighteniog faeit r
groups which have mors than (c«:
—into saintly incidents which w-
taken form and shape fivm :
hand of Andrea del Sarto-ic
monastic miracles, the Cibiiloo
cidents of which take grsoeaiKlc
nity from the touch of geDia& &>
glow over the cold marble stoni -
remembrance with a sweet lik»^
warmth, which it comforts the Rtf
tator to see. The doist^ is i^ ^
noble, not so magnificen as ^
lofty cloisters of the north, vii-
still exist in such nugestic graft :
our own land ; bnt it is more Usssk
more inhabitable, with a depth »
shade under its low arches ^tid
summer will make deeply gn^^
and a quaint comfort and «» b>
known to us, — ^while perhaps i«
damp and stony splendoor vooAi
have done anything but presort
those sweet faces on the wall Coia-
ing upon them thus by sarpri«,tb<:
effect is wonderfully enlivening *^
delightful. The place looks an »
habited place. The cloister wiiBt
and brightens towards us, as «i^
human smiles; and an impreeeioQ^*^
munificence, of free, lavish, op^
handed libovlify, which acanMf
anything else can give, flows fou
into the daylight from those ope&
walls, with their oat-of-doon t»
1869J
A WM tn JVffiRM.
dom and titmqnU exporare to the
aim of heaven. Here are the popular
legends, whioh of old were the favour-
ite lore of the people, Mnbelliehing
the oonvent cloister with its open
gates ; no print nor copy, nor tran-
soription in them, fresh from the
great painter's hand, — and one can-
not help bat feel how fall and over-
flowing was the life and wealth which
thus brinnned over, and beyond the
shelter of saordd roofis and palaces
gave forth its inspiration fi^ly to
the open air and the chnrch-going
crowd.
Eor by this passage we reach the
church, and stand amazed in the
warmth and brightness of that ornate
and cbeerfhl place. The nave of the
Annnnziata is like a splendid salon,
with little chambers opening from it
on each side, white arches flowered
and gilded, Kke little bondoirs or
chnwing-rooms, if we may venture to
carry oat the profane simile— and
indeed it would be anything bat snr-
prising to see a pretty mirror and
toilette instead of one of those altar-
tables, whioh, to tell the trnth, are
not much nnlike. In the western
end, near the door, is a gilded cage
of tabernacle work, adorned with
Bjmholical ornaments, one of the
principal of whioh is the pot of lilies
— ^the flgur de Marie — ^which holds
a prescriptive place in pictares of the
Annandation — and in the chapel
oloee by is preserved a mysterioos
fresco of that event paiftted by An*
gelo, and of miraculous power. The
nave opens into a ronnded choir, rich
with marbles and gilding, with won-
derful nlver-work adorning the high
altar, and another succession of
ehapels in the wail— clmpelfc opening
each with a lofty ronnded arch into
the fine semtcircle--hung like so
many withdrawing-rooms with crim-
son drapery, heavily fringed with
gilded knobs or tassels. Within
&ere is little more than twilight in
these alcoves, where still frescoes and
pictures of note are to be perceived
dimly ; but in the body of the church
all is bright and sunny, and the
general impression, if not very solemn,
is cheerful and luxurious to a high
extent. On either side, passages,
penetrating through the line of the
aide-cbapei8) increase the domestic
appearance so coni|deteIy that it re-
quires the distant prospect of a
priestly back in white and gold,
bowing over a decorated altar with
mysterious genuflexions, unkn9wn in
ordinary life, to undeceive the speo-
tator. But the splendour of the
church, if nothing dse, would show
with sixfficient oleamess the popularity
of the Annnnziata, where worship-
pers surround the little oratory, and
tcMcl in all the chapels, and which
is more frequented, as it appears, to
judge from the experience of this da^,
than any of the other churches in
Fkirence. We leave the sacred pre-
cincts on tiptoe, whispering under
our breath. To be sure it is very
shocking to walk about or talk when
people are at prayers, and service is
proceeding'; but if we are never to
disturb a chance worshipper — ^if we
are to keep religiously apart, lest
yonder excellent and pious personage
who follows us with her eyes, and
turns round her head to watch us,
should be disturbed in her devotions,
I fear there will be little sight-seeing
possible; for somebody is always
discharging his or her religious duties
at some lutar, and that meritorioua
exercise goes on all the same, with
moving lips and dropped beads, whe-
ther our friend watches our stealthy
passage, or only occupies herself with
the fringe of the altar-cloth— there
is not much difi^erence after all.
I did not begin with the intenticn
of describing pictures or special works
of art—one who sets out to do any
such thing in Florence must take
months to see^ and volumes to con-
tain his journal — but only a flying
sketch as to what thQ Florentine
churches are like in general, without
details. They contain mines of inter-
esting matter for investigators, but
for us a noble pomp, a picturesque
appearance, and many a silent sug-
gestion of how things were in tlwt
age, so grand, so distant, so exuber-
ant, which haa writ its social economy,
its family ostentation, its pride, its
genius, and its greatness upon these
enduring tablets, as it was fit a great
age should write them — leavii^ to
its descendants a glorious legacy of
tombs and altars, a suit of state too
big for them, which show how lifo
has shrank out of its splendid pro-
m
A W$tkukJnQtme^
[Hot.
IMTtioqs, and tfaioga Mre no Umgip a»
they were — and to us a speetaole of
life indestructiblei, an energy which
cannot die.
Sixth Dap. — ^This day let na go the
wi^ of all the world.
Look throttgh the opening in those
lofty houseB, how that Apennine
heaves his mighty slopes into the
air, where the sun shines in defianoe
of those big clouds rolling and gather-
ing and dispersing in moantainoos
vicissitude upon the sky. The cloud
over that hill, mingling its gloom in
sonM indescribable way with the on-
discouraged sun, shines darkly, if one
may be permitted the expression,
with the most wonderful, dewv, rainy,
aerial effect, over the vast shoulders
of that big potentate, conveying to us
low down in the plain a conception of
atmosphere and distance magnificent-
ly wide and for — precise yet ionmeasur-
able — i^oraet^iing to be painted or ima-
gined, but which defies words. The
day is mild and soft, with a freshness
in the air which threatens rain — a de-
licious dewy spring atmosphere, the
threat expauding itself over os, bnt
never coming to extremities — letting
a score of bright drops escape now
and then by a side wind, bnt hnrting
nothing, not even a lady's bonnet.
Bonnets ore a serious consideration
at the Casdne. Along the level sunny
road, where the tall trees thrust bare
branches over our heads, and throw
long shadows on the meadow, we
make our way, as do the mountains
down the valley, as does the river to
the sea. Everything is westward;
the hills closing in towards the Gon-
folina gorge, the Arno to the Medi-
terranean, the snn to his setting, and
the tender declining light slants in
golden glints over the lervel grass,
and over the solitary houses, each
with its square tower, which stand
here and there alone between the
mountains and the trees. A long
level road, with stretches of green
grass on either hand, and the grey
Apennines close in sight, and the
Florentine carriages hastening along
without mnch note of the way to
Bom^hing hidden here in the further
treed. What is it ? A square of good
extent but no ornament, with straight
avenues diverging into it on all aides,
and with al9nv$t a glimpse of the
river and the swmy
tending along its bank' where indeed
the eoinpany ean walk if they are
so minded. But the company in
general are not of that usind. The
ladies sit .in their caniagea, the.
gentlemen get out and oirookte
from one party to another, carry-
ing a common currency of gossip
ai^ eompliiuent through the erovd.
There stand the horses, and there sit
the ladies with the most admirable
patienock looking at nothing, listen-
ing to nothing, unless it be the
rival toilettes about them in the
one case, and the talk of the wan-
dering cavaliers in the other, tlU
the orthodox time is acoompliahed,
when the crowd suddenly brasks npi,
and carriages return with the steadi-
ness of a procession along the same
level road. What odd spectacles
&shion and pleasure make when tbey
lay their heads together I I do not
see the fun of sitting for an hour
among a crowd of carriages. Gome
this way — ^never mind the foshion of
Florence— come back again by this
river roftd which basks and bums in
the sunshine. It is still only Merch,
it is not too warm. Yonder^ look at
the white houses dwelling by the
river-^at the low hills towards the
BOUth^-BeUosguMtio and that gentle
duster of luxuriant slopes I And
now as Florence comes fully in sight,
look at those domes and towers^ ris-
ing in a wonderful full olive against
the sky and the sunshine, throngh
the air, full of bright reflections
which mask those .silent sentineb
with a colour not their own.
And again it is ni|^t— not the
mysterious night of an unknown
city, wrapt in £og and darkneas^
a glorious shining night of Italy,
mooned and starry, with a flood of
light upon the heavensi but darkness
deep and solenm in the narrow
streets. Looking out from this high
window, the darkness no longer vwk
to us an undiscovered country. The
hum end whisper of the town rises
already half familiar and with a
friendly tone, and one no longer
dreams, but rememben* Now the
congenial moonlight will wake with
lyric musical touches, as one Ms
into a aweet confusion of aU the arts
to express that uiagtoal heanty— 4be
1«09.]
^ WM tn J^^mnM
•en
mWery marbles of the Dnomo, the
tender glory of the Painter's Tower.
Amo glistens ander all its bridges.
White, in a misty veil of light, rise
the wakefnl ApeDBinea, Hsteoing to
every ohime of bells and sentinel
ahoat of passing hourai the ^^AllV
welP' of the night from tower and
Campanile, tall goardians of the city ;
•nd peace and rest are in the air,
white with the siuntly beoediotions
of stSK and moon.
But dark as midnight or mid-win-
ter—black in profonndest contrast
with the moonlight, lying in sach a
depth of shadow as only that neigh-
born brightness eonld expose, Ilea far
below ns the pavement of this narrow
lofty street. What is that measured
cadence sounding upward through
this gulf of air and darkness — that
gleam of moving lights, wild and
variable, blazing through the gloom;
thait tram p of footsteps 9 Look down
where they pass below, the few pas*
sengers scarcely pausing to look after
them, they themselves panamg for
nothing, marching to the measure of
their chant, not 3ow though solemn
•—no voice of individual grief, but a
calm impersonal lamentation^ a lofty
melancholy utterance upon the com-
mon fate of humanity. White figures
in the dress of a fraternity, with two
or three wild torches throwing light
opon their way, and upon that dark
weight they cariy shoalder^high and
motionlesM-^answering to each other
with chant and response of deep
voioea, carrying their dead. Nay. not
th&ir dead — it has ceased to belong
to any one, that silent bnrden. Love
has not a tone in that dirge — grief is
not theve-— it is the voice of the
Ohurch, solemnly commenting upon
the universal fate-- calling the world
to witness that all must die--and
odd, cold, solitary, loveless, the for-
kHm dead in the midst of them goes
to be buried oat of sight. Do vou
say it is nothing to him, and he ooes
not feel it? Heaven knows I but
that picturesque group, with their
ohant and their toiobes, carry a chill
to one's heart
And saddened by such sonndsi, the
night falls over Florence — and Time
and the hours ohant from those inateh-
less Campaniles the same solemn con«
duaion into the moonlight, to the
wakefnl hills and stars that do not
die. But grief is not in the ineffable
calm of heaven : and there is no grief
in those wonderful works of art,
calmly bearing witness in their silent
permanence to generations dead and
past. Proclaim it from your towers,
great city, bathing in the silence with
the listening hills and skies 1 — yet
there is another burden chiming into
human ears from aM your shrines and
altaiH, eloquent with their loves and
labours who are no longer here-«a
deeper truth, and dearer than thai
burden of change and death — ^that it
is here, as every wheNv ^ ^^^ ^^^
are living — and it it only the living
who diet
Th$ liflh 9f th$ EUisi.
[Nf..
THK IDTLL8 OF THB Knf«.
The Una! fortanes of Arthur and
of Oharlemagne, as heroes of song,
have been very different. Of oonrse,
we do not mean to compare theSr
aetnal exploits. The Laws of Oharle*
magne may still be read. His great
aohieyements form the subject of
well-ascertained and nndonbted his-
tory, and have left their traces on
the present state of modem Enrope ;
while the shadowy exploits of the
British king, at best, only retarded
the 8axon conquest of Britain for a
few years, and are so wholly with-
out any hUicrioal confirmation, that
many antiquarians have been led to
doubt whether the traditions which
relate to him have any solid founda-
tion of facts to rest on at all. Tet
the silence of the Venerable Bede,
and other Saxon chroniclers, should
hardly outweigh the testimony of
so widespread a tradition ; for
wherever the defeated British tribes
retired for safety from their Snxon
foe, whether to the sheltering rooks
of Oomwall, or fastnesses among
the Cumbrian hills, thither they
carried with them the name of their
fomous chieftain, and there they have
1^ it indelibly imprinted: so that
northern ballads tell us of Arthur
holding his court at " merrie Oarleile,''
and by the banks (oh, most unpoeti-
cal name!) of "Tearne Wadling;"
and the Westmoreland yeoman
readily points out to the inouiring
archsBologist King Arthnr^s Round
Table— a mound near the fair river
lament, some miles on its downward
course, after it has left the loveliest
of those lakes, one of which gave his
surname to Arthur's great knight
Lancelot (a favourite Christian name
still in Westmoreland, we may re-
mark en pcmant), 80 too in Corn-
wall many a mound and cairn bears
Arthur's name; and stem Tiotagel,
- the wave-beaten ruin on the rocky
Coraish coast, is pointed out to the
traveller as having been the fortress
of the mighty British king.
Unlike^ however, as are the Arthur
and the Charlemagne of luAi?^—
the one the last aapporl, and ^
object of the fond regrets of 1
conquered raee ; the other the {at^
leader of the victorious Franks, t»
fragments of whoee empire are asv
great kingdoms, and whose sooks
the ambition of modem times ^
emulated, but failed to eqnal—tbet
have yet occapied very similar por-
tions as favourite auhjec^ of «»?
and legend. The eoart - rainstnife
of Charlemagne (repeating the )xp
which had come across the Gbasae
into kindred Bretag^ie) donbties
sang to him of Arthnr and tbt
knights of his Round Table, as tk
brave Taillefer sang of Roland and of
Charlemagne to Norman William 1:
the battle of Hastings ; and the Vvy
vencal Troubadours appear to bsn
made the names of ArthnrV knifto
as familiar as those of Chariemag^
to the mind of the great father d
modem literature, Dante^ Bat wha
the minstrePs tutiefal not» wm
hushed — ^in Provenee first by Dorahik
and his harsh brother-inqatsitoR,
and afterwards throngbont £orop(
by the revival of ancient learoiG^
and the altered taste whic^ wis iii
consequence— Arthnr was gradoifij
lost sight *of, while Gharl^nsfse
shone with greatly- in<spea8ed spleo-
dour. The great Italian poets sssf
of the iron-crowned protector of that
Pope. The fabulous exploits of bii
nephew Roland, the equally ftbaloBs
siege of Paris by the Saracens, and tbe
victories of Charlemagne over tb^
countless hosts, live for ever io^ir-
porated into modern literature bj
the rich fancy, the inexhaoadble h-
vention, which sparkles in the magic
page of Ariosto. But Arthur im
left to the ballad and the pn^
romance. Ko great poet made hm
the hero of a lay that shall last fer
ever. He forms the subject of no
poem that has Iwed^ either EngHih
or foreign; for 8i)enHer*s uDiqw
Allegory (that mighty work of tb«
imagination, that product of a noble
IdylU of the King, By A. Tenntsok, B.OX., Poet Laureate. Loodoa:
E. Moxon A Co., Dover Street.
869.]
TkeJd^lU o/tke £Sng.
^ rich in faith and loyalty) oon-
aiDs, as ve shall have oceasion to
eniark hereafter, the nama, and the
lame only, of the anoieot British
ihieftaiQ. Bhakeapeare and Milton
lo but mention him. The eighteenth
lentarj vas unfavoamhle to wotrks
»f the imagi nation, and only re-
nembered Arthur in one or two
>allad8 preserved in Percy's oolleo^
ion. Some fifty, years ago, in his
ntroduction to the first canto of
' Marmion," Sir Walter Scott alluded
o the forgotten legends, with which
lis diligent antiqoarianism had made
um familiar, and seemed, as he wrote
lis tales of the olden time, to oast a
oiiging glance at those still older
itoriea, which it had stirred the
learte of his own heroes and heroines
x> li^tea to :^-
'As when the Champion of fh« Lako
inters MorKUis** flited houM,
3r In the CBmpel Periloua
Despising Bpells and demons* force,
Elolds convene with the unhmried oone;
Or when. Dame Qanore's 6i«oe to move
f Alas, that lawless was their love 1)
He soaght prond Tarquln In his den,
&jid freed rail siz^ knights; or when,
tV sinful man, and onoonfess'd.
He tof)k the Sangreal*8 holy qnest,
And, alamberinff, saw the vision high,
Ue might not viiew with waking eye."
He reminds us how such legends
^ Oleam throoffh Spenser's elfin dream.
And mix in Milton's heavenly theme ;**
and he mourns that the one poet,
who had arisen since then, fit, in his
judgment, to sing of Arthur, had
missed his high destiny : —
** And Dryden, in immortal strain.
Had raised the Tahle Boond again.
But that a ribald king and court
Bade him toil on to make them sport;
The world defrauded of the high desi«
Profaned the God-given strength, m
the lofty line.^
mnr'd
Whether these regrets of the north-
ern ininntrel first directed Mr. Tenny-
son^a attention to the rich mine,
ready to yield its untouched treasures
to his hand, we cannot say. Oertein
it is, that he early sought subjects for
his poems from amoug the legends of
Arthur. " The Lady of Sbalott " first
showed the direction his thoughts
were taking. Ten years after fol-
lowed two of his finest poems —
'' Morted' Arthur," and '' Sir Galahad."
Next he sought inspiration from
other sources, and, in the judgment
of most, with inferior success. (We
of course allude to the "Princess^"
and to *^ l£and ;" not .to the inagai-
fioent sorrow of **In Memoriam.^')
And now, for the last two or three
years, we have huled with pleasure
the report of a new poem from his
pen, which promises to supply a
stetne for this long-vacant niche in
our literature. We r^oioed to hear
that the lAureate was again at work,
that he had retomed to the attach-
ments of his youtl)^ and tliat his
subject wss once again Arthur-^
*^ mythic Uther's son," Presently
the name of the forthcoming book
reached us, Th& Idylls of the Kin^^
and, we must own, somewhat dis-
turbed our ideas. Aa Idyll is, to
the common understanding, the name
of a Pastural, not of a tele of kings
and warriors ; and, to say the truth, in
our mind Idylls are chiefiy associated
with some tedious trash by Gressner,
which darkened our early initia-
tion into Germanic literature; and
perhaps also with lei herqeries of
Florian — ^insipid productions, which
(to the best of oar belief) the crino-
hne of the present day is far from
regarding with the same favour as
did the behooped belles of the days
of Louis Quinze. For on4 thing, too,
the title prepared us. We were not
to expect a long poem, presenting
Arthur and his. exploits sa a whole,
'^^orte d' Arthur," that exquisite
fragment, was to remain a fragment
stiUl — a fragment of an unfinished
epic, which is never to be completed 1
At last, after a long delay, we re-
ceived the eagerly-desired volume.
We opened it with mingled hope and
fear; we read it with mixed feelings,
at first of disappointment, but af-
terwards of ^r^^/y-preponderating
pleasure; and we now proceed U) lay
some account of it before our readers.
It consists of four poems of uneqnsl
lengUis, each of which bears a lady's
name. (The Laureate^s devotion to
the fair sex evidently glows with un-
abated ardour, since the days when
he sang "Isabel," "Claribel," &o.,
with more zeal than success.) Each
poem rehearses the adventures of
«10
Tke liflU tf ^ Ekif.
{3m.
some heroSne of the days of King
Arthur; and the foartb and last eon-
taiDB tho^e of the greatest and love*
Meet, though, alas! not the best lady
of the time— of the ^^Gneneyer, that
bride so bright of blee^ of our old
ballads. Thus the feminine element
predomi Dates decidedly in the ¥rork.
Arthor, Lancelot, and Merlin — the
king, the warrior, and the sage of
the poem-^4ire represented to os, not
so moch in council or in action as in
their dealings with, and in the effect
they prodace on, GuineTere, Elaine,
and Vivien. In this wise yre ^see
mere of the sage's folly than of his
wisdom, of the worrior^s weakness
than of his strength. The three first
poems read like three long episodee,
detached from a grand epic Arthur,
which is not forthcoming. The
Ibnrth gives us a beautiftil but still
domestio scene, from near its con-
clusion. Those who are unacquainted
with Tennyson's earlier writings,
must feel, as they finish Guinevere,
that the end is wanting; whilst the
mf\}ority of readers will hasten to
refresh their recollection of *'Morte
d'Arthar^' as its true conclusion:
which exquisite poem, we here b^
to suggest, should be printed as the
fifth in the second edition of **The
Idylls," for the benefit of our child-
ren.
The slender thread which connects
the fi>ur poems is furnished by Gui-
nevere. The first rumours of her
grievous fall drive the gentle Enid
into seclusion, and embolden Vivien
in her wrong-doing; Lancelot's heart
is closed by her against Elaine's pure
affection, and h&r penitence forms
the 8ubJH)t of the fourth poem. Of
Arthur we hear little till the end.
We are told in very beautiful lan-
guage of his labours, as an earlier
Oharleningne, to draw fast the slack-
ening bonds of law and order, to
uphold the faith of Christ and
the honour of Britain against the
heathen invader, and to revive and
uphold every knightly grace and
courtesy by the institution of his
chivalric Ronnd Table; but almost
all his share* in the aetion of the poem
ia confined to the last grand scene,
where he rebukes and pardons his
guilty wife, and then leavM her kt
that battle-field to which be lo^
forward with dim forebodings, vb«
all his yet fiuthfal knighta are ts
fell but one, and whence the *da^
barge" and its mystic crew are »
bear him, whither no mmn knovnt
even ontil this day. LAocelot ktk
hero of the third poem. Tristna.
Perceval, and GalhUiAd, are osir
named. How i^adly wonld we bsw
heard more of the latter that kmeh
9an$ pmr beoasse ^mn» nqvyvek
wiio is one of tiie feireat csreatioostf
Tennyson's earlier moae; whose qsK
of that Bangreal (from the search iisr
which the valorous Lancelot v»
excluded by hie sin) baa beoorae a
our poet's hands a nol^ ^TV^ ^ ^*^
Ghrietian ohivairy— of that woik d
heaven on earth which only psn
hearts can love, only dean hiatk
can do I
For the non-af pearaace d tka
famous knights we are by no mesa
consoled bv a new aoqoaintansF--
Geralnt, tributary prince €f( DercsL
whose adventures fill the first poe&
Its story is somewhat iU-constrodai
and decidedly better in ezeco&dL
than in design. It ia briefly this:-
Queen Guinevere and her attcadssi
maiden are insulted by a namelea
knight on their way to Join Anbi:
hunting. Geraint vows to avesgi
the insult, and follows the disoosn-
eous knight to a small town, nm
which he dwells in a apleodid nev
oasUe. The town is fall of busdinf
preparations for a toarnameat on
the morrow; and Greraint, whom
haste has brought him on his cLsse
unarmed, is gla4 to seek shelter kt
the night at the rained castle of £tfl
Yniol, on the otiier side of the town*
which is thus prettily described :—
**B«rB rtwKJ » ihrttg r>d icliwy^ ptouMdvSfc
fern;
And here had UHVn a great part of a tovcr.
Whole, like a cng that tomblca fivm tk
clifl;
And like a csag was gay with wilding flowers:
And high above a pleoe of tamt stair.
Won by the feet Oiat mw were iiimt, wnai
Bare to the aun, and mooatroas iTr-atama
Claapt the grey walla with halT7-fibre4 anna
And aockM the jofadng of the afeoMi, ini
loord
A knot, beneath, of snakea, aloft, a grorc."
Tniol, the venerable owner of Hm
859.
Tk$ Idylls of the King.
6!1
lilapidated mansion, has the mfsfor-
une to be the uncle of the knight
7hose insolence Geramt longsr to
mnish, and to have given him mor-
al olfenoe by refncnng him the hand
►f his only daughter Enid. The dis-
ourteoas Edyrn has ftTengied his
inele's refneal by provoking a revuU
;mong his retainers, dispossessing
lim of his earldiNii, and keeping
ilm with hit) wife and daughter, in
he ruined oastle where Quaint fiods
Ijem. For the last two yean Edyni
las ])roclaimed jousts in honour oif a
iuly whom he has taken as his love,
o spite Enid, to whieh no man is
idiuitted unless his lady-love be pre**
ent ; and each year won for her the
>rize, a golden sparrow-hawk. The
bird joust is fixed for the morrow of
jreraiut'a arrival, who, learuiog this
rom his host, straightway borrows
rora him his rostv arms, adopts the
^ntle Enid as bis lady betrothed and
Ytfe; avenges her deep wrong, at
he same time as the Queen*s lighter
me, by the overthrow of the proud
Ldyrn, and makes him restore his
iarldom to his injured kinsman^ and
;o to do penance at King Arthur's
sourt, where his reformed life bears
^ pleasing testimony,*^ as the good
x>i)ks have it, to the efficacy of Ge-
•aim's rough method of cure. Geraint
prepares to take his fair betrothed
:o Caerleon-upon-Usk, that the
grateful Guinevere may, according
to her promise, clothe her champion^s
bride in fitting attire for the nuptials.
And here we-are treated to an amount
af millinery against which not all our
reverence for Tennyson's genius shall
stay us from protesting. Even sup-
posing that the *^&ded silk" in which
Euid accompanies G«raint by his
desire, and which she, unluckily for
herself, puts by reverently in a "ce-
darn cabinet" instead of giving it to
tier waiting-maid, as most ladies of
the present day would do, when it
bad served its purpose,— even sup-
posing, we saj', that the "faded" ar-
ticle of dress m question is introduced
with a high moral purpose— even
that of inducing the wives of Eng-
land generally, and more especially
the wives of English poets^ to be con-
tent with plain attire — ^though we
should be grateful to the Laureate
fur his good intentions, and earnestly
wish him success, as the dismal vision
of our Christmas bills rises before
our prophetic gaxe — yet we cannot
but feel that if such apr)eals in verse
could do the business, we have good
Dr. Watts^ already, more ejisily re-
membered and more distinctly affect-
ing the conscience I So, returning
to the CBsthetic view of the matter,
we would humbly beg the Laureate
ft>r the fhture to tell us more of the
maiden and less of her clothes — more
of the wedding, if he will, a^d less
of the trmitseau. Nay, might we
Tenture to whisper to him that lines
like these will defeat his own pur*
pose, where he sums up "the whole
duty of a husband*' thus: —
**To oompasa her with sweet obseiraiices,
To dru* fur b^mt^fyily (IX and Iraep ker
troe."
Somewhile after Geraint and Enid's
marriage, the growing evil report of
the Queen induces the former to
withdraw his young wife from her
dangerous example, to retire into his
principality, where, in affectionate
care of Euid (an affvction which our
unwise poet describes as revealing
itself chiefly in making constant ad-,
ditions to her wardrobe), he forgets
the duties of his ofliice, and incurs
the general disapprobation of his
people. The yomig wife hears this ;
and in hesitation between her fear
of displeasing her husband and her
grief that his fame should perish for
kck of warning, drops a broken sen-
tence which leads him to susptct her
faithful affection for himself. Mad-
dened by this suspicion (which he
might have removed by one simple
question), he resolves to ride forth
into the wilderness, to win back his
wife's regard by some high deed;
on which the poet observes in very
beautiful language — language far
more applicable, a;9 it seeius to us,
to many a sad occurrence iu real
life, than to this very improbable
difficulty—
" 0 purblind race of miserable men I
How mutj amollg aa at thla very honr
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,
By tAUng true for false, or folso for true I
Here through the fteble twilight of this
world
Groping, how man/, until wo pass and
reach
That other, where we aee as we are seen P
613
Ths IdylU qf the King.
[5,..
He commands Enid to acoompany
him, and expresslj obarges her to do
80 arrayed in her worst and meanest
dreas. A strange subject to occapy
the thoughts of a warrior, at the rery
moment when he was smarting nnder
the reproach of e£feminacyT And
traly, as it seems to us, a very mean
piece of revenge for any " sort of a
man," let alone a knight of the
Bound Table to indulge in I She
obeys meekly; puts on the ^* faded
silk ^' in which he first saw her, and
is bidden to ride on far in frontl lest
her angry lord should be unable to
restrain his wrath, and, whatever
happens, never to speak a word to
him. Late in the afternoon they
meet three bandits, and Enid is re*
warded by her ungenerous husband,
for having braved his indignation to
warn him of his danger, by his orders
to drive their horses (laden with the
armour of which he has stript their
riders), tied together by their bridles,
before him. A little way farther on
they meet three more villains, and
Geraint has another opportunity (of
which he avails himself) of showing
Talour to his enemies and nnkindness
to his wife.
Tired by the charge of the six
horses, and much more bv her own
quiet grief, Enid thankfully accepts
the night's lodging her harsh husband
J)rovides for her in a little town ad-
oining the castle of another old
suitor of hers, Earl Limours. He,
encouraged by the evident coldness
between her husband and herself,
renews his suit to her. Enid, alarmed
at his numerous band of followers,
feigns to be willing that he should
come in the morning to carry her off,
only asking to be left in repose that
night ; and is so long before she
dares awaken her husband to tell
him of his danger, that their retreat
the next day is speedily interrupted
by the arrival of the "wild Limours"
and his band in pursuit of them,
Gteraint,, however, is fully equal to
the occasion; knocks the earl and
his next follower down like nine-
pins—
**Aiid bli&dlj roalwd on all the nmt be-
hind.
But at the flash and motion of the man
Thev vanished panic-stricken like a shoal
Of darting flah, that on a aommer mom
Adorn the ervatal ^jrkcs of OHaelok,
Ck)me slippuig o'er their ehadovs «■ &
sand;
But if a man who atanda upcm the tetek
But lift a shining hand a^auiet the son.
There is not leit the twinkle of a fin
Betwixt the creM/ iatets wldte fa flowo:*
Having disposed of thte fonotd^
attack so easily, the inTiiicibie Ge-
raint ridee on with the pfttiesfi Erl
But retribution is at haud. A voec
which he hardly felt in tbeaid ov ^
the conflict, begins to pftin him ; k>
blood flows nnseen, aad he bkk
senseless to the gromld. Hb wi.^
binds his wonnd with her veil, ik
sits beside him in despair. ^T'je
hnge Earl Doorm,'* the eavage kc^
of the territory they are now a
passes by, and tonohed in aoma ^
gree by beauty in diatreaa, oommssf^
two spearmen to carry the wooodo!
man to his hall. Snid'a pelfrsT bis
deserted her, bnt Genunt'a ^'grg£
chai^er," which stood by him ^giier-
ed l&e a man,'^ follows him onied.
Left alone in the deserted fasD, Ys^L
sits for long hours by her lord; win,
wakeninar from his swoon, is eoe-
▼inoed of her tme love for him h
her tears, but still imgsm himself a
dead, —
*'That he mi^ pnre lier to Hie jets-
most.
And sav to his own heart, *S1m we^ fir
He thus exposes bar to the mde at-
tentions of their savage host, viu
returns from a plnndering expeditioe
in the afternoon, feasts in the hiS
with a motley crew of spearmeo ta^
women,
^^WhoM tonh th^ old
Doum^ 09 Me «m>ms
And maktM it earth ;^
dram& «» Sle wiAm-'i
and having finished his sayags re-
past, coolly assures Enid that ber
husband is dead, offers to replac«
him; vainly presses meat and dtivk
upon her, and then, with a r^nl
fur dress amazing in such a bsr-
barian, and evidently proving that
the love of fine clothes was epidemic
'at that period, sends for a splendid
silk, acd commands Enid to pat of
her faded garb, aodTarray herself i&
it. To which she answers : —
)59.]
Tke IdfUs 0/ the King.
018
tn this poor gown mj dear lord found
me first,
nd loved me serriDg is mj fiitber's ball ;
t this poor gown I rode with him to
court,
nd there the queen array*d me like the
snn;
i this poor gown he msde me elothe my-
self;
Then now we rode upon this fotal qneat
f honour, where no hononr ean he gpdn^d :
nd this poor gown I will not cast a^kto
'ntll hluiaelf arise a living man,
.nd bid me cast it I have griefs enongh:
*ray you be gentle, pray von let me be :
never loved, can never love bat him:
'ea, God, I pray you of your gentleness,
le being as he is, to let me be.^
lerenpon the rade Doorm strikes
iier, and she, thinking
"* *He had not dared to do it
'Except he snrely knew my l<»d was dead,*
^ent forth a sodden sharp and bitter cry,
i.8 of a wild thing taken In the trap,
WAich «««« the trapper coming thro"* the
jreraint starts up, and with a single
blow of his stalwart arm sends the
huge Earl's head rolling on the floor ;
which seems to ns something less
than justice, seeing that he owns
afterwards,
"Enid, I have ^ used yon worse than that
dead man.*^
ne then monnts his horse, lifts his
fair Enid on to it, and rides off with
her, joyful in his recovered faith in
her ati'ection, and we are thankful to
say, (lenitent for the past; henceforth
to lead a happy and nsefal life, griev-
ing his sweet wife no more, and
securing his people's reverence hy his
manly deeds. The lines which de-
scribe Enid^s gladness, when she
feels herself restored to her right
place beside her husband, are, to our
thinking, very beautiful :
*♦ And never yet, since high in Paradise
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew,
Came purer pleasure into mortal kind
Than lived through her, who In that periloos
hour,
Put hand to hand beneath her husband^s
heart,
And I felt him hers again: she did not
weep,
But o'er her meek eyes came a floppy
Like that which kepi the heart o/Xden green:
Obi w sic omnia f How much
better in its simple propriety of lan-
guage id this package, than attempts
at variety of expression, like '* his ,
helmet wagg'd," of Geraint fainting *
.earlier on 1 How much better, in
their melodious vernfioation, than
lines like this, where the accent falls
perforce on the least important word :
** The nrlnce, without a word, from hie harse
felt"
Or this, still worse, from Vivian :
''Her eyes and neck, glittering, went and
camel"
And how little worthy of the beauti-
fnl lines we have quoted, and of some
others too which we have not space
for, is the story of which we have
given the outlines I
Having confessed our dislike to
Idylls, we will not be so inconsist-
ent as to quarrel with " Alfrede, our
lAureate Poete^' (to speak of him in
the language of Chaucer), because
this is not an Idyll at all; because
Enid and Gtoraint, though they do
once pass through a hay -field (where
Geraint eats up the mower's dinner
with singular eagerness considering
the nature of his anxiety), betray no
desire to betake themselves to rural
occapations ; because we look in vain
for anything like the exquisite open-
air life of The Faery Qusen (to which
great work the nature of the subject
in some sense invites comparison).
It may be rather hard to call a tale
an IdyU, the hero and heroine of
which spend no longer time '^sub
Jove" than any modem gentleman
and lady on a tour, and who are
always taking shelter in some house
or other. (She whose beauty in the
forest "made a sunshine in that
shady place," spent a far freer exist-
ence.) But let that pass. Our com- '
plaint goes deeper, for it concerns
not names, but things. How eould
Mr. Tennyson think it worth his
while to adorn by his &ncy — ^to dis-
course to us in the sweet music of
a voice we love so well — a tale of
such mediocre interest— of a hero so
utterly stupid? In the name of the
ladies of England (who, we are sure,
will agree with us), we beseech him,
for the future, to wed his gentle
Enids — ^those patterns of woman-
hood whom he draws so well — to men
somewhat worthier of them.
Let us pass on to Vieien, which is
so far idyllic that its scene is laid
wholly in the forests of Brittany,
* Spatulas sub tegmine^iMreiU"; but
TOU LXXXTI.
iO
614
The Idylls of ike King.
Psf.
alas! how utterly devoid of all pas-
toral innocence I It consists of tiie
wicked devices of a most anlovable
damsel, named Vivien, to beguile the
aged Merlin, the great enchanter,
into revealing to her a spell of which
he had once told her. This spell,
wrought in a fashion something like
mesmerism,
** with voren pooM and with wsrlng
anns,''
but With more enduring results, puts
its subject to sleep for ever, except
to him who wrought the charm ; and
Vivien determines to learn it from
Merlin, and then work it on her un-
lucky tutoip,
"Afl fkncying that her glory woald be
great.
According to his greatnesa, whom ahe
quenched."
Merlin is painted fall of gentle wis-
dom, venerable as
** Sach a beard aa. roath gone oat,
HadleftinasheV
could make him. He is not withont
§loomy forebodings of coming evil,
epicted in the following fine lines :
"So dait a forethought roird aboat Ma
brain,
Aa, (m a dvUdayin an ocean caw.
The blind %oa/o6^ fceUng round M$ long sea
hali
InHlence.^
Kay, an indefinable association links
these forebodings with Vivien. He
says to her, —
"01 did you never lie apon the ahore,
And watch the corrd white of the eomlng
wave
Olase^d in the alippery aand before it
breaks?
Sven such a wave, but not so pleaaorable.
Dark In the glass of some presagefVil mood.
Had I for three days seen, ready to tall.
Tou seem'd that wave about to break
upon me,
And sweep me from my hold apon the
world,
My ase, and name, and fame.^^
His nature is far too noble to love
such a thing as Vivien. Listen to
his lofty thoughts on fame : —
" Sweet were the daya when I was all
imknowa.
Bat when my name was lilted an. the
storm *^
Broke on the monntain, and I eared not
for it.^
Or these: —
"Fme.Ti&K,
Being bat amplei^esils to serve aa^ai
Should have small rest or pteasoR h W
self.
But work as vassal to the lazcer lore,
That dwarfs the petty lore of one to anC
At first he tolerates rather thui Bb
her attentions ; and when sbe p
maturely shows the cloven foot, sl-.
pours into his nnwiliing ^srs vl-
scandal against his noble friend% :k
knights of the Round Table {^mki
of which we will say nofchii«, be
that we are traly sorry it should pol-
lute the pages which tell, further .10.
of the childlike innocence of Eltisi'.
aud the manly — ay, the ChriUiah^
purity of Arthor), he tarm from bf
indignantly, muttering,
** Men at most diifer ae heaven and nrtk
Bat women, worst and best, as beam
and hell>
and expressing his jnst loatbisg y<
such as her, who,
"Iftherfisi
Some stain or blemish in a name of oote,
Not Qrievinff that th&lr ffreateet are to md.
Inflate themselves with some \sssae ^
liKht,
And Judge att Katurefram hsrfut t/da^
Without thevHUtom ihMreveea»dm
Uer godlike head crowned ^etth tptritmipi.
And touching athar foorlde.^
How true I how noble I How gwC
to remember the next time we bar
an ill report of anv one we rerena»'
The beauty of the thought iQ the
lines we have italicised makes it
qnite forget the defective rtytiunft
the last line bat one. And yet ^
sage who judges so justly yields b?
his secret, a few pages later, to tiie
woman he despises. "Oh! in^
lame and impotent condosion!^ "^^
have all pity for the strong mij
whom his affection has dionae^
stabbed by the hand which he tif^^
as his own. We feel more oorop^
sion than anger when we hear ae
brave champion of Israel aguJ^ tfe
Philistines bewail his ** impoteuce «
mind, in body strong" —
» His lot onfortnnate In nnptlal choto, ^
From whence captivltj and loss of eyes;
for the choice, though a wrong 0*^
was his own, and he yieWed op
God*8 secret and his to the woin»
whomhefowrf. Bat Tennyson maKS
1859.]
ThB IdylU <(f iht E%nif.
615
Merlia yield np hU great seoret
to the woman whom he does not
and cannot love, merely beeaose
of her iraportnnity I He tells it her,
"overtalk'd and ovcpwofd;" and
by her shrieking, her exaltation,
she leaves him as dead in the hollow
oak,
*^ADd lost to life and use «nd name and
Where the original sketch is dis-
torted, the most faultless colonr-
iag cannot produce a really good pic-
ture. The fine thouglits and beanti-
ful imagery scattered through "Vi-
vien^ with no niggard hand, cannot
make amends for the incurable fault
in its original design. They can at
best only conceal it. The sickly tree,
with no principle of vigorous life
within it, with no roots striking far
down into a healthy soil, may be
adorned for a night^s festivity with
coloured lamps and artificial flow-
ers; nay, healthy fhiits may be
brought and hung upon it ; but a
short examination will always detect
its want of organic connection with
its foreigd splendours. We dare not
say that where the leading idea from
which a poem grows is good, the
poem will be invariably good also;
for a noble conception may be much
obscared and injured by defective
execution; but this we will say — a
poem which is false or weak in its
main idea, can never be more than
good in parts. It can never be good
as a whole. The stream can never
rise higher than its source. And thus
we turn, with reluctant disapproba-
tion, from the two first Idylls. In-
deed, we are half tempted to think
that they were rather written as
foils to the two last, than to act, as
they should have done, as a flowery
and leafy avenue to the stately man-
sion which succeeds them. We would
implore Mr Tennyson, as a fattier,
never again to sacrifice the welfare
of two elder daughters (even if some-
what unpromising) so completely as
he has done this time, to the success
in life of their younger sisters. And
we would advise that numerous class
of readers, who have not time, or,
which comes to the same thing, fancy
they have not, to read long poems, to
skip the two first Idylls boldly, and
at once make acquaintance vrith
^^ Elaine the fair, Elaine the lov-
able,'^ as her admiring bard very
meetly styles her. They will recog-
nise an old acquaintance, for Elaine
is a new version of the ^' Lady of
Shalott" Only Mr. Tennyson, no
longer pressed by the imperious
exigencies of finding something to
rhyme with Lancelot and Oamelot,
and having, perchance, heard some-
times the malicious quotation with
which a most poetical friend of ours
(who has read his Shakespeare more
diligently than his Tennyson) favour-
ed i/<, when we last proposed to read
to him "The Lady of Shalott,''
**lCiBe eyes amell onion«, I diaU \reep
aaon,^'
has metamorphosed Shalott very
advantageously into Astolat There
the *^ lily maid Elaine^' dwells
with her father and her two
brothers, Sir Torre and Sir La-
vaine. There Sir Lancelot finds her
on his way to Oamelot, where he
means to win in the joust the ninth
diamond, which Arthur offers as the
prise of the yearly tourney there,
hoping to present it, with the eight
he won before, all at once to the
Queen. The first discovery of these
diamonds is told in lines which we
have great pleasure in presenting to
our readers : —
"For Arthur, when none knew from
whence he came,
Long ere the people ehoee him for their
Rovliiff tike trackless realms of Lyomiesse,
Had foond a glen, grey boulder, and bbiek
tarn.
A. horror lived about the tarn, and clave
Like Its own mists to all the mountain side ;
For here two brother*, one a king, had
met
And fought together ; but their names were
lost,
And each had slain his brother at a blow.
And down they fell and made the glen
abhorrM;
And there they lay till all their bones were
bleached.
And Uehen'd into colour with the crags.
And one of these, the klng^ had on a
crown
Of diamonds, one In front, and foura-eide.
And Arthur came, and labouiing np the
pass
All in a misty moonshine, unawares
Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and
the skull
Brake from the nape, and from the skull
the crown
SollM Into light, and tuning on its rims,
Hed Ht€agm«HmgrivuMtoihttafn,
616
The IdyUs of the King.
\%m
And down the shingly scaur he plnngedt
and causht,
And set it on nls head, and in his heart
Heard munnnra, ^lo, iJiou likewise shalt be
kinfti*"
This passage has given ns intense
pleasure; a pleasure which may not
be shared by those who have never
scrambled (as the Lanreate has, we
doabt not, many a time daring his
sojonrn by the English lakes, and as
we ourselves rejoiced to do in *^ the
days that are no more") np some
rooky pass to the still tarn, three
parts np the mountain, where we de-
liberated whether to scale still loftier
heights, or to plunge down tbrongh
the mountain-desolation, and seek
the world once more. We must fdso
extract the passage which describes
Lancelot, and the effects of their
first meeting on Elaine —
"The great and gniltj lore he bare the
Qaeen.
In battle with the lore he bare his lord.
Had marred his &ce, and mark'd it ere his
time.
Another rinnins on snoh heights with one,
The flower of all the west, and all the
world,
Had been the sleeker for it ; but in him
Hb mood was often like a fiend, and roee
And drove him into wastes and solitudes
For agony, who was yet a living soul.
Marred as he was, he seem°d the goodliest
man
That ever among ladies ate in hall.
And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes.
However marr'd, of more than twice her
years,
Seam'd with an ancient swordont on the
cheek.
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted np her
eyes,
And loved him with that love which was her
doom.*^
The remorse whioh any man, not
utterly hardened, must have felt for
such treachery as his to such a
friend as ^'Arthur, the faultless
King'* (so even Guinevere is enforced
to style him), is finely painted here.
We see it torturing Lancelot at
the banquet, where he narrates
the Einrs high deeds in war to his
delighted hearers; his victories by
river, sea, and forest —
** Where many a heathen Ibll: and on the
mount
Of Baden I myself beheld the king
Ohaige at the head of aU his Table Bound,
And all his legions, crying Christ and him.
And break them; and I saw him, aftec
stand ^ ^
High on a heap of slain, from qnir te
plume
Bed as the rising sun with heathen blood.
And seeing me, with * i^tiat voleefe afa&
* They are broken, thejr avo broke*.* ^
And the friend who helped Aid;
to win these battles, to whose bsr
he had looked as to bis own^u)*
unquailing in his dan^^er and msecr-
ing in his prosperity, hasdeahk:
in secret a worse blow than adj be-
then foe ; and the Kln^ knows e;^
his friend's falsehood, and trusts bk
as ever. And acoafidng^ consekii*:
says to Lancelot, "T^on art v±
man,'' and wrings from him tb« «e>
fessioD, as he points oat tbe Ejz^ ^
young Lavaine at the toomainem,
»Me you call great: mine ia the &sr
seat,
The truer lanee; but thera to but t
youth
Now crescent, who will oomo to all I sm.
And overcome it; and in me there dwells'
No greatness, save it be some fhr-off tooeh
Of greatness to know well I am not great:
There is the man.^*
And we r^oioe to think, frcHo tb
concluding verse of this Idyll, thstiis
remor8e,though all unaTaiJiDg throc^
its course, did at an after time ii|^
this fallen hero; that as the <^
prose romance of " Morte d'Arthur'
says, *^He took repentance alta^
wards," and in Tennyson-s laiigns£&
died a " holy man ;" for we codd
not hear to think of this flower d
chivalry, this one love of sweei
Elaine, Sir Lancelot of the Lifc^
being doomed to that dark abode &
which the whole action of the poea
tends to consign him ; where Daoie
I>laces his brother knight and biodis
sinner, Tristram; that gloomy cirde
where —
** La bufera infernal, ohe mal non netSi
Mena gli sporti eon la sua rapliuk,'*
and concerning which even tha
* fierce Florentine" records —
** Poscia ch' r ebbi 11 mlo dottara ndfto
Nomar le donne antlche e 1 caraUetl
PietA mi vinse, e ftii qnasi anunrlto**
Meantime it is, of a surety, a sad
"doom" for "Elaine, the lily maid
of Astolat," to love such an one fi
he, and to lie awake all night in
thought of him, as her poet describes
her, in the following lines, tiie sinule
in whioh is identicM with Coleridtge's
well-known remark on Gbantrers
bust of Wordsworth — "It is more
like Wordsworth than Wordsworth
himself is." We are glad to see it
embalmed in vers^^ •
859,]
The Idylh of the Zing.
617
As whon ft painter, poring on* Ihee,
>ivlnel J tttro' all hlndranoa/futi ths man
teh4nd it^ and so painU hlxn that hla liu:e,
'he shape and eoloar of a mind and life,
.1 ves for hla children, erer at its beat
.nd fullest ; so the face before her Uved,
>ark — splendid; speaking in the sllenoei,
All!
^f noble things, and held her from her
sleep."
On the morrow Lancelot departs
br the lists at Oamelot, attended by
Slaine^s younger brother, Lavaine,
eaving her his blazoned shield to
ceep for him, as he wishes to fight
mknown ; and the better to conceal
limself, wearing her favour in his
lelmet. Lancelot joins the weaker
tide in the tourney, and bears him-
jelf with his wonted valonr :
**Klng, duke, earl,
^ant, baron— whom he smote he oyer-
thr«w."
Bat his disgaise all bat works his
rain. His kith and kin, jealous of
the fame of their Lancelot, whom
they believe absent, unite against the
new champion :
'* Tboj conchM their spears, and prlckM their
steeds, and thus,
Their plumes drlyen backward by the wind
thev made
In moving, altogether down npon him
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North 8ea«
Ore^n-ffUmmeriag Unoard Ms tummit^ bears
Its stormy oretta that amoke against the
skies,
Down on a bark, and overbears the bark.
And him that helms it ; so they overbore
Hir Lancelot and his ohaiger, and a spear
Down-glancing lamed the chaiger, and a
spear
Prick'd sharply his own colnaa, and the
head
Pierced through hla side, and there snapt, and
remain'd.^
We like the abruptness of the last
line. We seem to hear the 8()ear
break off short in it. And we have
Italicised what we think as fine a
description of an ocean wave as we
ever read. To return to the story.
Lavaine helps Lancelot to another
horse, and, well backed by him and
the rest, the wounded hero wins the
day. But when he is proclaimed
victor, and bidden to advance and
take the prize, he answers—
''Prize me no prlxes, for my prize is
death;'*
and roshea from the field, followed
by the fidthful Lavaine, to a poplar
grove hard by (we should have liked
other trees better), where dwells a
knight, turned hermit, who
•"Had seoopM himself
In the whfte rock a chapel and a hall
On massive columns, like a shore-cliff ttve,
And cells and chambers— all were ulr and
dry:
The ffrm» light from fiU mMdouM vnd^r-
neaih
Struck up and tioed along the miiky ro^.**
Lavaine draws out the lance-head ; ,
the hermit carries the wounded
knight into his cave,—
**■ And there, in dally doubt
Whether to live or die, for many a week
Hid from the wide world^a rumour by the
grove
Of poplara, with their noise of fklling showera,
And ever-tremulous aspen trees, he lay.**
3(eantime the sudden disappear-
ance of the unknown conqueror ex-
cites much disturbance in the lists;
so that Arthur charges Qawain, his
own nephew, to take the diamond and
ride forth to seek its winner, and not
to retnm without delivering the
dear-bought prize into his hands.
Sir Gawain fails to find him in his
close retreat ; but at length reaching
Astolat, brings and hears news of
him there. Elaine's preoccupied
heart gives amall heed to the oompli-
ments the courtly knight pays her;
even to such a really pretty one as
this, by which he Answers her re-
proof for neglecting the quest on
which the king had sent him : —
'* I lose it, aa we lose the lark In heaven,
O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes^**
So he leaves her the diamond to
keep, being sure that, if Lancelot
lives, he will come to claim his
shield ; and noting the beauty of the
damsel, and that &e favour worn by
Lancelot at the touroament was
hers, he hastens to tell the astonished
court of Lancelot's new love, and
to waken in the Queen bitter jealousy
of her innocent rival. But Elaine
hai heard of the peril of the knight,
whom she has seen only one day — a
day as fatal to her peace of mind as
a whole year — and she persuades her
old father to let her go with her elder
brother to seek him out They find
618
The Idylli of the Elng.
[Not.
him easily, with their joonger hro-
ther's help. Elaine presents the
diamond to hira, and, grieved by his
sad plight, stays with her brother to
narse him, and saves his life by her
gentle care — •
"^ Being to him
Meeker tiun any child to a rough nnrse,
Milder than anj mother to a siok child;
And never woman yet, sinoe man's first
fitll.
Did kindlier onto man; bat her deep love
Upbore her."
Lancelot is not tintonohed by all
this fond affection ; he feels towards
her as to a young sister, and a^ last
we read —
« Loved her with alllove, except the love
Of man and woman when they love their
best,
Closest and sweetest, and had died the death
In any knightly fisshion for her st^e.
And peradventure had he seen her first,
She might have mads this and that other
world,
Another world for the sick man ; bnt now
The shackles of an old love straitenM him,
Ei» honour rooUd in dMumour aiood^
AndJtMh unfaithful tspt MmfdUely imeT'
Surely had Shakespeare had to write
this, he woald have said something
like those two last lines I Thus
Lancelot bears the penalty of his sin,
not alone in the remorse which has
poisoned his every cup of guilty
pleasure, but even more in the moral
ruin it has wrought within him,
rendering him alike consciously un-
worthy of, and incapable of respond-
ing to, the pure and strong love
(strong because pure) which he has
inspired — a love of which Arthur
• says very truly, later on :
**And, after heaven, on our dnll side of
death.
What shoald be best if not so pore a love
Clothed in so pore a loveliness.^
"The great Sir Lancelot of the
Lake" has condemned himself, by
his own act, to continue " a lonely
man, wifeless and heirless;" and as
it begins to dawn on Elaine that he
cannot love her as she loves him
(why he cannot, how should she ever
dream ?)—
"She mnrmnr'd, ^Yain, in rain; It cannot
be.
He will not love me; hafw then? mast I
dler
Then as a Uttle helpless innooent bird.
That has bat one plain passage ef f«w
notes, ^ ,
WUl sing the simple passage o'er and »*er
For all an April morning, tin the ear
Wearies to hear It, so fhe simple maid
Went half the night repeatiag, *-Mart I
die?'**
She makes one desperate effi>rt. At
her father's castle (whither Lancet
accompanies her aod her brother od
his recovery, where she vainly puts
on her best attire to piease him,
thinking —
"If I be loved, these are my festal robes ;
If not, the Tictim's flowera Defore he CaH ;"*
and where he proffers her every ^
as a gnenSon for h^ care, but the
(me gift she desires) she breaks silenoe
on the day he is to leave them, and
declares her love to him. Wo know
that this contradicts the best prece-
dents ; that Yiola^s imaginary aster,
who
** Never toM b«r Iots,
Bat let eooeeafanent, like a worm i* the bod.
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined S&
thought;
And with aneen and yellow mekn^oly.
She sal like Fadenoe on a monnment,
Smiling St frier
is more truly womanly than some ^
Shnkespeare^s other heroines; but
still Tennyson ha$ provided the beat
excuse he could for his sweet Elaine,
in her childlike innocence, in the
ease with which her every wi^ has
been gratified till now by her fcmd
brethren and father, and, above all,
in her being destitute oi a motber's
careful guidance. Lanodot answers
kindly but coldly; bids her seek a
worthier husband, whom he may
endow with lands and honours ftSr
her sake, and takes his shield And
departs, not daring to bid her fare-
well, lest he should increase her fatal
passion. Elaine is left to her de-
spair. Her father and brothers strive
in vain to comfort her. She answers
them calmly :—
** Bat when they left her to herself again,
J>wik, WU a jHMuTt 9oic6 from a di&Ut%t
field,
Approaching thro^ the darkness, calTd; the
owls,
Wailing, had power npon her, and she mixt
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms
Of evening, and the meanings of the wind.^
She singB to herself a doleful little
1859.]
The IdylU of the King.
619
song, called the fion^ of Love and
Death, of which we give the fint aad
last stanzas, which we admire par-
ticalarly. Tlie two middle ones ai«
flomewhat spoilt by a want of sim-
plicity, like the ^ concetti ^' in vogue
two centuries ago, so we omit them :
** Sweet is true love, tliongh f Ivea in Tain, in
▼dn;
And sweet ii deaCk, who pais an «]id to
paJn;
I know zx>t whiA is sweetec, no, not L
» I fain would follow tove, if that eonld be ;
I needt mast follow death, who calls for me;
Call and I foUew, I foSow I let me die P
Her father hastens to her, startled
by something unwonted in her voice,
and gases on her altered oonnto-
nance as on a thing at once strange
imd familiar.
**■ A« when we dwell upon a word we know,
Bepeating tUl the word we know so well
Becomes a wonder, and we know not whj.^
A comparison which, though we do
not especially admire, yet we read
with pleasure, as proving that an-
other has experienced that strange,
puzzled feeling about a well-known
word which has occai^ionally seized
on oorselves. Then the maiden tells
her brothers how she has been dream-
ing of her childhood and of her old
delight, when they took her in a
boat on the river ; how she had al-
ways longed in vain to pass one cape,
where a poplar grew, that she might
go and see the king^s palace; and
Low now the old longing had re-
tomed, and she felt it waa to be grati-
fied at last There is a proverb,
which we have repeated before now,
laometimes in hope and sometimes in
fear, which says, '^ Whatsoever thou
desirest in youth, in age thou ehalt
plentifully obtain;^' and every now
and then a dread comes over us that
it may, after all,
^ Keep the word of iHromlse to onr ear,
But break It to our hope."
Such, alas! is to be its accomplish-
ment in our fair Elaine^s case. When
$h6 pafises the poplar tree and enters
the palace of her childish wishes,
the eye that should have beheld its
glories will be dosed. This is what
fihe sajs to them : —
**• So let mo henee that I may pass at last
Beyond the poplar and fu: up the ilood,
Until I and the palaoe of the King.
There will I enter in among them all,
And no man there will dare to mock at me :
Bat thena the fine Gawain will wonder at
rae;
And then the great Sir Xjmoelot muse at
me;
Gawain, who bad a thousand fitfewells to
me;
Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me one :
And tiiere the King will know me aad my
love ;
And there the Qoeen herself will pity me,
And all the gentle court will welcome me ;
And after my long Toy age I shall rest I "
Her brothers weep for her. Her fa-
ther tries to cure her fatal love by '
telling her of Lancelot's shame, now
publicly reported. But Elaine is to
escape what a gifted poetess has
told us is one of the bitterest drops
in wonum's cup of woe. (Ah ! Feli-
cia Hemansl doesmaTi never taste
it?)
"• To make Idola, and to find them clay.
And to bewail such worship.**
Gently, but firmly, the maiden puts
aside the arm raised to dash down
h&r idol, thus : —
"Never yet
Was noble man but made Ignoble talk.
H4 maksB nofrUndwko n&v6r mads a/b«,
But now it is my glory to have loved
One peeriees, without stain : so let me pass,
My ibther, howsoever I seem to you,
JVol all wnhappyy ha/ving loved OocTt heat
And greatevC, iKo' my love had no relmm,""
She dictates a letter to Lancelot, to
be given him by herself alone, bid-
ding them
** Lay the letter In my hand
A little ere I die, and close the hand
Upon it : I shall guard it even in death.**
They are to place her, when she is
dead, in a black barge, steered by
an old dumb servant, and to deck
her in her richest robes.
** I go in state to court to meet the Queen.
There surely I shall speak fbr mine own
self;
And none of yon can speak for me so wall.**
Will our readers think us very tire-
some, and Mr. Tennyson very un-
grateful, if we interrapt his touching
story, to ask him why he calls the
dumb man, " the lifelong creature of
the house?" and to say, that though
we have no doubt that he has de-
scribed him correctly, and that fk
680
The IdfUi qf the King.
[Kffr.
damb man, whose fair young mis-
tress was dead, would very likely at-
tend ber faneral,
** winking his eyes, and twisted all his
yet that so grotesque a figure' should
not have been brought forward so
proniinently in the sad procession?
That sad procession passes through
the meadows, a shadow in the bright
sunshine, after no long time. The two
mourning brethren place the dead
body of their sister on the barge's
black deck, give her their last kiss^
• and bid her their last farewell —
»And the dead,
SteerM hy the dumb, went upward with the
flood —
In her right hand the lily, in her left
The letter— HiU her bright hair streaming
down —
And all the coverlid was cloth-of-gold
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in
white
All but her face, and that clear-featured
face .
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead,
But fost asleep, and laj as tho' she
smiled."
The same day as that on which the
barge moves slowly up the river,
with its precious freight. Sir Lancelot
has sought an audience with the
Queen, that he may at last offer her
his princely gift, the "nine-years-
fougbt-for" diamonds. They meet
in an oriel of the palace overlooking
the stream, and Lancelot, kneeling,
gives her his prize. Bat Guinevere
has heard and believed the report of
her knight's infidelity to their un-
hallowed bond ; she scornfiilly re-
jects his oflfering, bidding him carry
it to the damsel he prefers to her ;
and then, in a transport of Jealous
rage, suddenly flings the diamonds
into the river, as recklessly as she
had cast away before things for (ohl
how far!) more precious. She is
quickly to learn her error, for
**Then while Blr Lancelot leant, in half
disgust
At love, life, all things, on the window
ledge.
Close underneath his eyes, and right across
Where these had fitUen, slowly past the
barge
Whereon the lily maid of Aatolat
Lay smiling like a star in blackest nlght."^
The court crowd round her in amaze-
ment, the King himself commands
them to bear her in; and all takes
plaoe in Arthur's haD, as the and
foratdd. Gawain ^wcmderf^^ Lb-
celot ^^fMau^^ at the si^t. Osh
muses 1 It seems little for a ooiiiv
eons knight to do, as be isazes on tbe
fair maiden who died fivr love of
him; and we were at first ineKsed
to think that the poet meaot to iaS-
cate the fearfhl power of an to bard-
en the heart and deprive it of sQ
capacity for pity — that frightfal pro-
cess of which, if we remember r^t
good Dr. Arnold says in one of his
sermons, " Be assured, they who de
not love God now, will one day love
nothing,'''* And certainly we fiear
that Lancelot thinks more at first d
his justification in the Queen's em
oompleted by the letter (which Ai^
thur, taking from the dead maiden^
grasp, reads aloud to the coart), thaa
of mourning her untimely fate. As
we read his cold explanatory speeds
after the letter has been read, wi
must remember that they were
spoken in Guinevere's presence, and
really addressed to her. It is ALrtbnr,
not Lancelot, who orders the splen-
did burial of the maiden —
'*Wlfh
»ns obaeqvtea,
like a
And mass, and
queen ; ""
and who gives directions for ^
costly tomb which is to perpetnals
" the story of her dolorous voyage,"
It is not tiU all is over, and Lancelot,
^* sad beyond his wont,'' has seen the
knights
**Lay her comely he*d
Low in the dnst of half-forgotten kinga,*
that he begins to diBoem dimly the
true worth of the treasure which ht
has cast away. Truly as wdl as
sweetly sings Gerald l^bissey,
" In this dim world of clouding cares,
We rarely know, till wildered eyes
See white wings lessening up the sklea^
The angels with us unawares.**
Then at last he says,
"^Low in himself *AhI stmpTe heart sod
sweet
You loved me. damaeL, sorely with a love
Far tenderer than my Qneen^a.* ^
And his old remorse awakens with
tenfold power, and the dose of the
poem leaves Lancelot groaning in
bitter pain over
1859.]
The IdyU» of the Eing.
**■ ArUrar^fl sreatett knight * mna.
Not after Arthur's heart! *"
itrtiggliTig%ildlV against the shame-
al bonds whion he h too weak to
)Teak; and wishing, in his agony,
;hat the fairy Lady of the Lake, who
inrsed liis infancy, had drowned
lim, yet an innooent baby, In the
* dnsky mere."
We have left onr fUr Elaine^s
etter, which we consider a model of
ouching simplicity, to form onr last
extract from her story. Here it is : —
' Moet noble lord, Sir Lanoelot of the
Lake,
:, some time caird the maid of Astolat,
;?ome, for yon left me taking no fhrewell,
iither, to take my laat farewell of yoo.
: loved you. and my love had no return,
ind therefore my true Ioto hae been my
death.
Uid therefbre to oar lady Onlnevere,
\jid to all other ladles, I make moan.
?ray for my sonl, and yield me burial.
?ray for my aoal, tboa too, Sir Lancelot,
La thou art a knight peerleos.'^
Need we assare our readers of onr
anfeigned admiration for this Idyll?
We think they mnst have seen it all
ilong, and we trust they share it.
ISTothing but its length prevents it
from coming up to, not the popular
notion of an Idyll (though we num-
bly submit that in choosing a name
for a poem, no other has an^ right to
be regarded), but the defimtion, fur-
nished ns by those ponderous lexico-
f^raphers Scott and Liddell, who in-
form us thiit " eidnllion " literally a
small image) need not of necessity
mean a pastoral, but is a name that
may belong to any short and highly-
wrought descriptive composition.
Comparing "Elaine" with the "Lady
of Shalott," we congratulate Mr. Ten-
nyson most heartily on having been
as successful with his finished pic-
ture, as he was nearly thirty years
ago with his exquisite little sketch.
It is not often that the "artist in
words" paints the same subject
twice over; still more seldom that
he succeeds in both paintings. His
earlier picture is a landscape con-
taining but one prominent figure,
which receives fully as much from
the surrounding objects as it im-
parts to them. His second is a large
historical picture, something like
Maolise*8 of the play-scene in Hcun-
Uty where one bright-haired maiden's
innooent ilioe contrasts strongly with
the traces of suspicion, sin, and sor-
row on those of the courtly group
which surrounds her. The poet does
not deeeribe his heroine^s feelings in
the "Lady of Shalott" He shows
them to us instead refiected, her
gladness in "the blue unclouded
weather," her sadness in the "low
sky raining " heavily, and the falling
leaves around her. In this, as in
many of his most beautiful pieces,
such as " Mariana," " St. Agnes,'* and
" Sir Galahad," he appeals to a deep-
seated instinct in the human heart,
which shows itself in old sayings,
such as this — ^" Happy the bride that
the sun shines on," "Happy the
dead that the rain rains on ;" which
personifies Nature, and involuntar-
ily looks to her for sympathy. In
"Elaine," on the contrary, the poet
takes his standing-point from the
heart; the landscape is an efficient
accessory, but an accessory only.
The weakest points in the execution
of this poem are, in our judgment,
the dialogues; in which we flJways
thought narrative-poets at a great
disadvantage compared with their
dramatic brethren, from the obliga-
tion to insert perpetually "quoth
he," " said she," &c, and which Mr.
Tennyson is apt to render forced and
constrained by his attempts to give
them greater ease. "We dislike, also,
in a poem of such high finish, oc-
casional vulgarisms like the follow-
ing, spoken of a knight recovering
from his amazement :—
""Then thooh M hair, atzode oli; and hnziM
abroad
About the maid of Aatolat and her love;*^—
of a queen trying to conceal her
feelings, "and saying that she
ehoJced ; ^""Of a maiden singing her
" swan-song," —
" The blood-red lisht of dawn
FIOMd on her fisoe, aha aMMnif, 'I«et me
die;'"—
or of a knight who, dreading the
world's censure, descants on it as
having
" Bnoh A toDgoe to Uar« Its own Interprets
tlon."
We do not much like the employ-
622
Tke Id/ylU cf the King.
pw-
ment (though etjmologically correot)
of " crescent '* as an adjective. We
know it much better as a substan-
tive. We dislike such attempts at
novelty of expression as the follow-
ing;—
■^TlMD tarnM tiio tongaeleM nuui
and would have been perfectly satis-
fied with the information that he
turned round. But with the excep-
tion of these minor blemishes, we
consider ^* Elaine'* a most perfect
composition ; exhibiting marvellous
power of description (description
detailed sometimes, and sometimes
struck off in a line or two), powerful
alike to set before us the rocky glen,
or the well-ordered joust, where the
"clear-faced King," in his robes of
red samite, looks down from his
dragon-supported throne on the con-
flict of his noble knights; alike the
blood-stained conqueror in the joy
of his hard- won victory, or the maid
(still fair in death) on her strange
voyage; the mute appeal of the
dead against the living in Arthur^s
court; and the useless honours of her
gorgeous funeral We admire the
way in which the two main difficul-
ties, involved in the nature of the
story, are surmounted; we do not
lose our interest in Lancelot, in spite
of the evil we know to be in him,
and of the ungracious part he has to
act; for the poet has lifted the cur-
tain, and shown us in the struggles
of the brave knighf s mind how
"The powers that tend the son].
To help It from the death that oaanot diei"*
have not yet abandoned him. He
still exclaims, " like others worse and
worthier,*' —
** video mellora, proboqne)
Deteriofm teqnor.**
(A sentence which, by the way, we
beg to assure the fair readers of Dr.
Guthrie's Sermons, was not spoken,
as that eloquent divine informs them,
by one of the greatest of heathens,
but put by Ovid into the mouth of a
wiokad enchantress named Medea.)
And his struggles increase, instead
of diminishing, with the progress of
the poem; so that we have yet hope
for him. We have before aSs^*
the skilful treatment of the at^
difficulty; to the ejeooaea proT.ir
for Elaine's open confeaaioii U ^'
hopeless passion, to the bi^^^
grace and delicacy of her charier
and the pathetio aimpllcity c^ fi
sorrow, through which her poet \m
enabled her to win oar pity wiiba
forfeiting our respect. And as tLi
tragic tale "ponfies onr soul if
pity," according to the office of o
gedy, so does it likewise by terrr;
whilst we see in Slaioe how ti
strongest and beat haman affccua
work death, not life, when tii!^
reign in the soul nnsabordinated
a higher love; in Lianoelot^ b(?r
they, who seek happiness in lorbtc
den paths, are doomed by a <£^.
decree to find one da j or other i^
they have lost the sabstance wUt
wildly grasping at the shadow.
We have now to present os
readers with some account of *^G^
evere," the fourth Idyll. The Queec:
guilt has been discovered; Lanooc
has returned to his own land at hs
bidding, whither Arthur has purskc
him, deeming her to be the co&
panion of his flight ; but in truths
nas retired to hide her shame, and z
foster the stirrings of better thin^.
which she feels arising within her. tv
the "holy house at Almesbnry." I^
simple nuns, ignorant of the x>
pliant^s rank, but unoonscioosly ji^-
mg to the spell of her graoefol beatttj.
have received her kindly, but dulj
torture her by their severe oeascw
of their Queen^s misoondoet, and sol
more by the sad news they report ta
her after a while, that l^ir Modn^
the Ktng^s nephew, the discoverer of
her shame, has usurped the realm (df
which he was left in chaiige duriag
his uncle's absence), and m^e leagoe
with Arthur's heathen foes against
him. So Guinevere sits in l<xielT
sorrow, grieving over the evil sbe
has caused, and thinks
''With what * hate th« prnpfe pad il»
King ,
HnrthAteoM,"
and listens to this song, which a
little maid of the eonvent, her oolj
oompanion, has leaned from the duos,
as to a sad forewarning, that evea as
the miachief she has done is irrevcK-
.859.]
The IdyUi of ike Sing.
«28
tble here, bo it Will be found to be ^*^t:S!;'w^^ the
lereafter : worW." ^^
'^^iiu*^ »>**•' and d»k th* nigbtuid And how there, a sudden dread had
Late, late, aoUtoi bat we can enter ttiiL paralysed his voioe, and made his
Too late, too late I ye cannot enter now. hand quit the harp \
N^o light had we : for that we do repent ;
And learning thia, the bridegroom
relent.
Too late, too late I ye cannot enter now.
will
No light: 80 late 1 and dark and cbUl the
night I
O let ua in that we may find the light 1
Too late, too late I ye cannot enter now.
Have we not heard the bridegroom to so
aweetr
O let ua in, tho' Ute, to klas his feett
No, no, too late! ye oannot enter now."
And the young novice tells the Queen
tales which she had heard from her
father, who was Knight of the Round
Table when it first was founded, of
the signfl and wonders which fore-
told its greatness; and Gnineyere
knows that *^the fine gold has he-
oome dim." and that the first hreath
which Bullied it came from herself.
Again, the maid tells her of a bard,
who bad sung many a nohle war-
song,
" Ey^n in the presence of an enemy^a fleet.
Between the steep cliiT and the coming
wave;
And many a mystic lay of life and death
Had chanted on the smoky moontaln-top,
When round Mm bent the spirits of the
hills,
With aU thatr dewy hair blown back like
iiame^
who
**8ang Arthur's glorious wan, and sang the
As weU-nigh more than man, and railM at
those
Who caird him the fldse son of Oarlob :
For there was no man knew lh>m whence he
But after tempest, when the long wave
broke
All down the thundering shores of Bnde and
Boss,
There canoe a day as still as heaven, and
then
They found a naked child upon the sands
Of wild Dundadgii bv the Cornish sea;
And that was Axthur; and they foeter'd
him ■
Till he by mincle was approTen king :
And that his grave should be a mystery
From all men, like his birth; and could he
find
A woman in h^r wnna/nKood m grtai
'^Voe would he teU
His vision; but what doubt that he Ibre-
saw
This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen V
Gninerere bows down her head and
says nothing; but when the maid
goes on to condemn Lancelot with
all a child's uncompromising indigna-
tion, makes answer mournfully —
**0 elosed about by nanowing nunnery
walls,
What knowest thou of the world, and all lU
lights
And shadows, aU the wealth and aU the
woe?
If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight,
Were for one hour less noble than hlmselC
JPravJbr Mm thaih^^^Mip* the doom <^Jfr4.
Anaweepjbr hor %p/u> drew him to ht* aoomr
There is all a woman's generosity in
those two last lines ! Left alone, the
mournful Queen's thoughts recur to
those days of her comparatire inno-
cence 'when she first saw Lancelot,
who came
« Reputed the best knight and goodlleet
man.
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord,
Arthur; and led her forth, and flu: ahead
Of his and her retinue moving, they
Wrapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love
And sport and tQte and pleasure (for the
time
Was May time, and as yet no sin was
dieam*d)
Bode under groves that lookM a paradise
Of blossom, over sheets of hvacinth
That toem'd (h$ AeoMM wabr making thro" UU
earth:*
(The most heautifnl description we
have ever read of that lovely flower,
which inlays with sapphire the emer-
ald pavement of so many of our Eng-
lish woods in spring I)
In the midsib of these musings, a
horse's feet are heard outside, voices
resound through the convent, some
one cries, ^^the Xing I" and an armed
tread approaches Guinevere's door.
She fidls on her face as her injured
husband enters. With the same wise
Judgment which moved the pidnter
of old to veil that father's anguish
624
2%e IdylU of ike King,
Pc.
which he dared not trcist himself to
portray, the poet has made no vain
attempt to tell as how Gninerere felt
in her deeply-wronged husband^s pre-
sence. That once-prond head is neyer
raised from the groand during the in-
terview ; she speaks not, she scaroely
moves, except to make one supplicat-
ing gesture. Thos oar whole atten-
tion is fitly centred on Arthur. In
the previous poems we have known
him chiefly by the effect he pro-
duces on others; here he speaks
for himself. We tremble now and
then for the fate of the nineteenth
century in the hands of some future
Macaulay. He will have no diffi-
culty in giving us a very bad charac-
ter, if he ground his judgment on
such facts as the admitted popularity
of the " Traviata," and the passing
of the Divorce Bill. And we fear
that he will find some additional
evidence against us in the very book
we are now considering; in those
coarse passages in ^'Vivien," of which
we have already hinted our strong
^sapproval. But the speech we have
now come to, ought to go far in arrest
of judgment Its tone of manly purity
bears witness that the age which
produced it could not be wholly cor-
rupt. It begins in a tone of digni«
fied rebuke : —
^ liest thoa here so low. the child of one
I honoured, lutppj, dead Wore thy shame?
Well Is It that bo child is bom of thee.
The children bom of thee are sword and
fire,
Sed rain, and the breaking np of kwa,
The craft of kindred and the godless hosts
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern
Sea.
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, mj right
arm.
The mightiest of my knights, abode with
me,
Hare ererywhere abont this land of Christ
In twelve great battles raining over-
thrown.'*
He tells her how he has returned
from waging unsuccessful war against
tiiat same Lancelot, to meet his re-
bellious kinsmen with sorely-dimin-
iahed forces; out of which remnant
lb» still intends to leave some
**To gnaid thee In the wild hov coming
on,
LetibvtahairqffhiUlow^Mdbekarm'd.
Smr not, thoa thalt be goarded till my
death.
Howbeit I know, ff aadeBt ]
Have errM not, that I
doom.
Thou kaUnai mads tiMfi^mfmee^tam
That I the King thatOd ffreaOff tsart fe ^
Fbr thou ha9t tpoUtiks purpcm ^ m^ i>^
Saddest of all reproaofaes to a
to have been cnosea by Provideur
as a good man^s help-meet in soe
worthy and noble undertaking; c.
not merely to have &iled to be;
him (sad enough and oomaion eam^
as that is I) out to have wafis{
against him I And Artfaor aobsSK-
tiates this accusation by remio&e
Guinevere how he had founded b>
Bound Table to give pattern to i.t
world of courage, courtesy, and per-
ty, and how, mainly throogh ker en
example,
"' The loathaome oppoirite
Of all my heart had destliied ^Ddobtain,
And all thro' thee! so that thia life of isfaip
I guard, as Ood*s high gift, tkwn aoatfe is:
wrong,
Not greatly care to lose; bnt ratlier think
Mow md U vat^for ArtAur, shomld kt Jm.
To tUonesmore toiihiln hU l<m^ halk
And tnU8 the wonted number o/ nty ini^gto
And miee to hear high tcOk of it,obie deeit,
A% in the addon day "before tJ^ ate.
"For which of us who might he left coui
speak
Of tne pore heart, nor seem to gliaoe a
theef
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Fak
Thy ihaaov) tUU would gUdo /Vinm roomy
roorn^
And lehiniUL evermore he ^eait ifftt4 Om
In hanging robe or vacant ornament.
Or ghonUyfoolJdU echoing tm. Ae etair.
For think not, thongh thoa wonldat not Im
thy lord,
Thy l<m has wholly lost his 1ot« Ah- tlftee.
I am not made of so slight eleiiMntA.
Tet mast I leave thee, womaa, to tkf
shame.
I hold that man the worst of public foes
Who, either for his own or children^ sake.
To save his blood from acandal, ktt tte
wife.
Whom ne knows lUaa, abide and rak At
hoaset
Worst of the wont were that znaa he ttei
relgnal
Setter the Xing'e waate hearth and oeftov
heart
Than thou reeeated in tkypiaee of UM,
The mockery ef thf people and Mear mmi"
When did we last read anyiMng
so truly pathetic 9 For there is do
false sentiment here. All is resl,
genuine, manly sorrow — the sorrow
of a great man whose lifers work is
orumbhng to nothing before hts eyes!
850.]
The IdyUa of the Eing.
625
he sorrow of a brave man, who, for
he first time in his life, cannot look
orward to victory with desire—
carcely with hope! — the sorrow of
. good man, who has lost in one day
lis two best earthly possessions ; the
riend he trusted above all other men,
kud the wife, his first, his only love!
^..ost them, too, in the saddest, the
mly hopeless wavt Some of onr
'eaders may recollect a simple little
jerman ballad (Uhland's "Vorn
Tenen Walther")t where the false
iiaiden, who is seeking reconciliation
w-ith the faithfnl knight whom she
lad deserted, asks him for whom he
las put on monming? His answer is
srief and touching : —
*^ Die Llebste meln betnar Ich sehr,
Die ich aaf £rden Nlinmenii«hr,
Noch Qber'm Onbe flnde/^
Words which may be thus freely
rendered : —
"That dearoBt Iftdjr I deplore.
To whom mjr love In youth I gave;
Whom I shall see on earth no more-
No, nor beyond the grave V\
The tears shed over some grave,
where nmny earthly hopes lie buried,
strike all hearts at once, and awaken
universal sympathy. It requires a
finer, a more spiritual perception, to
discern the deeper, though lees obvi-
ous grief, of him who mourns a friend,
parted from him, not by the brief
span of time, but by the boundless
expanse of eternity. For him con-
soling words, like those which as-
suag^ the mourning King of Israel's
grief, have no force or efficacy. What
can he exclaim in the bitterness of
his soul, who has seen the friend
whom he believed in as in himself,
the wife whom he trusted far more
than his own self, deliberately choose
the ^^ broad road that leadeth to de-
struction," but ^they ioiU not return
to me, and God forbid that I should
ever go to them I" Far better a
tomb over which to weep, a vacant
chair by tiie fireside, but a sure and
certain hope of a meeting hereafter;
than the living, who have outlived
the right they omee had to our rever-
ence, our friendship, or our love?
Yet even for this sorest grief of all,
Obristiaa fiiiith, which alone can
sound the abyss of the fhture^alone
ftilly display "the deep gulf (only
not yet "fixed'^ of the present
separation, can offer healing balm.
Hence comes the noble forgiveness
of the conclusion of Arthur^s speech,
which we hasten to quote, — hence
the hope that gilds its close. That
hope (the hope of the fntare recog-
nition of the penitent and believing
in glory, concerning which the old
Welsh preacher quaintly answered
his inquiring wife, who seemed to
doubt it, " Surely you do not think
we shall be greater fools in heaven
than we are now I'*) has always ap-
peared to us most rational and most
scriptural. In Keble^s beautiful
words : —
"That ao before the Jndjpnent seat.
Though changed and glorified each ikoe, i
Not unrememtMBrM toe may meet,
Through endless ages to embrace."
These 1a3t lines in which the unex-
tinguished and unextinguisbable love
of a manly heart to the '^ wife of his
youth" finds its last expression, are
some of the most beautiful in the
poem: —
**Tet think not that I come to nigo thy
crimes;
I did not come to eorse thee, Guinevere;
L whose vast pity almost miakes me die
To see thee, laying there thy golden head.
My pride in happier sammera. at my feet
The doom of treason and the damlng death
(When first I kamt thee hidden here), ^tls
past
The pang which, while I weighed thy heart
with one
Too wholly tnie to dream nntmth in thee,
Hade mv tears bnm— is also past. In nort.
And all Is past, the sin is Binn*d, and I,
Lo 1 1 for^ve thee as Eternal Ood
Forgives; do thou for thine own soul the
Bui how to talis kut U<ud€ qfaU llonedt
0 golden hair, with which luMd to pUty^
Jfoi knowing i O imperial moulded Jbrm^
And heamty ewsh a* never woman wore.
VhHl ii eame. a kinqdonCa eurae wOh thee —
1 cannot ionoi, i/yy llpe^ they are not mine^
But Lanoeiofs: nay^ they never were the
KinfTB.
Let no man dream but that I love thee
BtllL
Perchance, and so thon purify thy soul.
And so thou lean on our fblr flither Christ,
Htreaftor^ in that world tchere all art pure.
We too may meet hejbre high &od, and thou •
Witt epring to me, and claim me thine, and
know
lam thine hwband—noi a emaller aouL
ITor Lancelot, nor another. LeiPee me that,
Ichargt thee, m\f kut hopeJ"
The guilty Queen clings to that hope
too, to save her from utter despair, as
The IdffUi qf ths Ein^.
the hosbADd who has so noblj con-
quered back the heart that should
haFe been always his, yanishes, for
this world^s For Ever, from her gaze.
When the trampet has sonnded for
departure, and Arthur has blest her
and gone to his last battle-field,
where his false nephew is indeed to
fall, but whence he himself shall re-
turn no more, she exclaims : —
**■ K\ sreat and gentle lord,
Wbo wMt, a%Uth6 oontoisiuse of a mini
Amono Ms warring wntM^ to tby kniffhte—
To whom mj false yolaptuoas pride, that
took
Fall easily all impreaalons from below,
Would not look up, or half despised the
height
To which I woald not or I could not climb—
Itkouffht I could not breaths in thatjlns aity
That p*ir€ •efosrity qfperjoct liqht^
I wanted warmth and colour, which I found
In Lancelot— now I see thee what thou art;
Thou art the highest and most human too,
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none
Will tell the King I love him, tho' so late?
Now — ere he goes to the great battle?
none :
Mjself must tell him in that purer life.
Bat now it were too daring. Ah, my Qod,
What miahl I not hM>» mads of thy fair
world.
Bad I but lo99d Iky highsti crsaturs here r
^'La vita al fin, e'l di loda la
sera," says Petrarch in one of his
most beautiful canzoni. Such a con-
clusion rfor we consider this fourth
Idyll mainly in the light of the com-
Eletion of what has^ gone before,
ardly as a separate poem) goes far
to make us forget and forgive the
insult which we conceived ^^Enid'*
to offer to our understanding, and
the displeasing effect which part of
" Vivien" produced on us. We have
here a noble idea beautifully worked
out. Inspired by it, the poet has
Hsen above his usual self. The
blemishes we noted in the former
Idylls almost wholly disappear. Nay,
for the moment we can dispense
with their beauties. One dimly-
lighted chamber is more to us than
glen or woodland, tournament or
hall, for in its narrow bounds one of
the great questions of our common
humanity is triumphantly decided.
The very simplicity of the story, ite
want of numerous personages and
multifarious interests, is an advan-
tage. They would be as superfluous
here as in that glorious work of Ary
Soheflfer, his «• Dante and Beatrice.^'
Here, as there, two figurea are amply
snflaoient, only their rdittp ?»
tions are reversed- Here 1: t i\
Man, not the Woman, wissc --^
are fixed on Heaven, mod wfco* -i
has caught a radianee from ik- ;
the Woman, not the Kan, wb^ ^ \
rise from Uie duat and gau tji
wherewith to soar npward iLr-d
the blessed attracdon of the F^
that stands beside her.
In reviewing the work as a wi^i
we are bound to oonfesB tbi:^^
Tennyson has far more than fifli
the promise implied in its titk. J
has, it is true, only given « » ^^
detached soenes oat of Axtbur'- ^
but these are 00 skilfully »€^-i
as to present as with a most finis::
picture of him. In the ootih?
his portrait he has followed '^
transmitted to hioDt by traditioQ. -^
he is the first great Engli^ |^*
who has done so ; for the Arthor c
The Fairy Queen is a creatioQ >
Spenser^s own, a gajr and gai-e*
gentleman, bound to no wift ^■
worthy of his love, seeking thrrcz
many a perilous enterprise the hss
at fc \
of tlie Faery Queen hersell^ the ^t:
Gloriana. Whether, in the k
of his great work, Speoaer
more nearly approached the tno*
tional Arthur, is of oonrse onoertfU
in his Wars most probably he did »:.
but we have no reason to ^o^^
that either Guinevere or Lanoete
found admission into any part of '^
poem. Whilst adhering, however,
to the outline afforded by aneitf
song and legend (and wisely sq» xc
in this arohffiologioal age deviatios
so wide as Spenser's would find te
little favour), Mr. Tennyson has ii*
fused into it a new spirit. Laneekt
is the favourite of the old n>mano&:
Mr. Tennyson makes him a more
noble-minded man than they do, asd
yet elevates Arthur, the man vbo
endures* immeasurably high ahoTe
Lancelot, the man who inflicts the
injury. In his selection and tiett*
ment of his snbocdinate oharaccen,
as we have already said, we ooosidflr
Mr. Tennyson less siicoesBfiiL ^^EoiT
18 a mistake tfaionghoiit, exoept id
the parts that relate to Arthur aad
his court. '^Vivien" is spoilt byao
attempt to give novelty to an old
and ^'over true" tale, finally, Mr.
i59.]
On Allied Operatiom in China,
627
ennyson, is a poet who dwells more
ith conienipiatioii than with ae-
on. He gives ns " Idylls" where
lother would give us "Lays." He
'ould rather listen to the distant
lunder of the hattle, as his own
otus-Eaters did to the roaring of
le sea, *^ stretched oat beneath
le pine," than plnnge heartily into
le thick of it. His story often
^ems a trouble to him to tell ; and
le simpler it is, therefore, the better
e tells il. It is on the feelings, and
specially on the moral sentiments
ailed forth by the varioas situations
1 his tale, that he loves to pause.
>en his best characters do not stand
lone, and reveal themselves wholly
3 us by their own words and deeds-—
he rare prerogative of the creations
fthe greatest masters of song; he
3 forced to eke them out by much
lescription, mediate or immediate:
.nd therefore they rather resemble
ome of those works of early Italian
iTt^ where much drapery conceals
he defects of the figure, while the
lead looks forth on us with almost
mgelic beauty, than the men and
vom6D, instinct throughout with life,
oi Italian art in its^perfection. " He
rises very high sometimes, but he
has not strength of wing for very
long flights. Therefore he has done
most wisely not to attempt an Epic,
in which he must have failed (the
names of those who, in any age or
country, have succeeded in tnat truly
great attempt are soon counted), but
to devote instead four short poems to
the earliest traditions of his country.
Of these, we wish we could say that
all are worthy alike of their sub-
ject and of their author ; but at least
the two last will spread the reno-
vated renown of Arthur, Guinevere,
and Lancelot, far as the English
language extends ; and (far different
from their ancient prose predecessors,
the reading of which tne unhappy
Francesca remembers in the shades
below to deplore as the instrument
of her destruction) will by the pure
and lofty sentiments which they tend
to foster, as well as by the delight
they cannot fail to give, make no in-
considerably addition to the great
debt of gratitude which bis country
already owes to her worthy son, Al-
fred Tennyson.
ON ALLIED OPERATIONS IN CHINA.
The reserve of the British press
upon the Chinese question arises far
more, we feel convinced, from a seri-
ous conviction of the grave difficulties
with whidi the subject is surround-
ed, than from any desire to under-
estimate its importance; but we
hold that the sooner the sulgect is
now discussed the better, for if it be
delayed undl the meeting of Parlia-
ment next Februarr, grave errors
will be committed that may compro-
mise far more important interests
than those of a mere ministerial
party : and when too late, we may
find ourselves involved in an Allied
war {gainst Ohina — a war in which
we shall have a vast question of re-
venue and commerce at stake,
whilst our faithful and fond allies
will have none — a war in which,
whether successful or not, Englaod
will have to pay the shot — a war
which can bring us no honour, and
which our faithful ally will abruptly
bring to a close whenever he chooses
to cry halt, as he did in the Orimea
— and the result of which, should
we ever enter Pekin triumphant,
will be to place England for the
first time in the East in an appar-
ently secondary position as a victor.
No Englishman can now question
the justice of our case against the
Oonrt of Pekin — ^it has been guilty
of a gross act of Eastern perfidy.
The £mperor of China, under his
sign-manual, concedes certain privi-
leges; when we attempt to avail
ourselves of them, he repels the
Envoy of Queen Victoria, and slays
four hundred of her subjects. Such
treachery is not a novelty in our
Eastern history; and cases of It
have occurred with nearly every
native sovereign in our wide do-
minions. England has always in-
flicted punishment for the crime,
628
On Allied Operations in China.
p*
and meted ont jostioe, but with
her own right hand. She has
neither called in Frenchman or Ger-
man to assist her to do so, and so
has been exalted the glory of her
arms, and fully established the ter-
ror of her name, thronghoat the
length and breadth of Asia.
Most Englishmen would have sup-
posed that Uie unsatisfactory conclu-
sion of the allied war with Russia
would at any rate have warned our
statesmen against committing so
radical an error, as that of introdnc-
Ing our ally into that quarter of the
globe yrhere so much depends upon
our military prestige. Napoleon
might claim eoual interests, com-
mercial and political, in the freedom
of the principalities and the inde-
pendence of Turkey; but what has
ne to do with our quarrel of 1856
with Teh and the Emperor Hien-
fhng, except this, tliat a plea was
wanted for introducing the French
in force within those seas of India
and China? If Frenchmen could not
create commerce, they could at any
rate cull military honours; and un-
der the pretext of defending Catholic-
Ssm, let it be known from the bor-
ders of Tartary to the shores of the
Persian Gulf, that there was a great
country in the west whose Meets
could look quite as imposing' as those
of England, and who could send her
soldiers to fight her battles on quite
as distant shores. These, we grant,
were French reasons ; but for every
laurel gained by her when fighting
in our behalf, we maintain a laurel
fell from England's chaplet; and
surely we had had enough of this in
the Crimea. All the blunders there
were said to be English, all the suc-
cesses French ; so stands the record
in Europe. They who love England
should at any rate have striven to
avert such an impression in the East
where firom Aden to Pekin a hundred •
thousand of their countrymen live
amongst some seven hundred mil-
lions of Asiatics, and are respected
by them in proportion, and only in
proportion, as they are feared.
The emasculated Blue-book, which
on Uie last day of the Session of 1859
was laid before both Houses of Par-
liament, as purporting to be all the
correspondence relative to the late
special mission to Ohina^peiKse W
too carefuUj read by Wcee irii
would -wish oar fhture mesa!?
against the Oonrt of Pekin to ^
perfectly sucoessfol, and wordiT -
our great conntry ; and it is k> >
hoped that the forthcoming wort \'
Mr Oliphant will serve to fill r
many a serious blanlr^ and ens^
the history of the past op^^stiom c
1857-58 to be read aright. Bm V
fore passing to consider the meass^
by which the treaty of Tloitaa -^
concluded, and the obstacles wiisd
impeded Lord Elgin in obtaimnii
and that have mainly contribit^t?
render it as yet valueless, we bbs:
pause to gather " the flower of Tir
dom,'^ as the Chinese say, £reizi e
earlier page or two.
If anything woold convince barest
crats at home of flie importance d
having a thoroughly able High Ocs-
misdoner in China, and for him \^
be merely instructed as to wiiat ^
mands were to be enforced, viti
f)lenary powers over her Ifajestj's
and and sea forces, the perusal V
Lord Elgin's instructions^ and a ob^
parison of them with yrh$Lt he mllj
did, ought to be conclusive.
Out of seven measures which Ln^
Clarendon, then Secretary for Foreign
Afiairs, considered it neoessarr to
suggest in the event of the Emperor
being contumacious, -we find tbs*
Lord Elgin acted bnt upon tbt
seventh and last — this was, tk
establishment of a military force h
permanent occupation of the atj d
Canton ; and of all his measures, ve
believe this to be the one most opmio
criticism, for the following reasons.
So far as any moral ^9ect upon ^
Court of Pekin is concerned, eltlMf
in 1858, or as we now see in 1859,
we might as well have taken posses-
sion of Lhassa in Thibet, or the capi-
tal of the Corea ; and whilst we hare
excited the hostility and fears of ifi
China, and given the war-party in
Pekin the very best argument agaimt
our professions of disinteresfedoes
touching acquisition of territory, tbe
occupation of Canton will be foood,
on the other hand, to cost a pretty
penny, if the bill is honestly rend-
ered; and the snfiering and &ath
amongst our soldiers and sailora. Ybo
have been oompelted to remaio in ti»
859.]
On AUUd OpermPionM «» Ohina.
620
ufapaltliy part of Ohina, have
>eea aJIptbing fearful. Against aH
hese drawbacks, we have not a
ingle oompensating advantage to set
}% nnless it be, that the mercantile
community at Hong-Kong like the
irrangement, and that within the
nere walls of one eity in Ohina onr
>reatige is preserved intact Perhaps
t might be argoed in defence of this
neasure, that at any rate we have
ivenged the disgrace which fell npon
>ar arms when tlie redonbtable i eh
nade Admiral Sir Michael Seyinoar
-etreat before his braves and fire-
(hipe ; we reply, that reparation for
}ur iigured honour might have been
obtained at far less cost to oarselves
:han the oocupation of Oanton has
!>een since Christmas 1867.
Such is the result of attempting, in
Downing Street, to lay down rules of
iction fiMT men who are to carry out
jiplomatio or military measures in
»o remote and . little understood a
part of the globe as China. Upon the
importance of the Plenipotentiary
ir Ambassador having plenary powers
?ver the direction of the land and sea
forceS) too much stress cannot be
l^d.
It is not always that admirals and
generals can be found who will waive
their own petty dignity and narrow
ideas of personal etiquette, and con-
sult alone the interests of the empire
of which they are the paid servants.
This Blue-Book leaves much not ac-
counted for in the proceedings of the
ambassadors and admirals when off
the Peiho river in April and May
1853. We cannot understand why
Lord Elgin arrives on the 16th
April 1868 off the Peiho river tot-
ally unsupported, and apparently
risking insult from the Chinese.
AVe cannot understand what, if
he can be there on the 16th April,
prevented the Admiral agreeing to
force the passage of the river until
the 18th May ; the more so that in
Despatch 162, Lord Elgin, on May
9th, writes Lord Malmesbnry that
*' it is obvioufi that every day of pro*
crasti nation and delay was reducing
to a lower ebb our chance of bring*
log to an eariy and satisfactory con-
summation the policy which we had
been commanded by our respective
Govermnents to carry out.^^ Who
was delaying 9-«-who was procrasfi-
natingt A^d farther on^--^^ Junks
laden with supplies for Pekin had
been passing tne bar of the Peiho
river at the average rate of aboat
fijfty a day ; the healthy season was
passing away, the Chinese begin-
ning to recover from alarm.'* Who
wail to blame for all this t No one I
Or do we, in one solitary para-
graph of Despatch 166, find the real
clue, which has inadvertently escaped
the mystifying pencil of the Judi-
cious Under-^cretary f Lord Elgin
there says, on May 2ad, 1868, di-
rectly after the long-delayed attack
upon the contumacious Ouinlimen--
^^ I trust, therefore, that it (the suo-
eessfni fight) will encourage the Ad-
mirals to prosecute with vigour those
measures whieh I have leen urging
upon them .for wms tiine paatS
Where, my Lord, are these de-
spatches ? It is important now,
for the future honour of our arms
and diplomacy, that the proofs
of these assertions and complaints
be made public. We should not
have soDght them, had the skilful
diplomacy and cleverness with which
the Treaty of Tientsin was wrung
from the Court of Pekin succeeded
likewise in guaranteeing its faithful
fulfilment: it has not done so. We
therefore desire to be able to prore
our thesis, that for diplomacy to suc-
ceed in the East, it must have entire
control over our own executive ; and
we feelassnred that you, my Lord
Elgin, as well as the statesman at the
head of the Foreign Office, hold
proofii of the correctness of our argu-
ment. When we remember that in
1868 England had in Chinese waters
some eighty odd pendants, and an
overwhelming force of guns and men,
we are more and more struck with
the want of yigorons action at
Taku and Tientsin between the 20Ui
and 26th May. The guns and earth-
works at Taku appear to have been
taken, and the tnx^ that Admiral
Seymour, as shown in Despatch 166|
knew to have only retreated a distanee-
of eight miles, were, if followed ai lUJ,.
only pressed gently, and flowed to
effect their escape. The result xiay ba
seen in the snbseqaent negotiatioaa
at Tientsin, where, judging by the re-
ported eonvenationi of Mr. Lay witii
VOU LXZZVL
41
680
On AUUi Op0mti(m in China.
[N«r.
tbe Imperial OommiMionen, we are
imprej^sed mith the oonviction that
skilful jockeying alone obtained Lord
Elgfn his Treaty ; and that the only
"w^er is that lie obtained it at all,
with a half- beaten Mongolian army
in his neigh bonrhood --an Engliiin
general in Canton, who allowed him-
self to be bullied by Chinese militia
---and Allied admirals on the 8|H>t,
who acted very slowly, and, when
forced into action, read the garrison
of Tixku 80 light a lesson that they
retnm next year to inflict a defeat
upon onr flag.
No one cared to know of these
things When it was seen that, in spite
of them, Lord Elgin had secured a
Treaty which all men considered a
Boand one ; bat now that we find the
want of unity of action in 1658
bringing about the sad ditiaster of
1869, it is time that some inquirv
took place into the causes which
brought about such fatal errors in
past negotiations with China.
It is in connection with this subject
that the action of Allied plenipo-
tentiaries and generals or admirals
becomes doubly difficult. If so many
impediments exist in the path of an
ambassador looking only to his own
country ^s interests, what must it be
when there are two ambassadors of
different nation8 ? We have no doubt
tliat if a committee sat to-morrow to
prove the obstacles which Lord Elgin
had to combat, and to examine into
the shortcomings of 1868, and how
they have affected the peaceable
ratification of the Treaty of Tientsin
in 1869, they would everywhere be
met by the excuse— 4he information
yon seek cannot be given lest we
offend the pride, or hurt that love
of secresy for which our French
friends are such sticklers. For this
reason an air of mystification is as*
gamed, which is totally foreign to our
habits, and contrary to the consti*
tution of this country.
If this objection eziats at home,
f^tifty how many obstacles surround
the ambassador at the distance of
sixteen thouaand miles from the seat
of his Government. The chances are
ten to one against another French
diplomatiat b^ng found, who will
act BO oordiaUv and foithfdlly with
^nar envoy as Baron Gros appeut to
have done with Lord Eyp; nd
really, considering how di^^ttcr
motives are in potting prsBsme vfok
China, the only wonder is, that uy
combined action fakes place at til
We go to war with China for poraj
commercial reasoiw ; she wsDt» !»•
ther us nor our trade ; we lus\A ibe
shall accept both. ^ France goes to
war for an idea,^ that happeii§is
this case to be the right of her priot-
hood to go wherever they pleei.
and seek converts to a faith, i fim
belief in which renders every oos-
verted Chinaman a rebellious eabjea.
Is England prepared to rappoR
France in such a policy f— is Fraue
sincerely desirous of promoting fiiit-
ish interests in China f— if so, wbj
does she traverse onr policy in eTc;
other quarter of the globe, and It
disproportionate naval annaineDts
oblige us to tax the commerce od
industry of England to the proeai
frightful extent?
Every sensible man will reply the
our interests are not identicar; vdl
then, we say, why not let each sepi-
rately pursue her own poKcj— why
by this pretended alliance give ^
Chinese reason to suppose tLat vt
are either afraid to deal with thea
single-handed, or that each c»« ii
so weak that it will not stand
upon its own merits ? Tondiing tk
arguments in farour of the Am-
bassador having the power to
direct military operataons, it mott
be allowed tliat in allied opentiaH,
where imity of action is more thtt
ever necessary, decision ami rapidity
will be entirely out of the questioa
For in China, as in the CrimeA, vt
shall hare councils of war, plaos, pro-
testa, and counttf-plans, all for tbe^oie
purpose of bandying responsibiHtr
from shoulder to shoulder; aodtli^
siege of Pekin may rival Sebasiopoi,
if not that of Troy.
If we take into oonsideratioQ the
task which our Envoy will have to
execute, and ita extremely deliettt
and complicated nature, the uiore
unfair will it be to him to hamper li»
action by having to consult losv
brother plenipotentiary whose eoon-
try'a interests are in no wite identi-
cal. Whether the Envoy or Bigk
Commissioner of England be a diph)-
matist, admiral, or general, no dob
359]
On AUki Optrati&nt in China.
681
ill enTjiiifra the bononr who weighs
ell the^nty he will hRve imposed
^n him, or desire to add one straw
» the anxiety or difficulty of hia po*
tion. He will have to wipe oat the
isgrace of a most signal defeat — to
nprei» npon the Court of P^skin that
II obligations entered into nnder the
gnature of the high officers^ and
uified by the Emperor, are binding,
nd obtain gaarantees for the fulfil-
lent of snob priMnises; at the same
jne, lie, the Envoy, will have to bear
onstantly in mind, that, apart from
mere export ana import trade of
vventy-four millions starling between
lie United Kingdom and China, with
•erhaps as much more to and from
ndia and British colonies, oar re-
en ae derivable from many Chinese
»rodacta forms as important a frae-
ion in the Chancellor of the Exohe-
[Qtir*8 budget, as the sale of opium is
yf vital consideration to the hnanoial
K^nditiun of British India.
We cannot, we dare not, forego our
ight to panish tiie Emperor Hien-
?ang for his treachery; but for a
bonsand reasons the punishment
nust be short, sharp, decisive, and
it the same time not remorselees.
We must not force the Emperor to
extremities; we most not kill the
^oose that has only commenced to lay
[19 golden eggs. Can any one give
as, we ask, a single proof that, in
^ing to Pekln arm-in-arm with th«
French, such a course is likely to be
pursued ? Do French military or
naval operations in Algeria, the
Crimea, or Italy prove it ? We say
not, and at the same time yield to
none in a sincere admiration for the
gallantry and devotion of her soldiers
and sailors.
Low indeed most England have
sunk, if she needs French aid to punish
China; and whatever reasons Lord
Palmerston may have had in 1857
lor bolstering up his case by a French
alliance, none sach exist at present
We want an able Ambassador or
Envoy, with an enterprising admiral
and general, backed by ten thousand
men. Sorely Great Britain can pro-
duce these. It is by acting alone that
she will best impress upon the stolid
Chinaman an idea of her undiminiah-
ed power ; and it is by obtaining re-
dress lingle-handed that she will best
allay the excitement which has very
naturally followed throaghout the
East upon the news of the bloodv re-
pulse at the Pelho— results which we
do not believe will be obtained, or at
any rate not with effect, if we are to
again act in China under the shadow
of French tricolors.
There it to the English states-
man another serious consideration.
We are introducing the French
amongst our Eastern colonies, and
enabKng them to collect in ibroe
upon our great routes of commerce
with India, China, and Aastralia.
The Government of Great Britain
has proclaimed that, in the event of
war, the colonists of Australia, Kew
Zealand, Singapore, and India, must
be prepared to defend themselves, at
the same time we are affording the
only naval power English oolomste
have any reason to fear, an excellent
pretext for keeping in those Eastern
seas a force which, under all other
circumstances, woula be only looked
on as being there for reasons hostile
to British interests. Directly that
England fancied she had accom-
plished her object in China by the
treaty of Tientsin, she reduced her
fleet. France did not do so, but ra-
ther augmented it, and set upon the
conquest of the seaboard of Cochin-
China, with a view to establishing
herself directly on the road between
China and England. That she failed
in this is owing to the tactics
of her admiral, and the insalubrity
of the climate of Cochin-China, not
to any wisdom upon our part; and
it should be remembered that, dur-
ing the war in Italy, had circum-
stances compelled England to enter
the field as a belligerent against
France, the French squadron in the
East Indies and in New Caledonia
would have not only matched oun
under Admiral Hope, but whilst
the latter would have had millions'
worth of property to protect both
afloat and on shore, the French
would have only had the pleasing
occupation of capturine, sinkmg, and
destroying our merchantmen and
settlements. Let a fresh allied war
against China be entered upon, and
though no prophets, we maintain
that the war may last for three or
four years, or as long as Louis Napo- i
692
On AUM Operutians in China,
[Sot.
leon pleases, and that at the end of
it we shall find the French fleet in
the £a3C in a atill more menacing
position than the last Chinese ira-
hroglio left them. The French squa-
dron in Chinese waters alone, at
this moment, consists of the follow-
ing vessels : —
Nemesis, friffate 44 guns.
Caprioieuse, do. 40 do,
PhUg«toa, harque. 8 do. screw.
Primanquet, do. 8 do. do.
La Place, do. 16 do. do.
Du Chayla, ship. 24 do. do.
Mitraille, 6 guns. *
Marceau, 6 do.
Pus^e, 6 do. I Heavy first-class
Dragonne, 4 do. ' gun-vessels.
Avalanche, 4 do.
Preqent, 8 do. J
Meurthe,^ Fine armed troop-ships,
Durance, I armament uncertain,
&ironde, | oapableof oarryinglS
Saooe, j guns each.
Rose, ) Hired despatoh-
Bemi, f vessels ana traa-
Bt Andrew, 4iEc. ) sports.
In addition to these vessels, the
. French had a sqnadron of four vessels,
if not six, in New Caledonia, and as
many more at Bourbon Island and
off Zanzibar. Against this French
force, which has no territory to pro-
tect, and no commerce to watch over,
we have the
Ckms.
Chesapeake, frigate, 51 Screw.
Cumbrian, do. 86 Old sailing-ship.
Sampson, ship,
Furious, .
Magicienne,
Acorn, bri^,
Cruiser, ship,
Hijehflyer, do. .
Inflexible, sloop.
Fury, do.,
E^ship,
6 Paddle-wheel.
(Paddle-wheel
frigates, ad-
apted for tran-
sports.
12
17 Screw,
21 Screw.
6 Paddle.
6 Paddle.
21 Screw.
Gvn-bosa
*of 2d>ad
Algerioeb Slaney, and > Fini-|bB gss-
Leven, > boA
BlusI erer. Bustard, Clowo, ~
Coromandel, Drake,
Firm,Forester,Haugbty,
Janus, Kestrel, Stariiog.
Stanch, Watchful, and
Woodcock,
All the other vesaela latdj ps:-
aded in ofiloial retarns are i»^
as men-of-war, and msv not vitk
safety proceed to sea ; saeh, ftir h-
stance, as the Alligator, Ha^enka.
Minden, Melville, and Bittern ; whSst
the Act»on, Dove, Hesper, SanMxa,
Adventnre, and Assistance, are fitted
fDr surveying purposes, or as troif
and store-shipe. In Indian wat«s
Admiral Hope had only at hiis dis-
posal three men-of-war, the Retribt*
tion, 28 — another wretched spednsi
of the paddle-wheel fighting-ship—
and two first-class deflpatch-boa&;
and so far as the force deoominated
the Indian Navy is concerned, tb«
vessels are no more than a Kuask
for, if so good as, the Frnach armed
troop-ships.
Surely such a fleet as that Frasee
now has in the East, ongbt to be t
sufficient cause for anxietj in the
present political state of Borope; ax^
at a time when stateamen are dotqg
all in their power to awaken a martiii
spirit throughout this land, with s
view to repel the aggression or ia-
vasion which they seem to tfaioi
looms in the horizon, instead of ea-
couraging an increase of the nomb^-
of French soldiers or sailors in tbe
East, aU should Join with ns in aj-
ing, that for the safety of oar Eastcfv
possessions, and tbe security of our
enormous commerce with all tbe
countries beyond the Gape of Good
Hope, the sooner we insist upon the
French force being redooed in those
quarters the better for England.
1850.]
ne I^tvrs of India and her Army.
6S8
TBTB FUTURE OF INDIA AND HFR ARMY.
A FKISITDLT LXTTEB BT TBB OVERLAND HAIL.
It in only another proof, my dear
General, of yoar old kindness of
heart, manifested to me in so many
wayft ever since the commencement
of tliat happy time, when you were
Colonel, and I Adintant, of the 102d
— and we looked at the dear old
regiment with pride and oonfidenoe,
which nothing oonld shake— ^that yon
should send me an early privileged
copy of tb» ^ Report of the Reorgan-
isation Oommission." I told yon in
my last all that I oonld tell yon about
the old regiment. It did not amount
to much more than that it ^ went to
the bad'' like the rest. 1 cannot
he too thankfiil that I was out of
it before the thing happened; for
although we used to think that we
had some hold upon the affections
of our men, and that they would
have "followed us anywhere" (tmd
in those days I believe they would) ;
yet seeing what I have seen, and
hearing what I have heard during
these last two years, I really have
not the least hope tfiat, if you and I
had been with the regiment when
the madness seized it, we should not
both of us have been shot like dogs.
It is all over now. I really believe
that the Mutiny has been fl&irly
trampled t>nt by the indomitable
coarage of the Anglo-Saxon race.
But what the doctors call the tequdm
of the disease are now before and
around us ; and I cannot conceal
from yon my conviction that there
is a world <tf trouble yet in the
womb of time, and that it will
require all our wisdom and all oar
energy to "pull through" into the
old beaten road of tranquil sucoess.
Onr old native army has gone to
pieces, and the question now i»-^
How are we to reconstruct it? Of
course it must be reconstructed. I
ntterly repudiate the idea of holding
India simply by the thews and
sinews of the gora-logue or white
men. We must have, in some shape
or other, a native army; and It
Caloutta, September 1869.
seems to be pret^ well understood
that we must also have a very power-
ful European army to keep it in
check. The difficulty which then
arises is mainlv one of finance. How
are we to maintain these two great
armies without so exhausting the
revenues of India as to leave nothing
for internal improvement, without
spending so much on the subjection
of the people as to deprive ourselves
utterly of the means of beneficent
rule?
Indeed, we have come to this pass
now, that the whole question of In-
dian government has become a mili-
taiy question. If we cannot recon-
struct our army in such a manner
as to bring it within reasonable
bounds, as respects n ambers and
therefore cost, we may as well throw
up our cards at once, for we can hold
neither tricks nor honours. Looking
at the matter thus gravely, all think-
ing men in this country regarded
with solemn interest the great fact
that a Oommission, composod of some
of the ablest soldiers and statesmen
of the day, had been ordered to
assemble in England for the purpose
of collecting evidence respecting the
reorganisation of the Indian army,
and reporting upon it; whilst at the
same time evidence of a like charac-
ter was being collected in this coun-
try. The many, perhaps, considered
it a personal question; their future
position was to be determined ; their
interests, their privileges were at
stake. Anyhow, great was the
eagerness to know what the Com-
mission had reported ; and that
anxiety satisfied by the newspapers,
to lesirn the contents of the clue-
Book. I have spent many hours
over it, my dear Gfeneral, and, thanks
to your kindness, have been able to
gratify many friends; but I cannot
sav otherwise than that, on the
whole, I have been much disap*
pointed by its contents.
The first thing apparent on read-
•84
Th$ Fuiiure of India md her ^fmy.
Pfor.
ing the erldence is, that the original
design of the Gomraission was to in-
quire into the best means of reor-
ganising the Indian army — chiefly, it
may be said, the Bengal aimy — with
especial advertence to the recunstrac-
tion of the native portion of it. This
was the original design— and ap to a
certain point it seems to have been
carried out with sufficient singleness
of purpose and sincerity of execution.
They began by calling upon that dis-
tinguished veteran, Sir George Pol-
lock, for the result of his experience.
They plied him with a vast number
of questions about the proportion of
native to European troops that the
Bengal army might safely contain —
the constitution of theartiJlery force —
the duties of. the police — the propor-
tion of regular to irregular troops — the
description of duties to be intrusted to
the Sepoys — the constitution of native
regiments— the expediency or inex-
pediency of combining natives and
Europeans in the same regiments —
the effect of caste on the Indian
army — the power of commanding
officers — ^tlje expediency of maintain-
ing or abolishing corporal puniah<*
ment in the native army — the number
of officers that ought to be attached
to a native regiment— land other ques*
tions of a kindred character, princi-
pally relating to the internal organ-
isation of the Sepoy army. And
when General Low, who had come
fresh from the Supreme CouDoil of
India, and Colonel Welchinan, who
had gained large experience in the
Adjatant-G^neraPs office, went up for
examination, and were followed by
others with varied information re-*
lating to the organisation of the
native armies of India, still the in*
quiry went on in the same course;
the same questions were put ; the same
facts and opinions were elicited. It
appeared to be not onlv the chief,
but the sole object of the Commis-
ttoners, to elicit information bearing
upon the one great question of the
reconstruction of the native army.
But after the greater number of ex-
perienced Oompany^s officers, whose
opinions were to be elicited, had beeu
examined and dismissed to thcdr
homes, the Ck>mmissioners began to
change their tactics, and to enter
upon new ground. They began to
inquire whither, in ihe ofanaii d
tlie witnesses, it would be ezp«iiMS
to maintain as heretofore a k<cK
European army in India, or been*
forth to rely entirely on troc^ of tfat
line. As soon ai» this qnecctum v«
started, it appears to me t!iat ev«j
other question at onoe sank iati;
insignificance. Then arose, iadeti
a great confliot between the Eanh
Guards and the India Office, it
was obviously the design of the re-
presentatives of the former to brine
the entire European army of Ie£i
under the domination of Whitehall
We are all talking about this aai-
ioualy here upon the lianka of tk
Hooghly, as I daresay jon are t^-
ing about it on the banks of tk
Thames And I shoald not tM yea
the truth, if I did not aej tbat've
are talking of it not wiciaont aoiie
very palpable manifestations of alana.
I shall endeavour to find time and
spaee to say something more to y«i
on this subject before I have done.
But ere I comply witii tins part
of your request, and tell yon what I
think about the great question ef
^'Line" and ^^ Local,^ as affectii^
our European troops, I mast p^
j^ou a few of my crude ideas €x»iieen-
ing the unhappy Sepoj army, ona
the pride of our Indian einfMre, h&
now a hissing and a reproach. And,
first of all, a few words aboot tk
Past.
I confess that I am often aoreh
puzzled ; and tiiat the more I think
about the matter, the more diffioth
I find it to acoount for the diRetke
taken by this sudden madness d
the Sepoys. There is someUung »
altogether exceptional and sbnonal
in the character of the oatbreek aad
its manifestationa^ that at times, s
reflecting man, seeking to AUmib
the mystery, is driven to a state of
absolute despair. How often iiss it
been said, that if the Sepoy offieeis
had done their duty to their mea,
this thing would never have ha^
pened ? It is alleged that the Sepoys
were pasuvely n^ected or aetively
slighted by their ^oc» — tliat then
was no reciprocity of kindly feehag,
no bond of sympathy between the
white-faced captain and the dusky
sentinel. The bond lied been bn^eii,
people said, by the encroaeiimeiit d
1659]
Tke I^Omn qf India and ktr Army.
685
Westeni ehilimtioii; and lliere was
a gn)whig feeling of indtfferefDoe
or distaste on tlie one side, end t>f
bitter rasenttiient on the other. Bnt
every one alleged' that there were
exoeptions^—that there were Euro-
pean offioers, aittaefaed to native
regiments, whose hearts were in
their woric; who did their doty to-
wards their men, not only with nn-
stioted labour, and in an nngmdging
spirit, bat heartily, 2iie»fi^/f imkied ;
and who seenie<l to have established
snoh relations with the soldiery,
that it was believed that when the
Sepoy called his officer «'Mere bap**
(^^My fiither'*), his heart reepondi^
to the sonnd of the wonla Sorely
these men might have been ex{)eeted
to escape the fory of the impassioned
multitnde. There were no wrongs,
no alights — no harsh acts or hum-
bling words, to be resented; there
was the memory of years of kindness
and of eare to stand with saving
aid between the Sepoy^s mnsket
and the «aptain^s breast. But even
the most paternal officers were shot
down by their children like doga, or
sabred without remorse. Yon will
say that a blind, indiscriminate fnry
had seised upon the mutineers; that
they were as men possessed by devils;
and that they aiaote at friend and
foe alike. If it had been so always,
the Ciise wonkl have been one com-
paratively easy to understand. But
it sometimes happened thflt, in their
fary^ the Sepoys did single out an
officer whom they would not smite,
and that the officer thus marked for
protection was not the one who had
treated them best. Perhaps a man
whose whole heart had been in his
company— who had given himself
up wholly to the promotion of its
welfare — who had thought more of
the comfort of his Sepoys than of
his own,—* was butchered in cold
blood; whilst some idle, devil-may-^
care fellow, who went about his own
husiness, and did just as much for
his men as he was bonnd to do, and
no more, was spared from the gen-
eral destruction.
You have probably heard nothing
of this in England ; but the fact is
as I have stated, and is sutijeot of
not uncommon disconrse amongst
us in these parts. A nmarkahle
incident, lllufltnitiTe of the eccentHo
Qifmr» of 1^ madness of the Sepoys,
occurred In Bhaugulpore. I may
tell the story in a few words. Three
officers were sitting in a bons^ow,
when a detadbment of the 82d 19'a«
tive Infantry, having risen in rebel-
lion, rushed in upon them. One nf
these was the commanding officer c^
the detachment, Lieutenant Oowper,
who implicitly trusited his men, who
was in constant familiar intercourse
with them, and who was believed to
be an object of sincere attachment
to his corps. Another was Lien-
tenant Rannie of the same corps,
who had never taken any particolar
pains to plea<^ his men, and had
never appeared to be a favourite with
them. The third was Mr. Ronald,
an assistant commissioner in the di-
vision, of whom, of course, the men
knew nothing. If all our theories,
my dear (General, had been worth a
straw, the men would have shot
down Lieutenant Rannie and Mr.
Ronald, and spared Lieutenant Coww
per, as their friend and their father.
But they singled out Lieutenant
Rannie, who was not known to have
dune them any good, called upon
him by name to leave the bungalow,
and suffered him to depart nhmo-
lented, whilst they remorselessly bnt-
irfiered Lieutenant Gowper and the
stranger by his side.
If they* had indiscrhninately shot
the three officers, we might have
understood the matter; if they had
spared the stranger, the case might
have been intdligible; if they bad
suffered Lieutenant Oowper to de-
part in peace, it would have been as
clear as noonday; bat why they
should have spared Lieutenant Ran-
nie and murdered the other two, is
an enigma which must remain un-
solved to the day of judgment. Of
coarse, we may hazard vague conjec-
tures; we may speculate at will;
we may surmise that the one officer,
in spite of his earnest endeavonn to
conciliate the goodwill and to de-
serve the gratitude of the men, may
have unwittingly offended some of
their prejudices; and that in tha
other, though generally oarelesa and
iadi£ferent, there may have been
something that unconsciously ap-
pealed to their predilections and pfla^
080
Th4 Fuiun ^ India and hdr Army.
P-
taalHies. There may hsre been eorae
latent bond of synipethf between
them ; bat, anyhow, each a result is
disooaraging in the extreme. It
makee a man ory ^t h<mo t If cme
man, taking no aooonnt of the mat-
ter, is to oonoiHate the native mind
by aooident, whilst another, with
raoeh careful study and life-long as-
Bidnity, earnest and energetic, throw-
ing his whole heart into the work,
loving the people whom he serves,
and making perhans large sacrifice
of self, is to fail thos with a great
failure, and so to grieve the spirits
of those whom he would cherish
that they are ready to shoot him
down on the first opportunity, what
encouragement is there to a man to
look gravely at his duties, and to
devote himself to the men whom be
commands? He may do more by
some hap-hazard stroke-— by what
we call in the billiard-room a erow.
AU this is very mortifying. Ton
know me too well, my dear General,
to think that I would urge such a
misadventure as I have been writing
of as a plea for indolence and indif-
ference, and a general infusion of the
"devil-may-care" into our profes-
sional intercourse with the natives
of the country. What every man
amongst us is bound to do is his hmty
and nothing short of it. His very
best may lead practically to nothing
better than a strangling failure. Bat
that is not his fault. The issues are
in other and wiser hands. We can
bnt work according to the light that
is in us. We may fail, but not on
that account will our service be less
acceptable before God.
It is very difficult, my dear Gen-
eral, to furnish any theories, whereby
we may account for this recent con-
vulsion. The more we think about
it here on the spot, the more griev-
ously perplexed and bewilder^ we
are. The real truth is, that we know
little or nothing about it. My own
impression always has been that
mutiny is the normal state of an
Eftitem army; and that the marvel
is, not thac after so many years the
Sepoys revolted, but that they did
not revolt before. Patau, Sikh, Mah-*
ratta — all mutiny. Do you know
anv Indian army that has not mu-
tinied again and again ? The receipt
of regular pay, and the eertB^sfi
liberal penrion, hare k^ ear mm
for a oentnry in a aiate ef eat^n-
tlve, if not of poeitaTe krvakty. W,
have seen during that interval kiK-
doms fall to pieoas under the «ii
shook of a lieoRtaooB aoldieiy. V^
have survived a blow whicb ^«ti
have destroyed others ; bnt the bfart
may descend again; and whst w
have now to do is to place oqxs^vb
in an attitude that inaj eoMt b t-
meet it with safety. I do not -wm
dogmatically upon a snl>|eet that te
bewildered manj a atroager bre
than mine ; but I cannot hi^p thaw-
ing that our Sepoy army iwoted,
not because it was an army of bbfb
under a white master, bat amf^y be
cause it was an Oriental army, ia£
all Oriental armies revolt. We wa^
not think that there ie any espeey
hatred of British rule— any ospeoc
hatred of a foreign yoke. Historjs
full of instances of the barbarioe
practised by Indian armies npon the:
own officers— one of the mildest <i^
which was that of tying them on t&
gnus heated almost to the point d
red heat The regularity of tk
English pay, and the certainty d
the English pension, donbtkes sas-
pended the emption dnring* a loo;
period of years; bat the lava wtf
there, and it was only in the ooone
of nature that, sooner or later, th«re
should be an irrepressible oatborsL
I repeat that what has happened
may happen agMn, bat not laztil
after another lapse of years, and not
until we have profited largely by tiw
lessons of the past These lessons^
as you know, my dear General, sn
numerous. But there ia nothing, oo
every account, more worthy to be re^
membered than that nambers do not
make strength.
It may be a puzzle to many, but
so it is, that as in India onr eoemi«
diminished, our army increased. Is
we put down one foreign enemy after
another— as we oonqoered Mogul,
Mahratta, and Sikh, and m:ide the
country onr own from Oape Coroorio
to the Indus, there was a ateady aod
consistent cry for ^^mme troopa."
The ^^augmentation of the arm?*'
was the one panacea for all the dis-
eases to which our Indian empire
conld be snbject Bot thoe wen s
1850.]
7^ F^tw of India and her Army.
osr
few far-seeing men, who deokred
that by increaiaing onr army we were
only ioereasing our diflScaltiee, and
that what was really wanted was
not an angmentation, bnt a better
organisation of onr military re-
soaroes — a few, indeed, who saw
dimly deyeloping itself in the dis*
taooe the great and most terrible
fact that, having beaten down all
onr external enemies, we were mak-
ing for onrselves another and a more
formidable one in the heart of onr
own dominions. In the first Pan-
janb Report) iasned when Sir Henry
Lawrence was at the head of the
Lahore Board of Administration, I
remember reading a passage to this
effect: *^ We do not hesitate to state
that onr anxiety is rather on aoconnt
of the number of troops and the
system on which we understand
that they are to be located, than of
any deficiency of force." At a later
period, the same admirable soldier^
statesman, whom of all men who
haye fallen thronghont the entire
period of the Sepoy reyoh we most
- deeply and enduringly deplore in
this oonntry, was continually calling
attention, throngh the pnblic press,
to the fact that onr army was nnme-
rioaliy too strong, seiriceably too
weak; that there were too many
men in it, and not enough ready
work; that it was cumbrous, nn-
widdy, immoTable; dangerous only
to onrselyes. We trained men to
the use of arms; taught them Euro-
pean tactics and European discipline;
gave them fiunlities of combination ;
and altogether, seemingly for no
other purpose than the speedy ex-
haostion of our reyennes, and the
endangerment of the State, raised
and fostered a gigantic internal ene-
my in a time of general peace, when
there were leaHy no foreign foes
against whom we conld employ our
oyergrown battalions.
I have spoken, in the abpye para-
graph, of Sir Henry Lawrence. No
man had a clearer perception of the
evils of the old system, and of the
dangers into which we were imper-
ceptibly drifting. He used to say
that we were never prepared for a
difiSculty, and always hopelessly
panic-struck and paralytic when it
came. Attention has recently been
called to some of his prophetic utter-
ances by the republication here of a
selection fh>m the pspers which he
contributed to the Caleutta B&vieto,
They are well worthy of publication
in England.* In one of these essays,
written fifteen years ago, be called
attention to the fact that the trea-
sury at Delhi, as well as the maga-
zine, were in the city ; and that the
latter was ^^ a very defenceless build-
ing." " We might take a circuit of
the country," he added, " and show
how many mistakes we have com-
mitted, and how much success has
emboldened us in error; and how
uninindj\tl toe haw been^ that what
occurred in the eity of Gatthul^ may
9ome day oeeur at Delhi^ Benare$y
or Bareilly,^^ In another passage
he warned the Grovemment that
"our Sepoys come too much from
the same parts of the country — Onde,
the Lower Doab, and Upper Behar.
There is too much clanship among
them." He pointed out the evil, too,
of closing the higher posts in the
army and in the state against men
of enterprise and ability; and said*
that we should some day find that
out of tliese turbulent elements we
had made for ourselves an enemy
that would require all our resources
to suppress.
Well, we have beaten this enemy,
the work of onr own hands — ^beaten
and destroyed it irrecoverably ; and
we are fast building up another army.
Our first care, then, now, must be
not to make It too nnmeroufr^not to
raise up another army that we may
find both difficult to pay and diffi-
cult to watch. Unless we again
cherish the idea of the probability of
an European invasion, either by land
or by sea, the whole question is one
* We are glad to observe that these essays " Military and Political,'' have jost
been republSbed in London, by Messrs. Allen A Co. With some of thera we were
previously familiar. They all appear to be distingnislied by remarkable sagacity
and strong sense, and in many passages to be really prophetic They are honestly
and fearlessly written, and altogHher worthy of the high reputation of one of
the best and ablest of India% seldier^tatesmen— Edrob.
Mo
7%e FitUtir0 ^ Jndi» and ber Armp.
V^-
of internal defeaoe; for -fire have
really, aa I have said, no enemy in
India, beyond our own frontier,
against whom it is necessary to make
warlike preparations on a large seaie.
The idea now is, that we must have
a native army, and an European one
of far greater magnitude than before
to keep it in oh«ick. For every two
or three Sepi)ys we mast have an
English soldier, to shoot them down,
when they exhibit a matinons apirit,
and appear to be becoming danger-
ous. This is altogether a miserable
notion. Our strength is turned into
weakness when we are compelled to
protect our right hand against the-
assaults of the left. If such be the
necessity, it is very clear that we
must never again enlist a large Sepoy
army. But what are we now doing?
We are leaving our skeleton regi-
ments still skeletons; and because
we do not see them again appearing
with a local habitation and a name
in the Anny List, we think that there
is no native army. But, my dear
General, believe me when I tell you
that a native army, as multitudinous
if not as dangerous as the hist, is
quietly springing up, and we are
taking no heed of it. They are not
*^ regulars," it is true. Whieit does it
matter? They are armed and dis-
ciplined soldiers — call them what yon
may ; irregular corps or military pol-
ice. Under the single head of Mili-
tory Police, I shudder to think how
many soldiers have been enlisted,
armed, and disciplined. The Oude
Military Police is in itself an army
differing little from a Sepoy force in
any essential point*-almost as costly
and almost as dangerons as the same
number of regular Sepoys. We must
take care not to push this theory of
a Military Police too far, or we shall
find ourMclves quietly drifting out of
Oharybdis on to Scylla. Use all your
influence at home, my dear General,
to warn the authorities against fall-
ing into a mistake of this kind. You
may do something by lifting up your
voice.
The first thing, I repeat, my dear
General, is, that we must not arm and
discipline too many native troops, to
be a source of future difficulty and
danger to us— costly in themselves,
' and doubly costly, since they must
be watohed by Eofopcwi
KumbefB, I say agiuit, are m
strength. What we want am f«d
bodies of troope of all arma, cafayi
of moving at an honr'a notice. Or
military system heretofore haa baa
based upon a whollj opposte fna-
ciple. We have had lai^ bodied
troopa incapable of moviag. aai
therefore powerless for good, tbo^
powerful for evil. Let na flutbo a
certain points amall moTsble tei-
gades, with a £air intermixture ti
European troops in eadh, the gas
being always in the hands of Ew^
peans. Let cavalry, infimtry, aii
artillery be accuatomed to woik id-
gether. Let there be sooie rn^oa-
sible staff-ofBoer with each bri^adt
whose bnsineas it shall be to w
that the force is alwajrs in a fit sttft
in respect of eu|4>lieB, to take s^
field; and we may bid defianoa to
insurgent India. Hitherto, snym^
den danger haa found ns hepoiew^
paralysed and panlo-atrickeD. Vi
nave had guns without ammanite.
cavalry without horoea, ail anB«<i^
the aervice without sof^lies. Oa
bold prompt stroke at the oatast, sad
a rebellion is crushed in the bod. k
is because we never are in a positin
to strike that prompt heavy blow the
a local emeute grows into a geaenl
insurrection. Let na reni^y A
this. What need we fear ofoas-
breaks at any one atatum if there
are always present £urc^>ean9 with
guns ? and what need we f«ar of d»
taut movement, if we have snob
forces as I have described ready te
move down on the centre of disai&^
tion from half-a- dozen djfiereat
points ? Give us only these movabk
brigades under capable ootnmaadais,
our magazines always h^qg ia plaaei
of safety-* which hitherto we bava
taken care that they ahonld not Iw-
and it will not be diflhsnlt to bdd
India with a force namerioally ioie-
rior to that which ^nawled help-
lessly over the surAne of the eonntry
to convince ns of onr foUy and lo
warn us of our fate.
There is nothing, of course, so vril
calculated to keep Jack Sepoy in
order as the oontinued presence of
European troopa, with the petsoi-
siveaid of artillery; bnt praveodoa
is better than cure, and it ia rigfat
)590
2U Future ^ India and hsr Arvf.
(UI9
mt we should ooo6id«r in what
anner nmtiDoas oomhiitation is
)st to be prevent«il. It is often
.1(1 that T¥e most not have too many
en of the same caste and of the
iine country in a regiment; and
lat it is best to station them at
die tan oe from their home, and to
iver as far as possible local asso*
atioiLs. But it appears to me that
le localisation of corps and oastea
S on the whole, to be encoiira^
ither than not. ^^Home-staying
onths have ever homely wits." Not
aviDg the fear of the schoolmaster
efore me, I most confess that Jack
»epoy is best in his homeliness.
Vhat ha learns from foreign travel
» seldom much to his own advan-
age, or to that of the State. I am
jraid that there is in all men a na-
ural disposition to learn evil faster
han good. The one comes naturally
o us, the other seems to be slowly
icqnired, and against the grain,
^ow, what Jack Sepoy acquires by
breign travel is^ so to speak, the
acuity of combination. He learns
th&t he is part of an extensive bro-
^erhood scattered over the whole
peninsula of India ; he learns that in
every cantonment of India there are
ijien with the same feelings, the same
ELHpiratioDS as himself. He learns
that in every regiment there are
malcontents, with like grievances,
real or supposed, as his own. In
any season of excitement, therefore,
there is a continual correspcmdenoe
between men of different regiments
who have at some previous time
been stationed in the same can*
tonment. They understand each
other better, and derive a deeper
interest in what is going on at a dis-
tance, from the local knowledge
which tbey have gained upon their
travels. This same consideration
furnishes an argument in favour
rather of the massing than of the
dispersing of men of the same coun-
try and caste. If any given nation-
a^ity is scattered over all the regi-
ments in the army, there is in the
army, as a whole, the element of
combi nation; and we most take
heed lest, by our efforts to limit re-
gimental combination, we generate a
more dangerous power of association
throughout the army itself. It is
plain that there are difficulties in
either direction. The tendency now,
however, is so strongly U>wards the
advocacy of dispersion, that it is as
well to consider what is to be said
upon the other side. It is assuredly
an evil that a disaffected man at
Peshawur should be able quietly to
feel the pulse of a comrade at Dacca,
or, if need be, to scatter sparks of
seditic^ in the lines of a still more
remote station in Pegu.
I feel as if I had only begun to
say what I purposed to say to you,
General, upon this great question
of the native army of India; but
if I say anything more, I shall ex-
hanst your patience before I have
told yon what I and othf^rs think
about tlie future of our European
army. The great question of '^ Line''
or '^Local^' is agitating militaiy
circles here, as yon tell me it is agi-
tating military circles at home; and
you may believe me, when I tell you,
that we are not, in this part of the
world, hnngering after the adminis-
tration of the War Office, or the do-
mination of the Horse Guards. There
is no want of loyalty amongst ns. «
Whether we were pleased at our
transfer bodily from the Company to
the Crown, is a matter which now it
is hardly worth our while to inquire.
The thing is done — we are all '^Queen's
officers ;'' and if it be said, regret-
fully sometimes, that the service will
never again be what it once was, it
is only a tribute due to the loss of
a good and liberal master. The
question now u, not whether we are
to serve the Crown or the Company,
but whether we are to be governeu
by one of her Majesty's cheers of
state or another, and under what
conditions of service. If we are to
be governed by the Horse-Guards
and Dy the Secretary for War, we be-
come a component part of the lane
army, still retaining, however, certain
peculiar ohaiaoteristios, of which no-
thing can deprive us. If, on the
other hand, we are to be governed
by the Secretary of State for India.
we remain, as now, an integral local
army as much as if we still served
the Company. You may put the
case the other way, and say, '^If we
become a Line army, we are governed
by the Horse^Goarus,'' &c,^.; but
640
7%e Future of Ind^a and h&r Army.
[Kw.
it litde TDfttters which yoa regard as
the major part of the proposition.
Here is the qaestion which we are
all ooDsidering in these partts, and I
can observe no indication of a desire
for the change with which we are
threatened. It requires no great
acnteness of vision to see, that as
soon as we cease to be a local army,
with privileges as sach, we who now
represent the middle-class element
of European society will be utterly
overwhelmed, crushed, demolished
by the burden of the aristocracy,
w hat would the Horse-Guards have
done for you, Greneral? What will
the Horse-Guards ever do for me?
We do not belong to a class in whom
Royal Highnesses and friends of
Royal Highnesses take any interest.
We are of the Browns and Robin-
sons. The Browns and Robinsons
ruled in Leadenhall Street, and to a
certain extent they rule there still.
But as soon as we cease to have a
local European army in India, the
Browns and Robinsons will be super-
seded everywhere b;- the Plantage-
nets and the Stuarts.
I do not forget that there will
still be a local army. The Horse-
Guards and the War Office do not
aspire to the honour of managing our
^^ bhick battalions." But it is easy to
see what the native army of India
will become, when detached also from
the European army-ni mere native
militia ; a police corps — nothing else.
Such, then, of our old Oompany's
officers as are likely to be attached to
the re-constructed native army, have
the strongest possible interest in re-
taining &e local character of the
European portion of the old army;
whilst those who are absorbed into
the Line will equally suffer by the
change. What made the old Com-
pany's army such a really fine service
was the Staff, I use the word in its
most extended sense, as signifying all
extra-regimental employment. Every
youth who went out to India knew
that he had as good a chance as his
neighbours of becoming a Malcolm
or M unro, that he might rise by suc-
cession to the highest appointments
in the Service, and close his career
as the €k)vernor of a Presidency.
He did not care for interest — he did
not rely on aristocratio connexiona.
Aut ifweMOm out /heiam wm Mi
motfo; and he went witbout nas-
dving to his work, did bis best bnf^
fy, and if he had the right staffs
him, he was sore of saecess. Be
was not afraid of Stuarts or Plaati'
genets, or any bearers of letters of
introduction to Goverfiors-Geiieni
or Oommander»-in-Chief ; and tbm-
fore we had a service of which say
nation might be proad — a service to
whose stout hearts and strong vm
we owe it that we have been dragisd
through the fearftd tribulation of the
last two years. Under Providenee, we
owe our salvation to the ener^es d
the middle classes — the right okb,
who found their way, by their owii
exertions, to the right {Mace. Whst
sent John Lawrence to the Ponjanb
— what sent Henry Lawrence to
Lucknow-— what pnt Janaes Oatna
at the head of an army in iVnia.
whence he came in the right time to
head another army in Oodef What
brought such men as Montgomerr,
Frere, Ohamberlaine, Edwardes, Ni-
cholson, and others to the front whes
they were wanted ? Why, the good
stuff that was in them ; nothing else.
They had few, if any aristoentk
opponents to contend wi^, and tl^
were the servants of a middle-disB
Government, who woold not hzn
tolerated aristocratac iDteHerenee.
Oan we hope that it will be so inj
longer, if the country is filled with tbe
proUgh of the Horse-Goards and tbe
War-Office, and men are appointed,
as they will be, to regiments in lodia,
on the understanding that tliey are
to get some snug little bert& oo
the Staff. Kay, indeed, I do doC
doubt that before long the fonnaHtr
of attaching gentlemen, on their pro-
motion, to regiments serving in Indis,
will be dispensed with. The thing
has been begun already. We haT«
all been talking here— -and in no
complimentary terms— of a recent
nomination to a political appdnt-
ment in Central India. Tbe old
Oumpany^s service stood aghast at
the appearance in the Gazette of
the notification of the appointment
thereto of an officer of lier Miges^^
service ^ unattached.** Such a thing
had never been known before Tho
appointment was one requiring pecu-
liar qualifieations, only to be «>-
1869.]
2%d Future ^f India cmd her Armff,
641
qaired by -y^im of r^dance in the
country. Bat the locky nominee
vos not known to posaese any eoch
qualificatioDs. He had come oat
8troni:ly recommended, it is said, on
account of political services rendered
to his party — and fur this reason,
people said jestingly, he was pitch-
forked into the political department.
I do not say otherwise than he may
be a very excellent and deserving
officer, and may well and worthily
perform the duties intrusted to him ;
but assuredly here was the intro-
duction— hardlv, I can say, of tbe
small end of the wedge, for it seems
to have gone in bodily. At one
jump the Government overleapt the
inevitable condition of employment
of this description, that the employi
should belong to a regiment serving
in India. The claims of men who
had been bearing the burden and the
boat of the day in India were over-
looked for an officer of aristocratic
conuection.<, fresh from the clubs of
St. James's and the Government
House of Calcutta. What is there,
then, to prevent all the best ap-
pointments in India being virtually
tilled op by aristocraUo influence at
Lome?
Ic may be said that if this has
commenced already, nothing worse is
to be apprehended from the transfer
of the European poriion of the In-
dian army to the direct management
of tbe Horse-Guards. Your know-
le<lge and experience. General, will
enable you to suj^ply the proper
oikjwer to this. "What we see now
is simply an experiment, the success
of which will depend upon the man-
ner in which the question of '^Liue
or Local" is determined. If matters
remain as they are, and the old Com-
puuy^s army becomes bodily a local
army, under the administration of
tlie Secretary of State for India, I do
not t>ee why the system which limits
(with a few exceplioui^) the selection
of military officers for Stuff employ-
ment to officers of Uie local army
>houId not be adhered to as strictly
as before. What Lord Cunning has
(lone by the appointment of Msjor
AVortlcy to a political situation in
Central India, is a deviation from the
rule and practice of the service; it Ls
irregukr, certainly — ^iUc^al, perhaps;
and it can hardly escape the attention
of the Secretary of State for India in
Council. What amount of vitality
there may be in that body I do
not know ; but I shall be very much
surprised if it does not, in the pre-
sent state of affiiirs, re;«ist this inno-
vation. Not merely, under the ex-
isting system, is an unattached officer
ineligible for civil and political em-
ploy, but officers of the Line, with
their regiments in India, are ineli-
S'ble for such employment. The
ome Government, therefore, can
hardly suffer tliis irregularity to pasa
unnoticed ; and if the old Company's
army remain bodily as now a local
army, there can be no pretext for
reviiiing the system whereby Line
officers are excluded generally from
the Staff. As soon, however, as the
two services are thas far amalga-
mated, all distinctions of this kind
will be broken down. The Line army
will be declared to have the same
claim to civil and political employ-
ment as the Local. army; and so &r
as the old Company^s officers, who
have long local experience, are con-
cerned, the claim will be a just one.
But it is easy to see whera the inte-
rest will lie ; easy to see, by the light
of M^jor Wortley^s case, among
whom the loaves and fishes are likely
to be distributed. The Browns and
Robinsons — the representatives of
the middle classes — ^are likely to fiftre
but poorly under sdoh a system.
But there is a difference between
the may-be and the must-be. Is it a
necessary consequence of the trans-
fer of tbe old Company's European
troops to the charge of the Horse-
Guard!*, that the local native army
should sink into a black militia, and
tbe Jones and Robinsons be defraud-
ed of their birthrights? I always
think it wise to fight for what is
attainable. You seem to think that
the European local army is doomed
— that, reason as we may, convince
as we may, courtly influences must
prevail; and tliat, therefore, India
will henceforth be supplied with
European troops wholly from the
Line army. If this be the case, what
you and others have to contend for
is, that this change shall be burden-
ed with certain conditions, which
will render it comparatively hann-
642
n$ Futnre i^f India and her Army.
Pot.
less. Let the Conno!l of India make
a stand for the privileges of the old
Company^s eervloe. If the native
army, Bhom of its Karopean sup-
ports, is likely, therefore, to degener-
ate into a militia, let care he taken
to sustain its character and to in*>
crease its advantages, so that, instead
of being shnnned, it will be sought
by oor best officers Let regulations
be laid down--^if need be, rendered
imperative bv Act of Parliament —
prescribhig the amount of Staff pa-
tronage to be open reepeotively to the
Line and the Local army, and deter-
mining the conditions and qaaiifica-
tions necessary to the attainment of
Staff employment of different kinds.
By far tlie larger share of the Staff
patronage should be the appanage
of the Local army, because it will
contain the larger amount of local
experience, such as knowledge of
the country, knowledge of the lan-
guages, and familiarity vrith the ha-
bits of the people; and, moreover,
because, as I have said, it will be
necessary to confer certain peculiar
privileges and advantages upon it, to
prevent it from subsiding into the
status of a blnck militia. Aod then
as to the Line regiments, it would
not be difficult to prescribe such
conditions for Staff employment as
will render any great amount of
jobbery difficult, if not impossible.
For example, I would not suffer any
officer to be eli;'ible for civil or politic-
cal employment until he has served
at least four years in India. It
might, perhaps, be advantageous that
two of tUese years should be passed
with a native regiment— that the
native army, indeed, should be the
stepping- stune to employment of this
kind. But anyhow, if civil and poli^
tical employment were to be attain-
able only after four years* good
service in India, and then only upon
ascertained proficiency, we need not
be much afraid of young aristocrats
hungering atler appointments obtain*-
able only under such conditions,
I know that there are many other
important considerations greatly af-
fecting this question of *^Line or
Local.'* I regard it, you will see,
from the Indian point of view, and I
need not trouble you with any re-
marks oB the coDstitntional beuings
of the question. If a large fnereiSB
of the Line army, with all its sttesd*
ant patronage, stiould be oousideKd
to involve any dangerons inovsseof
the power of the Crown, PariiameBt
may look after the encroachment
Parliament, too, may be left to regi-
late the number of European troopi
to be employed in India; but I fear
it never can prevent advantage !»•
ing taken of the distant dependefiey
to foist upon it all the spare troops
that England does not want at tbt
moment, and to recall them ▼!«
she does. India has good renson to
be suspicious of England in this re-
spect. She will make us pay for
everything that she can; andwhn
imperial interests are at stake, if
only in a financial aense, little re^
will be had for the outlying de-
pendency, you may be sure. * This is,
indeed, a very serious matter, and I
wish that I could discard the thought
of the possibility of our being ioia-
dated with troops when we do not
want them, ana perhaps defied
of them when we do. It is true thst
England sent us abundance of troopi
to aid us in our recent troubles; bat
the imperial GKiver&tnent did ool
then want them at home ; Eorope
was at peace; and, therefore, the
fact of her liberality does not innR-
date the hypothesis of danger fna
the above cause. Nevertbeleaa, I
hold that the greatest danger of ill
is likely to come from that weaken-
ing of the '* monarchy of the miAlfc
cl^es'^ on which I have commented.
I cannot dismifsa from my mind the
doubt whether such men as built Dp
our Indian empire are likely ageia
to appear upon the scene.
I cannot say, my dear OencrJ,
that I altogetner like the preeest
aspect of aff^iirs in India. I en
not apprehensive of another miKtvy
mutiny, at all events for a long nine
to come ; and still less do I antieh
pate any general rising of the people.
We may organise another annr, ve
may scramble through our fioaocul
difficulties, but I am afiraid that wi
are drifting into difficulty aod din-
ger of another kind. The real peril
comes ftom within. It is the gradul
deterioration of the dominant nee
by which our Indian em|»re will be
slowly destroyed. Too will n*^
.859.]
Tk€ FiUur$ qfjndim and hsr Army,
64S
indorstand what I mean. A general
lii^taste for India, and everything
)elot)ffin(^ to it, is laying fast hold of
he ^European mind. All olassea of
ociety, from members of Ooancil to
he ruiik and file of our European
egiments are hungering after home,
ndiu is not what it was in your
tme, General ; and I am afraid that
shall never live to see it such again,
tfen who have gone through the two
ast years of trouble have lived more
han a generation in qfuiet times.
They have grown sick of the heat,
he glare, the dust; the oontinual
loise and exdtcment; the absence
if all repo^. They are longing for
■est and (lining fur home. Yon told
ne in yuur last that it seemed
IS though all India had been sud-
lenly emptied into England — that
nen whose deeds 3*ou had just been
eading of, and whom yon believed
o be btill battling it out in India,
vere turning up every day at the
iorners of the streets of London, or
taring at you aomse the dinner-table.
Everybody has taken the first decent
)pf)Oitunity of running over to £ng*
and, if only for a few months. One
;annut be surprised at the prevalence
)f this home-sickness. Even in our
>ld happy times, when we loved and
rusted the people of the country, we
iighed for the green fields and the
cloudy skies of the Fatherland. I
lave felt the craving myself. And I
lave gone home ; and, alter a while,
ike hundreds of others, have re-
;ume(l not sorrowfully to the scene
)f my app4nuted labours, glad to be
it ujy Work again. But who now
eturus to his work joyonsly and
lopef nlly as of did ? We are grow-
ng weary of it-^sick of it, 1 fear.
^od I what work it has been during
;he last two years I Not the toil of
t, not the pain of it, not the danger
)f it — these are nothing in the ordi*
iioary professtunal course. The true
(oldier rejoices in them; he knows
:hat it is his duty to look them in
ihe face, and he is glad that his
x>urage should be tried. But we
tiave not been doing mere soldier's
Inty daring these two years, Gen-
eral. It has been bntoher^s work—
jangman^s work — work whidi, nn-
ler the strong excitement of the
iioor, we got through, scureely think-
ing what it was, but which the sonl
now sickens to contemplate in the
terrible retros|>ect, when we calmly
take the measure of the horrors
through which we hare been drag-
ged. Now that it is over, we see
clearly what it was, and we know
that we would not go through it
again for all the fabulous wealth of
the land in which we live. I have
seen strong, brave men— men of
iron nerve and resolute will, who
have gone through all these horrors,
outwardly unmoved, pale, tremulous,
terror-stricken at the recollection of
them, when they have been discussed
in the quiet chamber, or starting up
suddenly from the placid sleep of
secnrity in an icy sweat, wild and
incoherent, under the influence of an
awful dream, only faintly shadowing
the stem realities of waking life.
Oh I my dear Gleneral, we are sadder
and wiser men than we were. There
is scarcely one among us who does
not feel that there is the burden
of a terrible nightmare trpon him,
which somehow or other he must
shake off. The environments of a
frightful past cling to him like the
poisoned robe of the centaur. He
must tear them off for a while, or
sink into a state of feeble depression
and despondency. And so every one
is going home — who can wonder!
Tbere is no recovery for us until we
can break the chain of morbid asso-
ciations which now holds us in such
absolute thrall:
And so every one either has gone
or is going home. They who can any*
how manage to remain there, will
remain, you may be sure. They will
take any service in England that
will afford them the means of honour-
able subsistence, or expend them*
selves in cheap Continental towns, or
in our own pleasant Channel Islands,
living for the rest of their days upon
the [jensibn which they have earned
by Indian service. In the minds of
all married men at least one com-
mon thought surges up— ^* This is not
the place for women and children.*'
The women and children have been
sent home; and there are many
amongst us who will never suffer
them again to set foot op Indian soil.
The country may be as safe as it
eTer was beiore— nay, if we profit, as
G44
The Future qf India and ker Army.
Iv
we ought to do, by this terrible lesson,
much safei^— but the feeling of secu-
rity will not be there, ami the appre-
hension of continual danger U even
worse than die danger itself. Who
again will leave his helpless belong-
ings, as he once did, to tlie custody
of native servants, content under
such escort to suffer them to pass
from one end of India to the other?
It is the necessary disruption of
family ties which has always been
the great drawback of Indian life.
We do not really know what exile ia
until we find that wife and children
are taken away from us, and that we
are left to toil in cheerless isolation.
But this evil has hitherto been no-
thing in extent to what it is likely
to be under the new era; so that
Indian life, in its domestic or social,
is fast becoming as intolerable as in
its professional aspect. India, in-
deed, under Queen Victoria, is not
what it was under John Company.
Now, there is nothing to recom-
pense a man for all this but money.
The Indian service was always de-
clared, and in your time was grate-
fully acknowledged to be, the best
service in the world. Some of our
young hands used to speak contemp-
tuously of our honourable masters as
tea-dealers ; but the longer they re-
mained in the service, the more prone
they were to admit their obligations to
them, and to speak with thcuikfulness
of the liberality of their employers.
I am writing now with reference to
both branches of the old " Company's
Service." As time advances, they
are becoming more and more mixed
up with each other; military men
doing largely what was once held to
be purely civilians' work. What 1
have to say of one applies, mut4itiH
mutandis^ to the other ; and it is to
be said in a very few words. The
time when, for reasons already stated,
the Indian service has become in
every respect le:^ inviting than be-
fore— when the duties have become
more onerous and distasteful, and
the social and domestic environments
of Indian life more painful and dis-
tressing— is held to be an opportune
one for the reduction of all our sala-
ries. They ask more from us, and
they give us less ; the burden of our
servitude is increased, and its recom-
pense dtminisbed. Kaw^i^sln
cerely believe, the permaaeaeeocs
rule in India depends morec^tj
individual qualitiea of the goieuc
class than upon anything dx.Si
not difficult to see what ma^ c^
ually be the result of the ikteitn
tion of the working ageD<7 of l«^
liah government, wbioh stjcss ai
to be not a probability, bat i «r
tainty past question.
You must not let your breti-s
in England think, iny dear Gtce^
that we are greedy and gn.'^&i v
these parts. We are i-eady to lut^
great saorifioes. There is Di^t s'
among ua who will not poor ooi I
money as freely as he wii2 poor <
liis blood, for the good of the Stc?
All that we ask is that our sen><f
may not be depreciated. Do ika w.
Government take tbe present o^f^"^
tuuity to tell us that we bjri^i
along been overpaid — that tbe «^
can be done for less money. Ti^is^
not merely to attack our pockets::
is to assail our pride, to woiio<l<^'
amour propre^ to lower our ftai?-
spect. We hke to know that we r.
well paid, not merely becsMe *
have so much money to spend, & *
much to invest, and tberefort >
much to carry home when ibe ik
horse is growing weak in tbe hf'-
but because every man feels t J3*
pride in knowing that his serviee
are highly valued by tbe Stare. ^
looks upon a high aalaiy as a p^^
sonal oompliinent to himself. ^^
everybody knows how uiucb l^^-
we work when we know tbst «:
labours are appreciated.
But money, it is said, is >*t«»J»-
the State is insolvent; how is it ^
be helped ? As I write, tbe sos'^
is being afforded, most 6igmfi<a&^!'
by the Government itself. TteJ
are hammering away at the f^
legislative forge, devising new tsi*-
whereby the expenses of the SB|f
may be paid. They have propouiMW
the great panacea of an \^^^
tax which is to produce the re^o'J*
millions, or to go a long way towai®
it. Whatever difficulties the« n^J
be in working it out, tbert /^' f'
doubt that it is just in priBci^j
BO lung as the tax is a general uHif-
no ^lass is exemptra. Bat ^i^
is the proposal? To exempt ti<«
>'l
The Fu^mn «/ BnMa mtd Aar Army.
645
era of GoTermnent— that la, liie
irntag class, the impoeen of
tax. All Bound poMoy dictating
i the neoesdty of reconciling the
768 of Indi»— «.«. the great hulk
le taz-payer»— to the new impost)
' hit npon the best means of
lering it grierons and intolerable
lem. Under such drcmnstanoes,
first man to contribute to the
issities of the State should have
L the Governor-General himself,
L the members of Ck>micil, the
:es, the chief secretaries, and so on.
rest wonld have oheerftally fbl*
ad. Bat this very appreciable rule
been reversed. All classes are
>e taxed except the white-faced
:Iish rulers, for whose especial
x>rt the tax is raised. They who
)ive largely Jhmi the State are to
tribute notluog to it What is
but to establish a raw on the
it back of the unofficial com-
lity? Doubtless there is a rea-
for it. The €k>vemment ser-
Hberally acknowledges his services.
It is sound policy, tiierefore, viewed
both in connection with the efficiwoy
of the public service and the feeling
of the general public, to tax onr
officifd salaries instead of reducing
them. The latter course, I repeat,
offends all parties; it exdtes general
discontent throu^ont the service,
and, as impl ving freedom from taza^
tion, genenu discontent in the public
mind. But taxation will be cheer*
fhlly borne by the official classes,
whether it be regarded as a tempor-
ary or a permanent burden ; and the
public will pay with comparative
alacrity when they know tnat the
governing class has begun by taxing
itself.
Another tfainff to be said is, that
an income-tax is not necessarily a
perroaneot burden. To render it
palatable, it should always be made
to have the appearance of a tempo-
rary measure. Salaries once reduced,
will never be raised again to their
t tells you, and teUs you ' original figure. But an income-tax
y, that his allowances are to be mav be lightened, or removed alto-
aced, and that he contributes gether. It is poor economy, you may
;ely to the necessities of the State be sure, to violate and to dishearten
working for a diminished salary, the executive servants of the State.
w this, my dear General, is patent Do this, and you will never get such
ugh to him — ^is patent enough flood woric out of them again ; and
the Government; but it is not uidia, more than any country in the
snt to the outside community, world, depends upon the good heart
and strong energies of individual
men. It may be said by theorists,
who do not know what Indian labour
is, that the work may be done equally
well at less cost I I altogether deny
the &ct. Reduce the wages, and you
will at once lower the quidity of the
woi^ It would be so in the best of
times; but in such times as these,
when our best men are hungering
after home, and the English mind,
once lured by bright visions of Ori-
ental luxury, now associates with the
very name of India the most terrible
images of carnage and destruction,
how can you hope to get, by reduc-
ing the pecuniary temptations, sudi
men as you got of old — ^the men who
built up this great Indian empire,
which, in spite of the troubles we
have gone through, is still the great-
est political phenomenon which the
worid has ever seen?
I repeat, then, that the greatest dan-
ger which lies before us at present is
0 either cannot or will not put
) and two together in this way.
t although the Government ser-
it understands the cause of his
mption, he does not appreciate it.
would rather nay the tax than
^e his salary reanced, though the
were heavier than the reduction,
writhes, indeed, under the reduc-
i; but he would pay the tax
serfully and ungrudgingly in obe-
nce to the paramount necessities
the State. All this is very plain.
is human nature. The reduction of
lianas sala37 is a personal offence to
Q. But taxation, however griev-
\ is not offensive. The salary of
) public servant, which is an ac-
owledgment of the value of his
vices, stands at the same figure :
i he has still, whateyer he may
itribute to the exigencies of the
ite, the same feeling of pride in
( position, -and of gratitude and
^alty to the Government which so
VOL. LUXVL 42
646 2%e Future of India and her Army, • ISor.ISIi.
the discontent which is cankering, not prised if I were to wk ym kfir
the native, but the European mind long to look about for a note M
We must look to this before it is too residence for me and mine in a ^
late. You cannot expect men to county, where I can nde to
work in such a furnace as this wkh on a rough pony with a foai '
the knife at their tiiroats for nothing, my arm, and d^ my own
High pay and an exclusive service happy as a king,
built up our Indian empire. We You will hAve had non tte
are now about to see what low pay enough then, my* dear Qeoerri, Ib
and public competition will do. It sure. Fortunately for yoo, nsB^
appears to me to be a fearful experi- has come upon nle before I bin
ment. But I shall not remain in said half that I had intaided to of
India long enough to see the issue, -^-so I will only add to the rest tk
Like the rest, I am hungering after I am veiy sincerely and giit^
England; and I should not he sur- yours.
A, OR KING'S EVIL?
':<3 IiuOi v.
mmud bv
\ Mid l&femal on^otir
fifomwt to wiu^itttti J
■lit ur ulvpp:Tn^ tjirdt^T, wliLli,
br
\ totfif hv-^im III >i-L
iilr tri
h^fl t*y tliU hiHiiflifl
COKPOUND EXTtLACT OF SABSAFABIIXA.
» alfio tliusa •
tnfti«d cooiititQtlatia,
AVER'S CATHARTIC PILLS,
lOR ALL THE rUfU^CtSE
«nvQCtlnf
th^' ^"
bia boalth or
m 0trt8loitl*>
■riil^^ (TClIU 3 l'-",'i FiiuL.' >.H ' ll'j ■>'. Ill , L.'i I U«;- t, .|«Jl |i i;| II I - ij IIV4.I' 'II-.
AVER'S CHERRV PECTORAL,
FOn IB CURB OP
g lift* C<itd»4 Itiflara^Eii* Miuar^enesv^ ^roin*, Br<»iie1iiti«. Ineljtl*
H Cotmniirpliatt^ and lor I tie relief of Ci»iBnftitiiili%'«'> I*atic*ill« |
lii AM* tU* tjoxts of iU QMT*^ timt ixlmmi |
' .Tvn til,.. iv-.t'M iii'.,ti i'.rvi,'^i'(:.i r'li.Mi ijliirni-
bl'
.'i-W
afi.
■..as
' ^ DruggistB ma
VHbTA TtIK OOtSUUTS fAHtOSAaB QT
THE COURTS OF EUROPE,
Am] b general Una hy BAKE saA l^iBHlOT*
LOWLANBa' DCAGASSAB OH^
J3 A PELirtllTFTTTLY rfL.^Oli^NT ANT* TkxKSPARE<T
ROWLANDS' KAIYDOR,
I' on TUT. BKfN /kSn C**MFLEXinN,
bloi to Qvary TultaL
ROWLANDS' ODONTO,
OK, TEA''
bit, ah>] ,-f iTj,.,'^i:f,,-. , , -. ,
01' • ' - ctncn^UiiC
** .S5'
the four Reviews and Blackwood, ^10. -^'^
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* Sobieriben ordering fir^m Booksellers must look to them for their Numl
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAG^AZINE.
No. DXXX.
DECEMBER 1869,
Vou LXXXVi.
CONTENTS.
The Fight on the Peiho, .
Love's Young Dream — nowadays,
Another Pleasant French Book,
Popular Literature— Prize Essays,
Motley's Dutch Republic, . •
The National Gallery,
The Luck op Ladysmede. — Part X.,
The Emperor and the Em'pire, .
Fleets and Navies — England. — Part III.
647
60s
oyj
681
COT
711
'726
745
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BACK NUMBER WANTED. .
We will pay $2 for No. 115 of the Edinburgh Bevievr (April, 1833), either
British or Boston edition. Any one having this Namber to dispose of wiD
please notify us before sending it, that we may nbt be receiving dapltcatea.
See notice on last page of this number.
LEONABD SOOTT a C3o.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. DXXX.
DEOEMBER 1859.
Vol. LXXXTI.
THt ROHT OJf I^BQK ¥B11lt>.
The god-like gift of eloqnenoe is
the privilege of few, even though they
be boro to hold high office, and be
destined to nile, as Ministers of the
Crown, over noble professions, upon
whose wellbeing the safety and hon-
our of a great nation depend. His
Orace the Dnke of Somerset, at pre-
sent First Lord of the Admiralty, is
no exception to this rule, a^ evlDoed
ii^ the late ministerial speeches at
the Mansion-House; bnt it is strange
that neither a sense of jastioe, nor
a geoerons sympathy for a gallant
officer, could iudace him to say one
word on behalf of the Admiral and
the heroic band, who foaght that
bloody bat disastrous fight in the
Peiho river on 26th June, 1859. We
will not believe that the First Lord
of the Admiralty can have failed to
have felt that it was his part, as the
head of a noble and geu^roos pro-
fession, to have said one kind wonl,
on such an occasion, on behalf of
Admiral James Hope, and his officers
and men — a word which would
have gone forth to the worl4 as his
public approval of the noble bear-
ing, under terrible circamstances^ of
British naval officers and seamen.
Why not, therefore, have listened to
the natural promptings of sympathy
Ibr the survivors of that combat ? —
why not have said one word to show
that their Queen and country ap-
proved their giiflhntry and sympa-
thised in then* defeat? Whatever
may have been the motives for the
Duke of Somerset*^ silence, ft remains
only for others to do. our countrymen
that Jastice whicli the officials have
denied them^ premising that we
would have undertaken the task at
an ea^Tier date, but that we were
desirous of being in fhll possession
of the amplest details — ^thoagh no-
thing, be it remembered; but what
on^t to be, and doubtless i^ known
to the Lonis Oommissionera of the
Admiralty.
On September 16, 1868, the For-
eign Office received a despatch from
Lord' Elgin (No. 181 in the Blue-
Book)^ dated July 12, 1858^ enclosing
the Treaty of Tientsin, not only signed
by the Imperial Oonmiissioners, but
every stipulation therein contained,
assented to by an Imperial decree.*
The Ambassador of England, in plac-
ing this valuable Treaty before the
Minister of his august Sovereign, was
singularly frank in explaining to him
the humiliation to v^hich he had sul-
jected the Court of Pekin, and that
fear rather than reason had been
VOU ULUTI.
See Blue-Book, p. 360, Despatch No. 186w
48
648
The Fight <m thi Feiho.
[Dec
the caase of the submission of the
Emferor Hien-fang. In Lord Elgin^a
own words, the oonoessions amounted
^^to a revolution, and involve the
surrender of some of the most cher-
ished prinoiples of the traditional
policy of the Empire. They haw hem
extorted^ therefore^ Jrdm its fecvn^'^
Thus, in September 1858, the Min-
istry and Admiralty knew, if no one
else did, that this Treaty was wrong
from the Gfunese, and that on or be-
fore June 26, 1869, the copy of that
Treaty, ratified by the Sovereign of
Britain, was to be exchangCKi at
Pekin. Both those departments most
have known that,as the English Treaty
contained two important clanses,*
which all the other Powers represent-
ed at Tientsin had despicably waived
at a critical moment, if the Gonrt of
Pekin demurred to the final ratifi-
cation of any of those treaties,
that demurrer would first fall upon
the English one, as the chief offend-
er. Sapposing that Lord Elgin^s
despatches, which accompanied the
Treaty, failed to enlighten the Minis-
try upon the extremely delicate nature
o the final negotiations at Tien-
tsin, and sapposing even that neither
in Downing Street nor Whitehall was
the Timte ever read, and that the in-
formation of the Hon. Mr. Bruce,
Secretary of Embassy, as to the dif-
ficulties which surrounded his brother
on the 26th June, 1858, and of the
' firmness he displayed, when even his
loyal colleague, Baron Gros, failed
him, was mere laudation of our Am-
bassador, at the expense of others
less stanch at such a crisis ; still we
say, allowing all this, there is in
the end of the Blue-book another
despatch f^um Lord Elgiu,t which
reached Downing Street on Decem-
ber 29th, 1858, the perusal of which
ought to have warned any one, pro-
fessing to be a statesman, of the
criticid nature of the task which
awaited the diplomatist and the
naval Commander-in-Chief in the
auramer of 1859.
In that despatcB (No. 216) the
strong repreeentatioiia of the Chioese
Ministers against the permaoeat re«-
dence of the Ambassador in Fekin, in
dearly put forward — ^tke losperisl
order to reconstruct the Taku forts,
as well as to fortify the approeobes to
Pekin, is distinctiy mentioned — the
attention of our Ministry Is recalliad
to some despatch (which, we own,
does not exist in the Blue-Book) ia
which the critical state of the negotia-
tions, on the very eve of the eignators
of the Treaty, was explained to them
— and finally, her Majesty's Ministers
are warned that an enfaroemeiit of
that clause in its full integrity would
probably compel the Emperor to
choose ^* heVu^een a dee^iraU at-
tempt at reeiatanee^ and paeMe ae-
quieeeence in tohcU he and hie ad^uen
oelieve to he the greatest caiamit^
which eould hefaU the EmpireJ*
According to rule, Aduiind James
Hope received his oommissl^xi s»
Commander-in-Chief in the Issi
Indies and China when his prede
cesser had completed his perKKi d
service. Nothing could have beee
more decorous. He left £ii^aiid
by the overland mail in Uax^
1859, add, on arriving at Siagih
pore, found Admiral Sir Mi€i»el
Seymour awaiting his arrival then,
in order that he might take iiis
passBge home in the next mail-
boat. Here those two of^oers met,
the one with the acqnired kaow-
ledge of three years^ oommand ia
thoee remote seas, and thorcwgblj
conversant with Chinese tactics,
military, naval, or diplomatio; the
other, though well known as an
officer of great ability and nnflineh-
ing firmness, still perfectly ig&ofsat
of the nature of the country and peo-
ple with whom he had to deal, the
constituent parts of his force, its
adequacy or otherwise for the iuk
assigned it, and the amount of mo-
ral or physical support he was likely
to get iVom our fond and faitiifoi
allies, the French. AdminU Hope,
« " Art II T. The permanent residence of a British Ambnsa.idor, with family
and suite, at Pekin.
" Art. IX. liritiah subjects to travel to all parts of the interior of China. U>t
purpoHes of trade and pleasure."
\ See Blue-Book, p. 486, Despatch No. 216, bearing date Shanghai, Xov 6, 1S5S.
869.]
The MffU en thd Peiho.
64d
ipon all those points, mnst have
ooked to Admiral Seymour fbr in-
orniatioD.
Yet, strange to say, within a few
lOurs — it appears to us, only forty-
dght honrs---after Admiral Hope
Lrrivea in Singapore^ Admiral Sey-
noor is steaming home in a Penin-
lulor and Oriental boat. We wonld
iuggest .the following qaestions,
»yliich require to be answered be-
bre it can be shown that Admiral
Fames Hope entered upon his com-
xiand with anything like a proper
chance of success :—
Why did not the Admiralty send
him oat to China in time to acquire
information before he was called up-
Dn to aot ?
Why did not his predecessor await
his arrival in China, instead of in
India?
What ^period elapsed between the
arrival of one admiral and the de-
parture home of the other ?
What was the information impart-
ed by Admiral Seymour to Admiral
Hope, of the condition of the defences
at the entrance of the Peiho-^of
the geography or resources of that
Gulf of Pechili, in which Admind
Seymour had operated during the
summer of 1868?
Lastly, What steps had Admiral
Seymour taken, after July 1868, to
keep himself informed of Uie state of
the Taku fortifications and the naviga-
bility of the entrance of the Peiho
river ? and what ships had been sta-
tioned to acquire information, and
survey the coast of China north of
the Yang-tse-Kiang river, a region
into which it was well known the
new Admiral would have to carry
his squadron in 1869 ? *
We firmly believe that on all these
points great injustice has been done
to Admiral Hope, and that his posi-
tion was one full of difiSculty, arising
from the neglect of others. On the
16th April 1869 he assumed com-
mand of his squadron at Singapore.
On that very day he ought to have
been with a force to support our
Ambassador off the montli of the
Peiho river 1 It was not his fault
tbat he was not there; and he ap-
pears to have lost no tinie in provid-
ing for the wants of his extensive
command — organising his forces, de-
spatching stores and coals northward,
securing the safety of the enormous
mercantile interests in China should
a rupture arise, and meeting the de-
ficiency occ^oned by our Govern-
ment having counted upon the aid of
French sailors and soldiers to some
considerable extent.
A despatch from the new Minister,
Mr. Bruce, dated May 2Ut, 1869,
tells us that another difiiculty had
to be met by tb^ Admiral at this
juncture — namely, that the Admi-
ralty had ordered a further re-
duction of the squadron in China,
whilst he (Mr. Bruce) had become
so alarmed by the proceedings of
the Court of Pekin, that it was im-
peratively necessary he should be
escorted to Taku or Tientsin by as
strong a force as that which had sup-
ported Lord £]gin in 1868. Of course
the Admiralty, in giving such an
order, fancied that Admiral Hope
would be joined in China by the
French squadron under Admiral Ki-
gault de Genouille; but, as usual,
they counted without their host, and
out of all that French force, a list of
which we gave in our last number,
DO vessel capable of crossing the bar of
the Peiho river could be spared. There
was another difficulty — if possible
a still more serious one than the ab-
sence of French support, when it was
counted upon, — ^and this was the oc-
cupation of Canton by the British
forces. It deprived Admiral Hope
of the services of a battalion of her
Majesty's Koyal Regiment, and a num-
ber of marines and marine artillery ;
it rendered the presence of a consider-
able naval force necessary in its vici-
nity ; and instead of the MfJor*General
and staff being able to go where ser-
vices in the field were almost immin-
ent, they were shut up in that wretch-
ed collection of fusty houses, dignified
wi^ the title of the City of Canton.
Instead of sitting down and writ-
ing home for reinforcements and in-
structions, Admiral Hope did what
an energetic admiral should do: he
hastened to the northward with every
available man and vessel, ready to
support the Minister, Mr. Bruce, in
all such measures as he might deem
necessary. We have yet to Jearn on
what day Mr. Bruce was able to leave
HoBg^Eong for Shanghai; b«l he
((50
The FigM an th$ Pdho.
[Dec
distinctly says he prooeeded to the
latter port, where the Chixiefie Oom-
iDissioners were waiting for him, m
wnn M hii French coUeoffiie woe
ready; and hearing in mind, as we
do, that hy the treatv of Tientsin
ratifications were to be exchanged
in Pekiu hy June 26th, and that the
presence of the Imperial Conmiis-
sioners at Shanghai was very sqs-
picious, we can sympathise with Mr.
Bracers feelings in being thus delayed
by his ally at sach a cri^s.
Need we sav more to point ont how
much this alliance hung like a mill-
stone round the neck of Plenipoten-
tiary and Admira) f
On or abont the 11th June 1859.
the Admiral and bis squadron sailed
from Shanghai for the Gulf of Po-
chili ; and the Sha-Hu-tien, or Wide-
spreading Sand Islands, fifteen miles
off the entrance of the Peiho river,
was given as the general rendezvous.
Mr. Bruce and Monsieur Bonrbol-
lon sailed four days afterwards for
the same destination ; they had found
the Commissioners Eweiliang and
Hwashana merely ** armed with pre-
texts to detain them, and prevent
their visit to the Peiho ;^* and from
all they had learned at Shanghai,
there could be no doubt that every
obstacle awaited the diplomatists as
well OS executives of Europe, in their
forthcoming visit to Pekin.
Yet we cannot see that either Mr.
Brace or Admiral Hope fvould have
been justified in any misgivings as to
the issue of measures that might be
deemed necessary to enforce their
Treaty rights ; and had it been pos-
sible for them at this juncture to
have telegraphed the state of affairs
to eitlier Downing Street or White-
hall, we solemnly believe that the
Ministry would have said, — Proceed
to Tientsin — these impediments have
been anticipated ; a Treaty wrung by
force of arms fVom an Eastern despot
car not be expected to be ratified
without some demur — and as no one,
we believe, had taken the trouble to
ascertain the nature of the new for-
tifications of Taku, it wm a very
natural inference that they would
not differ, to any great extent, from
all the many fortifications which the
British had fooght and taken elM-
where in China.
On Jane 17th, H.M.S. Cbesapoke.
bearing the fiag of Rear-Adminl
Hope, arrived at the andicH^ge under
the Sha-lin-tien Islands, and oo that
day and the next, his squadroo »•
sembled round Mm; hot withcot
waiting for all to arrive, the Ad-
miral embarked on the 17th oo
board a gnnboat, the Plover, and
escorted by the Starling, proceeded
over the bar of the PcUm) rJTer,
to inform the authorities of the ao-
tioipated arrival of the Pleoipo-
tentiaries, and to ascertain wbit
obstructions, if any, existed at Ti-
ku. Admiral Hope found a Dnm-
ber of earthworlffi standing opoo
the site of the old forts destrojed
in 1868,* and the river was rendered
quite impassable by a triple series
of booms and stakes. The forti-
fications seemed well oonstracted,
singularly neat and finished in (Hit-
line for Chinese eartbworis; hot
there were few guns seen; mott
of the embrasures looked as if filled
np with matting ; and for the first
time at a military poet in Cbioft.
there was a total absence of aO
display, and no tents or flags were
seen to denote a strong garrisoo with-
in the works. The officer who vts
sent on shore with the Admiral^ ooo-
manication was refused permii^
to go farther than the beach, and the
men who met him said, that they were
militiamen in charge of the etitb*
works; that the lxx>ms and titkfi
were placed as a precaution agaio^
rebels or pirates ; that the ambassft-
dors ought to go to another river
ten miles further north, which was
the trae Peiho river; and concluded
by assuring the En^ish officer that
they acted upon their own responsi-
bility in all they said and did, aa no
high ofScera were at hand. Some
expostulations which were offered
against the existence of the harrien
in the river, as obstacles to the AO'
bassador's friendly visit to Tientsin,
were received in good part, and the;
promised within forty -eight hours to
set about removing them. Such wa3
* We should like to know whether Admiral Hope was ever furniahed withi
ground plan of the works captured by Admiral Seymour ia 1858.
1869.]
The Fight on the Peiho.
651
the result of the Adtniml's first re-
oonnaissanoe, and decidedly there
was nothing aeen to excite alarm, or
awaken suspicion of the admirable
ambnsoade which he was being drawn
into. In fact, an examination of one
Aioe of well masked earthworks must
always lead to a very erroneous esti-
mate of their strength — Sebastopol
to wit. The only way in which true
information conld have been gleaned
was by keeping an intelligent officer
in the Gulf of Pechili, and letting
him watch the Peiho river subse-
quent to the cessation of hostilities in
1858; but that was a duty for which
Admiral Hope can in no way be held
responsible.
We will, however, proceed to de-
scribe the scene of the coming battle,
and give that information of which
Admiral Hope ought to have been put
in possession.
The Peiho, or North river, has its
source in the highlands of Manchou-
ria, at no very great distance from
Pekin, and passes within twelve miles
of that capital. The velocity of the
stream, arising more from the alti-
tude of its source than from its
volume, has scoured out a narrow
tortuous channel, to the south-east,
through the deep alluvial plain of
Pechili, and cut into the stratum of
stiff clav beneath it. As the stream
approaches the sea, it flows for the
last five miles through a plain, which
18 little, if at all, above the level
of high water of spring-tides; the
consequence is, that instead of cut-
ting a channel for itself fairly out
into the Gulf of Pechili, the force
of the current becomes very much
weakened by being able to inun-
date the adjoining banks whenever
there i* a freshet in the river, and
the waters discharge themselves over
a great bank, known as " the Bar.''
This bar, of hard tenacious clay, ex-
tends in a great curve out to sea-
ward, of which the arc is fully six
miles, and the distance at low water,
from a depth of ten feet water with-
out the bar, to ten feet water within
it, is nearly four geographical miles.
Over this bar, at high tide, a channel
exists, in which there is eleven feet of
water; but at low water there is
only twenty -four inches In most
places, and extensive dry mad banks
on either hand.
Immediately within the bar there
is anchorage for small vessels and
gunboats, where they can float at
low water; but they are then only
two thousand yarfls from the forti-
fications, and necessarily under fire
from heavy guns and mortars ; whilst
vessels outside the bar can neither
aid them, nor touch the fortifications ;
and with all the marvellous qualities
imputed to Armstrong's guns, we do
not believe that they will, by a hori-
zontal fire from without the bar, do
much damage to mud forts.
Within the bar, the channel of the
Peiho winds upward for a mile be-
tween precipitous banks of mud,
which are treacherously covered at
high tide, and render the navigation
at that time very hazardous. The
seaman then finds himself between
two reed-covered banks which con-
stitute the real sides of the Peiho
river, and at the same time he is sur-
rounded on every side by earthworks,
which, from the peculiar configura-
tion of this last reach of the Peiho,
face and fiank him on every side.
These fortifications stand either upon
natural or artificial elevations of some
ten or twelve feet general altitude,
and even at high water look down
upon a vessel in the channel — an ad-
vantage which becomes all the more
serious when the tide has fallen, as it
does fall, some ten to twelve feet. The
actual channel of the river is never
more than three hundred feet \vide
nntil the forts are entirely passed,
and the current runs from two to
three miles per hour.
The left-hand bank, looking up the
stream, projects more to seaward
than the right-hand one, and on it
stood in former days three mounds
of earth thirty feet high, well faced
with solid masonry; a double flight
of Btone steps in the rear led to their
summits, and within them was a
hollow chamber admirably adapted
for magazines of powder. The sum-
mit was a level space two hundred
yartls square, capable of fighting
three guns on each face, except in
the rear, which was perfectly open.
Upon these caealiers men and guns
looked down at all times of tide
upon the channel of the river, and
fought In comparative security from
anything like horizontal fire. Round
these cavaliers heavy mnd-batteriep
652
2U Fiffht an Ui$ PMo.
[Dm.
were constrnotod, of twenty-two fc«t
vertioal height, so as to soreen their
baftements from anything like a
breaching fire. These batteries had
gnns perfectly casemated, and were
conDected into one great work by
a series of cartains, pierced, like the
bastions, for oasemated guns, and
covered by flanking *fire, and wet
as well as dry ditohes. This Grand
Battery was pieroed for fifty gnns,
and with the exception of thoee on
the ea/calters^ every embrasure was
fitted with an excellent mantlet.
Above and below the grand work,
though probably ooDnected with it
by a covered -way, were two waspish-
looking flanking forts. Each had a
eavcUier; and the one to seaward was
excellently constructed, and * looked
like a three-tier earthen battery.
On the right-hand bank stood an-
other series of works, only inferior
in importance to those on the oppo-
site side, and finished with equal
care. The right-hand works almost
raked any vessels advancing beyond
the seaward angle of the Grand
Fort.
Apart from these fortifications,
three barriers had been constructed
where the channel was narrowest,
and admirably calculated to detain
vessels immediately under the fire
of the works. Hitherto, however,
in Ohinese warfare, it had invari-
ably been observed that, although
they constructed massive fortifica-
tions, and placed ingenious impe-
diments in their rivers, the guns*
crews would not stand to their gnns
at close action, and that they did
not understand the art of concentrat-
ing their guns upon the i)oint at
which our vessels were checked bv
booms or rafts, and, consequently, it
was always easy to outfianic or turn
their works, in any way we thought
proper.
During the 18th and 19th June,
the squadron moved from the Sba-
liu-tien Islands to the anchorage
immediately off the bar of the Peiho
river, the smaller vessels passing
within it for security against the
seas and winds of the Gulf of Pe-
chili; and on the latter day the
English and French Hinistark v-
rived in H.M.S. Maf^enne, •»!
H.I.M. corvette Ducbayla. The id-
vent of this foreign force, and their
passage of the bar, did not excite tlie
slightest notice, or appear to pn
any alarm to the Chinese. All ms
as quiet and sleepy as the most bar
tidious admirer of Ohinese sceiMit
mi^t desire. The great broad pbui
of Fechili spread awav to the noftii
and south ; the upward portioDofthe
river could be traced (imtil krt in
mirage) by the masts of the cmmtlesi
trading-junks which annuaDy airire
at Tientsin from all parts c^ Chuu.
The long and straggling village of
Taku was hid by the mound-like oit-
line of the southern forts, except th«
Little Temple, from which, in 1858,
the Governor - General of Fechili,
one T&n, bad made an ignomimoos
flight before our dashing little gin-
bcMits Banterer, Leven, and Opoesnia.
Its quaint tnmed-up roof, with its
cockey little air, was the only thisf,
inanimate or animate, that gave the
slightest sign of defiance to the *' red-
haired barbarians."
Mr. Bruce, it is thus shown, arrived
at the entrance of the Peiho riT«r
exactly ns days b^ore the expintioD
of the period for the ratification of
the Treaty at Pekin ; and in that Und
of ceremony and etiquette Mr. Biu«
well knew that if our Envoy did not
make a strenuous effort to fblfil ha
engagement, and appear at Tieotnn
or Pekin within the stipulated date.
that the war-party, which had done,
and was doing, all in its power to
subvert the treaties of 1668, wodM
immediately magnify the breach of
contract into a premeditated sfa'gfat to
the Emperor, and an indignity to tb«
Gourt of one whom five hundred mil-
lions of souls actually worship. When
Mr. Bruce, therefore, haateoed to in*
nounce bis arrival, and requested to
be allowed to pass through the bar-
riers at Taku to Tientsin, be ▼«
simply told to go elsewhere ; and the
barriers were obstinately kept dow^
whilst the apparently stolid inilitii-
men declared they did so on tbeir
own responsibility.*
What was Mr. Bruce to do nnder
* See three final paragraphs of Mr. Bruoe's Despatch, July 18, 1869, ifl th«
7\mes, Oct. 6, 1869.
1859.}
I%e FigkC ^ the Peiho.
658
sDoh oircQinstanoeB f TlMre wer« bat
two measnreB open to bim^-the one
iTBs to remove tbe barriers pkoed,
as they declared, by loeal aathorit4e8,
without the oogniisanoe of the Im-
perial Government, and proceed to
Tientsin, where a high officer was
always resident; the other coarse
was to go to some place mentioned
by these pretended militiamen, as
one likely to lead the Minister to
Pekm.
Mr. Brace verv naturally, and very
wisely, as the issue proves in the
Americanos case,* determined to go
to Tientsin; and as he could not
reach it except through the barriers,
and past the forts which watched
them, he and M. BourboUon, on the
21st June, after recapitolating their
reasons, tell Admiral Hope that they
"AoM tker^are rssohed to place
the matter in your hands, and to re^
quest you to take any measures you
may deem expedient for clearing away
the obstructions in ike river, so as to
allow us to proceed at once to Tien-
tein." This is plain and straightfor-
ward language— a simple request;
and with its policy the Admiral very
rightly must have felt he had no-
thing to do. He was called upon to
open the road to Tientsin; he had
around him such a force as his
masters at home considered ample
for any emergency; it was his dutv
to endeavour to carry out the task
assigned him.
Admiral Hope at once wrote a
formal note to the authorities, in-
forming them that, should the ob-
structions in the river not be removed
by the evening of the 24th June, so
as to allow the Allied Ministers to
proceed to Tientsin, as they indubit-
ably had a right to do under the
sign-manaal of the Emperor, he. Ad-
miral Hope, should proceed to clear
the road. The force at Admiral
Hope's disposal was as follows: —
Outside the bar, and incapable of
crossing it, Ohesapeake, Captain G.
'Willes; Magidecne, Captain N.
Yanrittart; Highflyer, Captain 0.
F. Shadwell ; Cruiser, Commander J.
Bythesea; Fury, Commander Com-
merell; Aseistanoe, Commander W.
A. Heath; and Hesper ^tore>ship).
Master-commander Jabez Loane ; tiie
French corvette Dochayla, C/om-
mander Tricaolt; and tender Noso-
gary.
Vessels capable of crossing the bar
and engaging the forts: —
Oan«.
1. Nimrod, 6
2. Cormorant, 6
8. Lee, 2
4. Opossum, 2
5. Haughty, 2
6. Forester, 2
T. Banterer, 2
8. Starling, 2
9. Plover, 2
10. Janus, 2
11. Kestrel, 2
itzen.
0 R. a Wynniatt
0 A. Wodehouse.
2 Lieut W. H. Jones
2 C. J. Balfour.
2 G. D. Broad.
2 A F. Innes.
2 J. Jenkins.
2 J. Whitohed.
2 Hector Rason.
2H. P.Knevit
2 J. D. Bevan.
SOg. IShowit, and a eom-
bined rocket-battery of twenty-two 12
and 24 pounders. The total crews of
these gun-vessels amounted to about
five hundred officers and men.
A gale of wind and heavy rain
prevented much being done on the
22d, but by the night of the 23d all
the vessels capable of crossing the
bar were assembled within it; and
early on the 24th June, the marines
from Canton, under Colonel Lemon,
as well a3 those of the larger vessels,
and the armed boats and small-arm-
men, were assembled on board cer-
tain junks placed on the bar to re-
ceive them. This force, seven hun-
dred strong, was intended as an as-
saulting party, under Colonel Lemon
and Commanders Commerell and
Heath. The Admiral, moreover,
placed the Coromandel and Nosogary
as hospitals, as far out of range as it
was possible to anchor them.
The delight of the gallant little
force under Admiral Hope was verv
great when the sun set on the 24th
June, and no letter in reply to his
communication of the 22d had been
* The American Minister, after the repulse of Taku, adopted the second course ;
bis triumphal entry into Pekin in a cart, his close confinement whilst there, the
attempt to make him worship the Emperor, the insult of ordering him back to the
aea-shore for a worthless ratification, and the entire question of the readjustment
of tbe tariff being referred back to a subordinate at Shanghai, is conclusive proof
of what we should have gained by adopting such a course.
654
Th4 Fight on the Feiho.
{Dec
received. It aogured well for resist-
ance, and all felt assured of a fight
and victory. There was not a single
misgiving as to the result of a com-
bat; and if any was expressed, it
was a fear that all they would have
to do, would be to pull up the stakes
instead of the Chinamen doing it
themselves. As yet, nothing had
occurred to excite the AdmiraPs sus-
picions of the nature of the opposi-
tion to be encountered, although he
had, ever since the day of his arrival,
especially deputed Commander John
Bythesea* and Lieutenant W. H.
Jones in the Lee, to narrowly watch
the forts and river, to see if anything
like an increase of garrison, or the
nature of the armament, conld be
detected. But in order that a charge
of want of preparation for battle
might not hereafter be imputed to
him, the gallant chief maoe every
arrangement for taking up positions
exactly as he would have done had
be been at war, instead of at peace,
with China. The first thing to be
done was to see whether the stakes
or rafts could be destroyed in the
night by boats. Accordingly, when
it was quite dark, three boats^ crews,
nnder Deutenant Wilson, Mr. Eger-
ton (mate), and Mr. Hartland (boat-
swain), commanded by Captain Wil-
les, started to make the attempt.
• Anxiously were they watched for.
At last two loud explosions, the flash
and report of a gun or two from
the forts, the return of the boats,
and the cheers of the excited crews
of the gunboats, told the joy with
which was hailed the double act
of hostility — a pledge for the mor-
row^s fight. Captain Willes brought
back full information of the. stubborn
nature of the obstacles opposed to
the flotilla, and that it was impos-
sible to make a dash up the stream
to take the works in reverse.
The barriers were three in number.
The first extended across the chan-
nel, at an elbow where the curva-
tmre of the mud-banks, and direc-
tion of tide, placed vessels ascending
the stream stem on, or in a raking
position to the &ee of the Qnai
Battery. It constated of a aat^
row of iron stakes, nine inches in
girth, and with a tripod base, to m
to preserve an npright posidoa in
spite of the velodty of the streinL
The top of each stake was pcwified,
as well as a sharp spur which strock
out from its side, and at high water
these dangerous piles were hidden
beueath the surface of the liv^.
This barrier was 550 yards distsot
from the centre of the Grand Batteiy
on the left, and 900 yards from the
forts on the right hand.
The second barrier was plaoed 450
yards above the iron piles, and im-
mediately abreast the centre of the
fortifications. It consisted of oba
eight-inch hemp and two heavy ohsiD-
caoles, placed across the stream at i
distance of twelve feet from eadi
other : they were hove as taat u
possible, and supported by large
spars placed transversely at ererr
thirty feet : each spar was care/Qllj
moored both up and down stream.
The third harrier oonai^ted of tvo
massive rafts of rough timber, lashed
and cross-lashed in ail directions widi
rope and chain, and admirably moored
a few feet above one another, so as
to leave a letter S opening, abere
which were more iron stdyces, so
plaoed as to impede any gunboats
dashing through the opening, sup-
posing all other obstadee overcomeL
The ingenuity of the arrangement
here was most perfect. The force of
the current would only allow the
passage at this point to be effected
at top of high water; at that titoe
the iron piles were oovered with
water, and their position being un-
known, the chances were all in favour
of a vessel beooming impaled npoQ
them.
Captain Willes passed through the
interstices between the iron stakes in
his boats, and leaving two of them to
secure the explosion oylinder» uoder
the cables he, and Lieutenant Wilson
pushed on to the third barrier, or
rafts. They crawled over it, and al-
though they could see the sentries
* This ffaUant officer, who carried off one of the very few Victoria eroaesiroa
in the Baltic fleet of 1865, was stricken down with Peiho fever, broagfat on by
expoeare while employed on this duty, and was; eonaequently unable to shan
durectly in the bloody Uurela of the 25lh June.
1859.]
Ths Fiffkt &n the PeihQ.
656
wslkiDg up and down at either
end, and they mnst have been neen
by the garrison at the forts, which
towered above them at the short dis-
tance of 150 yards upon the right
and left, neither party molested the
other. Satisfied of the solid nature
of the obstacle, and that a mere gnn-
boat pressing against it woald never
force away all the anchors or cables
with which it was secured, Oaptain
Willes returned to the second barrier,
and exploded his charges, occasioning
a breach apparently wide enough for
a vessel to pass; but a carefully-
directed fire from a gun or two in
the forts warned him to desist.
There was, however, no general
alarm on shore, and the works did
not, as might have been expected,
open a general fire, or develop their
formidable character.
It was evident that Admiral Hope
had now but one resource left, namely,
an attack upon the enemy^s front ; a
fiank attack was impossible; for it
would have been simple folly to have
landed seven hundred marines and
sailors outside the bar, either to the
northward or southward of Takn;
the force was far too small to risk
such a manoeuvre. The Commander-
in Chiefs plan was simple and judi-
cious. He had eleven gun- vessels ; nine
of them were to anchor close to the
first barrier, as nearly abreast as pos-
sible without masking each other's
guns. Captain Willes in the Opos-
sum was to secure tackles to one of
the iron piles, ready to pull it up when
ordered, and then, under cover of the
anchored gun- vessels, the Admiral and
Flag-Oaptain in the Plover and Opos-
sum were to pass on to the destruc-
tion of the second and third barriers.
Whilst the Admiral thus carefully
made his plans to meet a strong
resistance, few in the souadron
thought of anything but the fun
and excitement of the coming day:
many a witty anticipation was ex-
pressed as to promotion for another
bloodless Chinese victory, mingled
with jokes at the foolish obstinacy
of John Chinaman. Daylight came ;
the forts were deceitfully calm;
some thought an embrasure or two
had been added during the night, but
it was only certain that the second bar-
rier, where it had been broken during
the night by Captain Willes, was again
thoroughly repaired. Everything had
the appearance of simple obstinacy.
With cock-crow all was activity in
the squadron; at half-past three in
the morning, a chorus of boatswains'
mates' whistles had sent all hands to
their breakfasts, and by four o'clock
the vessels commenced to drop up
into their assigned positions. The
flood-tide was running strong, a
muddy turbid stream flowing up a
tortuous gutter; gradually that gut-
ter filled, and the waters, raffled by
a fresh breeze, spread on either hand
over the mud banks, and eventually
washed the border of the reed-covered
plain, and touched the basements of
the huge masses of earth which con-
stituted the forts of Taku. These lay
silent and lifeless, except where at the
flag-staff of one waved two black ban-
ners, ominously emblematic of the
bloody day they were about to witness.
The Admiral comnfenced to move
his squadron into action thus early,
anticipating that by the time the
flood-tide had ceased running, every
vessel would have reached her posi-
tion, the distance in no case being
more than a mile; but the nar-
rowness of the channel, the strength
of the breeze, and force of current,
occasioned great delay by forcing
first one gunboat and then another
ashore on the mud banks; added to
which, the great length of the Nim-
rod and Cormorant caused them,
when canting or swinging across the
channel, almost to block it up. The
consequence was, that the squadron
was not ready for action at 1 1.80 a.m.,
or high water. Prior to high water
it would have been folly to have com-
menced action. No judicious naval
officer would engage an enemy's
works whilst a flood-tide was sweep-
ing in towards them. Had Admiral
Hope done so, every disabled vessel
and boat, as well as every wounded
man, would have fallen into the hands
of the Chinese; and, moreover, the
diflBculty of anchoring by the stern in
gunboatt), in so strong a tideway, can
only be appreciated by seamen, and
would have probably resulted in the
whole force falling aboard of one an-
other, and being swept by the tide,
in one mass, under the concentrated
fire of all the batteries. By one
668
ITis Fight on the Peiho.
[Dec.
signal, ** Engage the enemy ^ with the
r^ pendant under, indioating as
^^ehse oiponible^^ the cheers of the
delighted ships' companies mingled
■with the roar of that first hearty
broadside. All day long, throagh
that stern fight, that signal, simple
yet significative, flew from the mast-
head of the heroic Admiral. Never
was the need greater that every man
should do his duty, and nobly tbev
responded to the appeal. So well
concentrated was the enemy's fire
upon the space between the first and
second barriers, that the Plover and
Opossum appeared to be struck by
every shot directed at them. The
flag-ship was especially aimed at.
Within twenty minutes both these
vessels had so many men killed and
wonnded, and were so shattered, as
to be almost silenced. Lieutenant-
Commander Rason, of the Plover,
was cut in two by a round shot.
Captain M'Kenna, of the 1st Royals,
on the Admiral's staff, was killed
early, and the Admiral himself was
grievously injured by a gun-shot in
the thigh. The Lee and Haughty,
under Lieutenant- Commanders W. H.
Jones and G. Broad, now weighed,
by signal, and advanced to the sup-
port ^i the Admiral.
The shattered Plover almost drift-
ed out of her honourable position,
having only nine men left efi3cient
out of her original crew of forty. The
Admiral, in spite of wounds and loss
of blood, transferred his flag to the
Opossum, and the battle raged furi-
ously on either hand. A little after
three o'clock, the Admiral received a
second wound, a round-shot knocking
away some chainwork by which he
was supported in a conspicuous po-
sition, and the fall breaking several
of his ribs. The Opossum had by
this time become so disabled, that it
was necessary to drop her outside the
iron piles of the first barrier, where
both she and the Plover received
fresh crews from the reserve force,
and again took their share in the
fight.
There was now no false impression
upon the mind of any one, as to the
work they had in hand, or the novel
amount of resistance they had to over-
come. Retreat was disgrace, and in
all probability total destruction; for
the bar would be impassable long be-
fore the vessels could reach it— a&d
who was going to think of retresttbus
early? who wanted to be hooted s:
by all the world as men who fled h-
fore a Chinaman? No, strip ard
fight it out, was the general feeliog
from Captain to boy, and in a frenzy
of delight with their chief, they Trent
into their work like men, who, if tlcj
could not command sacoess, wodM k
any rate show that tbey deserved ii
A pall of smoke hung over the Bri-
tish fi<»tilla and the forts of Take;
under it flashed sharp and vividly
the red fire of the combatants; tk
roar of great guns, the shriek of
rockets, and rattle of rifles, was cod-
stant. No missile coald fail to reach
its mark ; the dull thung of the ene-
my's shot as it passed through a gon-
boat's side, the crash of W(X)d-w<»k,
the whistle of heavy splinters of wood
or iron, the screams of the woanded.
and the moans of the dying, mingM
with the shouts of the combataots
and the sharp decisive orders of tbd
officers — all were " fighting their
best !" And it was a doee hug indeed,
for the advanced vessels were firing at
150 yards' range, and the maxituam
distance was only 800 yards^ Ererr
officer and man rejoiced in this &c::
for, forgetful of the enormons thickne*
of the parapets opposed to them, onr
gallant sailors fancied that all wa$ in
favour of a race who had never bern
excelled in a stanch fight at clo«
quarters. ♦ The Lee and Hangbiy
were now suffisring much ; the fire of
the forts had been most deadly, aod
was in every respect as accurate as
ours. The Admiral in his bar)^e, al*
though fainting from loss of blood,
pulled to these vessels, to s>how the
crews how cheerfully he shared tbe
full dangers of their position; and
they who advocate a British co;»-
mander-in-chief being in the rear, in-
stead of, as Nelson and ColUngwood
ever placed themselves, in the van d
battle, ought to have witnessed the
eflfect of Hope's heroic example upon
the men under him that day; eves
the wonnded were more patient and
enduring owing to such an example.
By four o'clock the Lee had a hole
knocked into her side below the bow-
gun, out of which a man could have
crawletl : both she and Uie Haagbtj
had all their boats and topwurtui
knocked to pieces, and many shot
1850.]
ne FigJU on the Feiho,
660
had passed wongh belcw the water*
line, owing to the plongiog fire of the
forts ; their crews were goiDg down
fast ; and the space between uie first
and second barriers was little better
than a slaoghter-bouse from the
storm of the enemy^s miseiles, which
in front and on both flanks swept
over it The Admiral had fainted,
and was being taken to the rear for
medical aid by his gallant secretary,
Mr. Ash by,* when -he recovered suffi-
ciently to order the barge to oondnct
him to the most advanced vessel in
the line. That post was now held by
the Cormorant, Commander Wode-
honee ; for the Lee and Haaghty had
been obliged to retire for reinforce-
ment and sopport. On board the
Cormorant the flag of the Comman-
der-in-Chief was hoisted; and he,
though constantly fainting from loss
of blood, was laid in his cot upon the
deck to witness the battle, which still
raged with unremitting ardour upon
both sides, fresh guns^ crews being
brought up from the rear to replace
the killed and wounded on board the
vessels. First excitement had been
succeeded by cool determination, and
the men fought deliberately, with set
teeth and compressed lips : there was
no flinching the fight, there were no
skulkers; and had there been any,
there was no safety anywhere inside
the bar of the Peiho : blood was up,
and all fought to win or fall: even
the poor little powder-boys did not
drop their powder-boxes and try to
seek shelter, but wept as they thought
of their mothers, or of their playmates
Dick or Bob who had just been killed
beside them, and, with tears pouring
down their powder-begrimed coun-
tenances, rushed to and from the
magazines with nervous energy.
" You never see'd any fighting like
this at Greenwich School, eh, Bobby ?"
remarked a kind-hearted marine to a
boy who was crying, and still exert-
ing himself to the utmost. "No!
Bombardier," said the lad, "but don't
let them Chinamen thrash us I"
Schoolboy pluck shone through the
novel horrors of a sea fight.
The enemy, whoever they were,
ManohouB or Monjiols, men from the
Amour, or, what is far more likely,
renegades, deserters, and convicts,
swept up from the frontier of Rus-
sian Siberia, fought admirably, and
most cleverly. We have every good-
will towards the Mongolian Prince
Sungolosin: we are quite ready to
allow that, though at the head of the
ultra-coudervatism of China, and re-
presentative of that formidable seo-
tion who prefer fighting England
to submitting to her demands, he
yet may be a progressionist in the
art of attack and defence. Neverthe-
less, it does startle us to find that,
between July 1868 and June 1859,
Prince Sungolosin should have learnt
to construct forts and block up a river
unon the most approved principles
or European art ; that, for the first
time, the embrasures were so arranged
as to concentrate a fire of guns upon
particular points; that mantlets, here-
after to be described, improvements
upon those used at the great siege of
Sebastopol, were fitted to every case-
mated gun ; that guns in the bastions
swept the face of the curtains ; that
the "cA^ib" and ^^ soles'^ of the em-
brasures were most scientifically con-
structed with a view to direction of
fire; that reserve supplies of guns
and carriages had been provided to
replace those dismounted or disabled
by our fire ; and lastly, that the re-
inforcements were so cleverly mask-
ed, that our gunboats could only see
that, as fast as they swept away a
gun and crew in the tort with a
well-directed shell, a fresh gun
and fresh men were soon found to
have replaced them; and w^e must
distincdv express our firm belief, that
upon all these points the Chinese
received counsel and instruction, sub-
sequent to the signing of the Treaty
of Tientsin, from Russians, whether
priests or officers matters Httle ; and
that, during that fight of the 25th
June, it was evident to all who had
ever fought Asiatics, that no ordinary
tactician was behind those earth-
works. ••
As the tide fell, so the fire of the
forts became more plunging and de-
* The Plag-Iieu tenant, Douglas, fought the Plover after the death of Lieutenant
Roson, nnd Mr. Ashby acted not only during this day as secretary, flag-lieutenant,
and signal-midshipman, but, after the death of Lieutenant Clutterbuck, commanded
the tender Coromandel for a day or two.
660
The Fight on the Peiho.
[Dee.
stractiTe, whilst oar gunners, thoagb
quite close, had to aim upward at
uie enemy. The experience of Sebas-
topol has shown that a horizontal
fire will not dislodge a brave oppo-
nent from behind earthworks; of
course it would be much less likely
to do so when the assailants were so
low as to hare to fire in an oblique
direction upward ; and such was the
relative position of the two antagon-
ists at Taku. The body of the forts
was soon found to be invulnerable,
and the embrasures becaifte the tar-
gets of our gunboats. Those on the
cavaliers were subjected to a ter-
ribly accurate fire, yet, strange to say,
the guns at these points were seldom
silenced for any length of time. The
Cormorant's bow -gun, on one occa-
rion, in four successive shots, fairly
knocked over the three guns in the
face of the emalier of the centre
bastion — the whole squadron wit-
nessed the fact, and saw the guns
and crews shattered by the terrific
effect of her solid 68-pounders — yet in
a quarter of an hour other guns were
there and stinging away as waspishly
as ever.
At 4.20 P.M., the Admiral was
obliged to vield to the entreaties of
the medical men, and to the faint-
ness arising from loss of blood : he
banded over the immediate command
of the squadron to the second in
seniority. Captain Shad well, who,
supported by Captain Willes and
Captain Nicholas Vansittart, carried
on the battle.
Of the individual acts of valour
and devotion with which such a <3om-
bat is replete, how many escape ob-
servation!— whilst the mention of
others often gives pain to the modest
men, to whom the writer would fain
do honour. At any risk, however,
we must narrate an anecaote or two
illustrative of the ze<d and devotion
displayed in this glorious fight.
When the Cormorant*s bow-gun
did the good service of silencing, in
four shots, the centre ca/calier^ the
%dmiral, lying on his cot, was so
struck with the accuracy of the aim
that he immediately sent an aide-de-
camp forward to obtain the name of
the captain of the gun. The mes-
senger found wortby- Cmporal Giks*
at Uie full extent of his trigger-lice,
the gun loaded and run out; bii
whole mind, was intent upon oce
object — hitting his enemy. "Sfuz-
zle right," said the honest marine.
" Who fired those shots?" interposed
the messenger ; '* the Admiral wants
to know." "Well!" shouted the
man to his crew, adding, " I did, ar,^
(to the officer^ " Elevate 1" "Wbafs
your name?" rejoined the messeH'
ger. " John Giles," said the mariiw;,
leaning back, shutting one eye, and
looking along the sights of the gim,
his lett hand going up mechAni^j
to the salute— -'* John Giles, cor-
poral. " Well I*' (this to his crew)—
" Second company" (to the oflloer) —
" Ready ! — Woolwich division ! —
Fire 1 Sponge and load !— I beg your
pardon, sir, Nb. 1276." We need
not add that the worthy oorporsi
was far more intent upon his work
than mindful of the kind compliment
his Admiral was paying him, and
his best reward was the hurrah of
his gun-mates as .they watched the
shot plunge into the enemy's embn-
sure.
" Opossum ahoy I" bails a broth®
gunboat captain; '*do yon know
your stern-frame is all on fire?^
for smoke and flame were playing
round one end of the li^e crait,
whilst from the other she was spite-
fully firing upon the foe. "Bother
the fire I" was the rejoinder ; ** I am
not going to knock off pitching into
these blackguards for any baming
stern-posts. Ko men to spare, old
boy I"
"Werry hard hit^ sir I" remarks
the boatswain of the Lee to her gal
lant commander ; *' the ship is making
a deal of water, and won^t float mocS
longer; the donkey-engines aad
pumps dou^t deliver one backet of
water for ten as comes into her!''
" Cannot do more than we are doing,''
replies the commander— " it is im-
possible to get at the shot-boles from
inside, and I will not order men to
dive outside with shot-plug8| in this
strong tide-way, and whilst I am
compelled to keep the propeller re-
volving."
'^ There's no other way to keep the
* We regret that we do not know the proper name of this gallant marine.
1850.]
Ths Fight m ike PeML
661
ship afloat, air!" ur^ Hr. Wooda,
^^ and if yoa please, air, IM like to go
about that 'ere job myself."
" As you volunteer, I'll not object,
Woods»" said the oommander — ^^ but
remember it is almost desperate
work ; you see how the tide .is run-
ning, and that I must keep ecrewiog
ahead to maintain station. You have
the chance of being drowned, and if
caught by the screw, you are a dead
man."
" Well, sir! " said Woods, looking
as bashful as if saeing for some great
favour— "I knows all that, and as
far as chances of death go, why, it is
^much of a muchness' everywhere
just now; and if you will keep an
eye upon me, I'll try what can be
done."
Woods according^ brought up a
bag of aeaman^s clothes, tore it open,
wrapped frocks and trousers round
wooden shot-plugs, tied a ropeVend
round his waist, and dived under the
bottom of the Lee to stop up the
shot-holes. Again and again the
gallant fellow went down, escaping
from the stroke of the screw as if by
a niirade ; for he often came up
astern at the full length of his line,
having been swept there by the tide.
His exertions, however, were not
successful, although he stopped as
many as twenty-eight shot-holes;
and the noble little Lee was soon
found to be in a sinking condition.
The Kestrel with colours flying,
and still fighting under the gallant
Lieut-Commander Bevan, went down
in her station at 5.40 p.m., and afibirs
began to look very serious; yet the
last thing thought of was defeat.
One gunboat swings end on to a
raking battery, and a shot imme-
diately sweeps away all the men
from one side of her bow-gun, as if
a scythe had passed through them.
*^ This is what they call a ratification,
Billy 1 ain't it ? " remarks the captain
of the gun to one of the survivors ;
and raising his right arm, red with
the blood of his slaughtered com-
rades, he cursed in coarse but honest
phrase the folly and false humanity
which in the previous year had al-
lowed these mandarins to march off
almost unsoathedy ^^ whilst we was
ek-hoting brass-guns for the Toole-
ries" (Tuileries). Phirr I came dong
a bar-shot and a mass of woodwork
and splinters knocked over and al»
most buried a commander and master
of one of the gunboats. The remain-
ing officer, a warrant-officer, rushes
up and pulls them out from under
the wreck. Though severely bruised,
neither was, happily, killed. ^ All
right, I hopes, sir!" rubbing them
downi— " legs all sound, sir I — ah I
you will get your wind directly —
but you mu$t keep moving, sir; if
you don't; thev're sure to hit you. I
was just telbng the chaps forward
the same thing — shot never hits a
lively man, sir ! — and, dear me, don't
they work our bow-gun beautifully
—that's right, ladsl that's right!"
urged the enthusiastic gunner —
"keep her going I Lor! if old
Hastings'*' could have seen that shot,
Jim, he'd have given vou nothing to
do at the AdmiraUty for ^ the rest
of your born da^s."
Thus manfully went the fight ;
explosions occuired now and then in
the works, but nothing to indicate a
destruction d any of the garrisons —
the two black flags in the upper bat-
tery still waved gently in the light air,
and no sign of surrender or distress
appeared on the Chinese side, except
that all the embrasures showed a
severe punishment must have been
inflicted upon the men working the
guns within them, and there seemed to
be an inclination to cease firing upon
the part of the enemy, or only to fire
in a deliberate and desultory man-
ner. Exhaustion was beginning to
tell upon our men, just at the time
that the shattered condition of tibeir
vessels called for most exertion. By
six o'clock all probability of forcing
the barriers with the flotilla was
at an end. The Kestrel was sunk,
aud the Lee obliged to be run on
the mud to prevent her going down
in deep water ; many other ves-
sels were filling owing to shot-holes
— the Starling and Banterer aground
— Plover disabled ; ^and if the Nim-
rod or Cormorant, by any accident
to their anchors or cables, fell across
* A very irreverent allusion to Admiral Sir Thomas Hastings, who inaugu-
rated the present excellent system of naval, gunnery.
662
tTie IHgJU on th^ Paiho.
[Det
the stream, the channel would he
blocked np, and all the squadron be
lost The senior oflScers saw that
nothing now remained but to with-
draw, if it were possible, the sqoad-
Ton from the fight; the difficulties,
however, in the waj of such a ma-
noBuvre were almost insuperable. It
wanted yet nearly two hunrs before
darkness would set in — the passage
over the bar could not be effected
before dark, on account of high water
not occurring until midnight — the
night was moonless — ^the probabili-
ties great against the vessels being
able to find their way in the dark,
down so narrow and tortuous a chan-
nel— and so long as the vessels re-
mained within Uie bar, so long also
must they be within range of those
hard-hitting long guns, of the effects
of which they had had that day such
bitter experience. The reserve force
of 600 fresh men had not yet been
brought into action — they were beg-
ging to be allowed to retrieve the
trembling fortunes of the day ; even
the crews of the sinking gunboats
only asked to be allowed to land
and grapple with the foe, who skulk-
ed behind his earthworks, whilst
they (stripped to their trousers) had
fought upon their exposed and open
decks. There was yet another rea-
son, which doubtless had its weight :
out of the 1100 men and officers se-
lected by the Admiral from his fleet
to carry out the service which the
representative of his Sovereign had
called upon him to execute, only 25
were killed and 98 wouoded at 6.20
P.M., after four hours' close hard fight-
ing. That loss was simply insuffi-
cient to justify any officer in acknow-
ledging himself thoroughly beaten, or
in abandoning an enterprise.
Uninterested spectatoi-s upon the
bar may say, after the result, that
they saw within ten minutes of the
action being commenced, that the
British would not succeed. It would
have been an evil day for Admiral
James Hope and his captains, had
such an idea entered their heads at
so early an hour. It is true, they
felt that they had been inveigled
into an ambush, but inasmuch as tiiey
went into it having taken every pre-
caution against surprise, and pre-
pared for battle, it remained alone
for them to fight it out, and tntt
to their God for victory in a good
cause.
The gallant-hearted VaDBturt
urged one last bold stroke to n-
trieve the honours of the day, sod tt
any rate to save, if poasible, tiie eoOR
squadron from destruction. Gaptiioi
Shadwell and Willea ooncorred io
this view, though they well knev it
was a neck-or-nothiog attempt— in
short, a forlorn hope, which might if
once fairly hand to band with tk
enemy, drive him from bis worti,
but at any rate the attempt wooU
divert the fire from the shattered fio-
tilla, and allow night to dose in,
and afford them an opportmiity cf
saving all the vessels from destnK-
tion. And let any one weigh ▼<£
what would have been the efieei
throughout the seaports of China,
to our countrymen and oommeroe,
had those gallant officers lost all thai
squadron, as we believe they would
have done in attempting a retrest st
that Juncture. The ingenious tactio
of the enemy — Chinamen we will do(
call them — afforded just then an
illusory ground for hope of a suco&s-
ful issue to an assault: they assunNd
the appearance of being silenced in
many quarters, and only worked a
gun here and there. An assault aod
escalade were at once ordered; the
Opossum went to the rear, and, sided
by the generous sympathy of the
American Flag- Officer Tatoall— who.
in his steamer the Toeywan, assisted
very materially — the boats filled with
the marines and small-arm men
were brought up to the front
At about seven o'clock, Gaptaim
Shadwell and Vansittart, Major
Fisher, R.E., Colonel Lemon, RJL,
Commanders John OommereU sod
W. A. J. Heath, and Coramandant
Tricault of the Imperial navy, heatled
this forlorn hope of seamen, sappeR,
and marines, their march across the
mud being directed upon the oater
bastion of tbe Grand Fort, as it ap-
peared to have suffered most frcHQ
the fire of our vessels. The cfaeefs
of the excited crews of tbe gunboat^
the revived fire of the flotilla, imd the
dasii of the boats to the point of dis-
embarkation, warned t&e enemy bot
too well of the intended assault ; and,
to the astonishment of the assaUantSf
1869.]
Tk0 JK^ Ml tU JMh9.
eo8
from evenr work, every goo, and
every loopnole, a terribly detractive
fire opened upon our devoted men as
they waded throogfa the deep and
tenaeioQS mud. In spite of shot,
grape, rifle-balls, gingaUs and arrows,
the party, six hondred strong, formed
a solid mass, and pressed forward,
whilst close over their heads flew the
covering-shots cf their brethron in the
vessels. It was a terribly magnificent
sight to see that dark mass of gallant
men reeling nnder the storm of mia-
■Oes, yet, Hke a noble bark, against
adverse wind and sea, still advancing
towards its destination. Oflloers and
men fell rapidly-^hadwell, Yansit-
tart, and Lemon were soon badly
Opossom and Toeywan, with boato in tow.
For DdaiU, Se$ Plan !•
wonnded, and many a man fell grier-
ously injared in uie deep mad, to
be qaickly covered by the flowing
tide; yet there was no lack of
leaders— no hesitation in the dannt-
lees survivors. It must be acknow-
ledged that the garrison showed
neither want of skill nor bravery ; fbr
in spite of the fire of the gnnboati^
TOL. Ill H VL
they crowded parapets and emhra-
snres, and opened a withering fire of
mnsketry npon onr men. At last
a bank covered with rashes was
reached — ^Oommerdl, Heath, Fisher,
and Parke, still headed the devoted
band, and they dashed into the first
ditch, leaving, however, a very large
proportion H killed and woonded
44
v99t
I%e FigU on tk$ Feiko.
[D«L
sipewn along their path. The flo-
tilla had now to ceaae firing upon
^e point of assault, lest it fihonid
injnre friends instead of foes. The
^Kottement of the gnn-orews may be
imagined, as they saw the night
MoBing aroand their comrades wrapc
in the blaze of the enemy's fire, and
they heard the exnltant yells of the
garrison, and marked the faint and
desuHory cheers, and ill-sustained
reply of the assailants. It was with
difficalry that thev conld in some
cases be restrained from rashing to
join the good or evil fortune of the
fray ; five boars^ fighting had made
all indifferent to life. As one gun-
boat went down, the crew modestly
suggested to the commander, that as
they could do no more good in her,
it would be as well " to go - over the
mu J and join our chaps on shore I "
It is not fair to say such men can be
beaten ; all * had become inibned
with t])e heroic spirit of their chief
— the infection had even spread to
the American boats^ crews. The
calculating long-backed diplomatists
of the United States, who had sent
their Admiral and Envoy to reap the
advantages for which Englishmen
were fighting and dying, forgot that
there were certain promptings of the
heart which override all selfish con-
siderations; and that, in short, as
flag-officer Tatnall observed, " blood
is thicker than water," ay, than ink
either. An American boat visited
one of our vessels, and on wishing to
leave her, the ofBcer found all his
men had got ont of the boat. After
some delay they were found looking
very hot, smoke-begrimed, and
fightUh. "Halloa, sirs," said the
officer with assumed severity, " don't
you know we are neutrals? What
have you been doing?" "Begs
pardon," said the gallant fellows,
looking very bashful; "they were
very short-handed at the bow-gnn,
sir, and so we give'd them a help for
fiftllowship sake;" they had been
luftnl at it for an hour. Gallant
Americans 1 yon and your admiral
did. more that day to bind England
and the United States together, than
all your lawyers and [)ettifogging
politicians have ever done to part as.
The idsne of the assault was not
long doQbtful after crossing the first
or tidal ditch, and wading tfaroo^
its deep mad and some yards of yet-
feet quagmire ; beyond it anoiher
deep wet ditch was tonod, into wlkieli
about two hand red men and officer
reoklemly dashed, wetting amciTim-
tlon and maskets; only fifty of litem.
however, headed by CommaiKleR
Oommerell, Heath, and Trtcaoh.
readied the base* of the works; tbe
rest, 150 in nnniber, of the snrvivon
in the advanced party, lined th^
edge of the wet ditch. Every at-
tempt to bring np scaling-laddeis
resulted in ttie destruction of tie
party, and the garrison threw oc£
light balls, by which thev could fc.
to slay the unfortunate men outf^^k
the forts. The English were <li-
minishing rapidly ; there was no re-
serve or supports available ; and si
last, with deep reluctance, the leaders
of this gallant band sent word to tlie
senior officer afioat " that they could
if he pleased, hold their posTitiun in
the ditohes until daylijj;ht ; but th&t
it was impossible to storm wiiboot
reinforcemente." The order wa»
therefore given for a retreat ; and in
the words of Admiral Hope, tliis dif-
ficult operation in the face of a tri-
umphant enemy was carried out wills
a deliberation and coolness eqoal to
the gallantry with which the advance
had been accomplished. The la^
men to leave the bloodstained banb
of the Peiho, after having aaved every
wounded man that could be recover-
ed, were the two gallant command-
ers, Oommerell and Heath ; ami the
severity of the enemy's fire upon thi^
assaulting-party is best shown by the
fact, that out of abont six hundred
men and officers, sixty- four were
killed, and two hundred and fifty- two
Were wounded.
The management of the retreat
devolved upon the able flag-captain,
J. 0. Willes — a moet trying and anii-
008 duty ; for the enemy opened a
perfect Jeu-de^oie from aH sides,
npon vessels and boats, ami for a
while threatened total destructioa to
the force. By l.ao iuM. on the 2AUi
the survivors of the forlorn - hope
were embarked, and the process of
dropping out the gunboats com-
menced) with, however, but very par-
tial success. The scene was to-ribly
granjd; the night was dark, the s€»
1«^]
I%$ Fii^ m iks Peik&.
\W6
and land relied in gtoom, except
'wliere the fire-balls of the enemy and
the flash of his gnns brought ont the
forts and shattered flotilla In striking
relief; the tnrbld stream, pent np in
its channel by the wreck of sunken
Tessels and the Chinese barriers,
chafed and whirled angrily past the
repulsed ships, bearing on its bosotn
the wreck of the combat and the
oorpses of the dead. The moans of
the wounded, the shouts of officers,
the frequent strokes of boats' oars,
alternated with the roar of can-
non and the exulting yells of the
victorious garrison. But there was a
»tili more thrilling sight — that on the
decks of the Coromandel, where the
gallant Admiral, and Captains Shad-
well, Vansittart,* and Cofcnel Lemon,
lay surrounded with their dying and
"Wounded followers. Nothing that
medical foresight conld provide to
Blleviate mortal sufiering was want-
ing; yet their agonies were terrible
to contemplate. The deck was
lighted up with every available candle
and lanthorn, aided by which the
snrgical operations were being carried
on as rapidly as possible. A pile of
dead, covered with the flag for which
they had fought so well, awaited
decent interment on the morrow.
The medical officers, after sharing in
all the dangers and labours of the
day, now called to renewed exertion
on behalf of suffering humanity,
were to be seen exerting them-
selves with a zeal and solicltade
as remarkable as the magnificent
bearing of the poor fellows who,
with shattered limbs, awaited their
turn ibr amputation : it was, indeed,
a scene of epic grandeur and solem-
nity.
We could fill a volume with anec-
dotes of calm endurance and heroism,
which were almost childlike in their
simplicity— of the poor fore-topraan
who, mortally wounded, was laid by
his kind commander upon the sofa in
his cabin, and as his life-blood
oozed away, modestly expressed his
regret at ** doing so much injury
to such pretty cushions I"— of the
old quartermaster, whose whole
dhooMer and ribs had been swept
away by a round-ehot, and duHng
the few hours prior to death ex-
pressed it as his opinion, that ^ them
Cliinaraen hit hardish," and had only
one anxiety— " whether the Admi-
ralty would pay his wife for the loss of
hfs kit?^* But we need not, we fiael
assured, dwell upon such traits to
enlist the sympathy of our oountrv-
men on behalf of the men who fought
so well, vet lost the day at Takn.
One fact struck every one — and
it is a fact of which Ailmiral Hope
may well be proud — ^that* from the
lips of those shattered men and
officers there arose no complaint
of having been wantonly sacri-
ficed or misled ; and had it been
thought so, the anguish of the mo-
ment would assuredly have vrrung it
from their lips, and yet have met
with kindly pardon. On the contrary,
though all acknowledged themselves
thorciughly beaten in the fight, yet
every mouth rang with praises of the
leader who had set them such an •
example; and -had Admiral Hope
next (lay called for volunteers to re-
new the fight, desperate as sneh a
measure might have been deemed,
there was not one of the remnant of
his force that would not again have
cheerfully followed him, A repulse
arising from the blunders of a leader
never meets such sympathy. Officers
and men knew all had been done as
they themselves would have sug-
gested, had they been consulted. The
Admiral had exhibited foresiglit,
audacity, and gallant perseverance.
They were ready to follow such a
man to the death. Had he turned
back without testing the foe, and
endeavouring to take the* fort^, every
man's tongue would have railed at
him, and all England would have
stamped him an incompetent leader.
The survivors knew that they had
been partially entrapped, and had had
to fight far more than mere China-
men ; and if defeated, they conld
point to their sinking vessels, to a
iofts in killed and wounded Of 494
officers and men ont of 1100 crtrabat-
ants, and ask their countrymen if they
* The gallant YansitUrt died suhseqi^eoily ; aud we have to lamenti the leas cf
another c^oer. Commander Arione Wo(iehoa4e, H.M.S» Cormorant, who recently
succumbed to a fever, brought on by the exposure and anxiety on that .day»
M8 I/m'% T0tin§ Dmmik^Now0ia^9. [Dm.
Oh ts\[ me not that distant seas
Roll wide between me and my k>T«F ;
Tor he, Tm snre, is at his ease—
And Tm in clover.
And don't tell me that foreign parts
Will ever make me, d^r, forget him ;
Nor will he take to breiJdng hearts,
Unleas I let him.
He writes to me by every post,
And every post takes back my answer ;
He writes of *'innflan8," sleighs, and froet —
I of my dancer.
Bo don't tell me that I most mope,
While he's in Canada reoraitlng;
He's neither Bishop, Saint, nor Popa,
And fond of shooting.
I wish you'd write to him some day.
How very badly Pm behaving,
He'd send back word at once to say
He thought yon raving.
He likes my going to a ball,
And talking German with Lord Bowim ;
D'yon think that, out at Montreal, ^
He flirts with no one ?
Ah I yon don't know him. I mast own
I've seen yon flirt, my pretty oonsiii,
Bat Willy soon would flirt you down,
And sev'ral dozen.
Don't talk snoh sentimental stuff;
Yon preach as if I were a baby ;
As Willy .says, ^ I'm not a muflS;"
Nor he " a gaby."
I know he's very fond of me —
I know rm very fond of WiMy ;
And as to doabts and jeak>asy,
We're not so siDy.
We both intend to have our fan,
And then to marry one another;
And, as the masic id bego^,
Pray no more bother.
H.D. W.
18M.]
AnoOtt PhamtU I^fW€k.B$oi.
069
ANOTHER PLEASANT TRENCH BOOK.
Thsbb is something inexpressibly
cheering in the oontaot of an honest
mind . We are all, at ti niea, depressed
and saddened, by the spectacle of
'w^hat seems the privileged dishonesty
of trade, politics, and literature,
ifrhi^sh fills ns with forebodings bb to
the future of our race ; and yet, after
giving utterance to such gloomy fore*
hodings, our faith in human integrity,
and one hopes for hnman progress,
are revived, whenever we have direct
ex|>erienoe of one cheering exception.
Enlighti'ned by that one example,
we reflect that the world mnst have
salt enough to keep it at least from
putrefying. We know as a matter
of fact, that a man can be a tradesman,
yet not be ^* meek and much a liar ;"
that he can be a statesnian, and yet
oare more for his coantry than his
place ; that he can be a critic, and
speak the truth of friend or foe. If
we interrogtfte our experience, we
find that even a landlady at a lodg-
ing- house may have a scmpulons
conscieoce. Our world is really not
in the miserable plight we had, in
our impatience, supposed. And this
renewal of hope is strengthened when
we compare onr experience with that
of our^ friends ; each has abundant
examples of integrity to record, as a
set-off against the laxity which is,
alas 1 also abundant
Something of this invigorating in-
fluence we feel when we make the
acquaintance of a French writer hke
M. Ernest Benan. French literature
has brilliant (qualities, and many
charms ; far be it from us to gainsay
these qualities, oar to speak with
wholesale disrespect of a literature
which boasts so many noble minds ;
but, without idluding to the pro-
foundly vicious tendency of most oi
its light and popular works — ^most
vicious when aflecting a moral tone
— we think it will be generally ad-
mitted that, with rare exceptions^
French literature displays intellec*
tUHl adroitness and passionate rhe-
toric, rather than sweet serioasness
and depth of earnest fiaeling* It la
brilliant ; but there is more light than
heat Thcae who have real oonTio-
tions are too apt to seek only the
triumph of their cause without re-
gard to the mean& The brain seems
more active than the heart It is,
and always has been, rare to find a
man deeply impressed with the im-
portance of Truth, merely as Truth ;
still rarer to find a man with that
natural piety which inspires respect
for the convictions of others, merely
because they are the convictions oif
human souls, no matter how little
they may agree ^vith his own. This
quality of mind, in all countries rare,
is peculiarly rare in France. There
seems to be something in the FreDoh
mind essentially unfavourable to it,
as, indeed, to all true liberty what-
ever ; and that something we should
call a passion for despotism and sys-
tem. The readiness with which they
submit to all regulations of authority,
is only another aspect of that im-
patient desire they have to regulate
everything — to systematise Life, Art^
Literature, and Science. Servility is
only deapotism in abeyance.
We will not pursue this subject
We have no desire to draw up an in-
dictment against the French nation,
or its literature ; the more so as we
are aware of the injustice which
inevitably mingles in such general
charges. There are splendid except
tions, even in France, to general
charges, even the most undentablai
M. Reuan is an example and an ex-
ception. Without being the most
noticeable of French writers, he. is
the last whose acquaintance we wel-*
come, as that of one who helps us to
a more charitable view of the Frenob
ndind, vindicating the beauty and in-
tegrity which muit exist among our
neighbours. We are unacquainted
with his previous writings, but the
volume just issued, entitled JSmou d§
Mtn'iile et is Critiqm. has given ns
such agreeable hoara, that we hasten
to introduce it to the notice of our
readers, M. Benan is a man of vari-
ous and solid erudition ; and orientid
scholars speak of him with great re-
speot In this volume we have the
weight rather than the dispUy, of a
well-stored piind : the scholar is feU
670
AnaUm Fkatami Frmnoh JBt&k,
[Det
rather than seen. The Essays reveal
a man of sensitive nioral nature ;
sweetly serious, verr much in ear-
nest, and not at all in a passion;
liberal, and pensive even to sadness.
He writes with preoinon, and with
finished grace. Bat the charm of
the Essays is, so to speak, the breath
of a serious soul which comes from
them. His opinions will often seem
paradoxes to the nujority of his
countrymen ; and to our countrymen
they will sometimes be far from ac-
ceptable. But every one must feel
that these opinions are the (senoine
products of the writer's mind.
The contents of this volume are
various. There is first an essay on
the French liberals, dprapoi of M.
de Bacy ; then appredadons of Vic-
tor Cousin, Augustin Thierry, and
de Lamennais; these are followed
by two articles on Italy and its Be*
volutions, succeeded by brief but in-
teresting notices of Procopius, Xes
Bsaneef de ffariri^ an Arabian fic-
tion, and the old French comedy,
La Fa^ee de Patelin ; then comes a
review of Oreuur^g AutMography^
and an article showing the true po-
sition of the French Academy as a
centre of opposition ; and the volume
doses with two essays, typical enough
of his general views — one a protest
•gainst the Great Exhibition as ut-
tfiriy without poetry or elevation,
the other a protest in &vour of the
Oeltic poetrV. As it is inqxwsible
we should follow him in his various
course, we will pick out a few of
the passages which our pendl has
marked for agreement or disagree-
ment, and hold, as it were, a conver-
sation with him and the reader,
^andng at this page, and dwdling
upon that
It is evident that M. Rtnan is
very £ur from swelling the somewhat
boastful chorus in praise of ^'our
wondrous Mother-age.'* It wears to
his eyes none of that halo which
dazdes so manv. Its triumphs of
Industry are to him triumphs of In-
dustry, nothing more ; and he regards
them but as feeble compensations
for the defeats of nobler aspirations.
There is something of native melan-
choly, he admits, in his pessimism ;
but although he is tempted, at timesi
to envy those whose happier natoret
make them more satisfied with fife,
refiection renders him pioad of Im
pessimism — ^ 81 je le sentais s^amd-
llr, le si^de restant le m^ne, je re-
oheroherais avidemeat queile fibre
s'est r61achte en nioB eoamr/* There
will perhaps be amonn^ our reiden
some of a dmilar dispoeltioD ; sad
it is wdl at the outset to waih tiieiii
that the writer of this article bekn^
to the more hopeful daaa. T>ntfao«i
being optimists we shall oprpoee the
pesdmism of M. Benan with thst
freedom which tiie read^ if a pe»-
dmist, will assuredly nse towards on
Not that wo intend to deny tbat there
IS some truth in the acoosatzoDS M.
Benan brings. There is truth eooogt
in tbem to make las complainta some-
thing more than the ootpoiuriBg of
a melancholy mind, yet not enough
to damn the ardour of more hope-
ful minds. We admire the anstere
charms of Albrecht Durer's grud
figure of MdoMhoUa; bat we sr
not fiisdnated and subjugated by it.
as M. Benan seems to be. He thinb
the moral levity of our age Is greasJr
owing to oar Ufb having beoome too
easy and too gay : ^^ £t d FidM de
Men 6tre materialiste que revest
quelques r^fbrmatenrs veoaat & se
r^diser, le monde, priv6 de raigdl-
lon de la souffivnce, perdrait uo dee
moyens que out le plus oontribue i
fidre Phomme un ^tre intdllgant «t
moral." True enough; bat man,
*^bom to sorrow as the spfu-ks fij
upward," is in little danger of &]liDg
fix>m his high estate by creating s
form of sodety, materiaust or other
which will leave no plaoe for soffer^
ing. That ineUroe we shall soreij
never lose. But if there be no red
danger of our degenwating beeaiM
we shdl beoome too hiHI^py, there are
other dangers against wtiicb M. Be-
nan pressiBgly warns us ; and tbe^e
are the enoroaohmeatB of Despotism
and Materialism.
The speotade of his anfaapfyy coun-
try may well excite his alarm ; and
this the more keenly, because, while
he cordtally detests and despises the
tyranny of the Empire, and the ser*
vile bigotry of the ptiHi preii^ he
sees with flital clearness that the
Bevolution ct '89, which he formerty
believed to be the synonym of liberty,
carried inits bosom the poison whidi
1809,]
AnM^t PUttkm$ Ftmuk Booh.
m
neoessaTfly dettreys all Hbertj. Ha
renounces *80. He proteets i^paimt
its violenee, its code founded mi a
materialist ooDoeptkm of |m>pert3r,
its disdain of personal rights, its
levellinc tendency under the pretext
of eqnality, and its disregard of libe-
ral cnltnre. On the dreary flat wbidi
the levelling passion has made of
France, he sees bnt one fortress
standing erect-*^e fortress of Intel*
Ugenoe : ^ Les gens d^esprit sent la
vraie noblesse de noCre histoiro.**
The obivalry of Franee, at least since
the time of the Valois, has been only
distingnisbed by bravery, elegance,
and frivolity. It wanted seriousness
and morali^. It forgot the essential
ftinetion of an aristocracy—the de-
fence of its rights, which were to a
great extent the righte of the whole
kingdom, against the king. From
the seventeenth centnry, all the da*>
ties of die nobility seemed resamed
in one — ^to serve the king. It onlv
understood its privileges as a mark
of snperiority over the boorgeoisie ;
its prerogative was a principle of
contempt, not of tme pride— a mo-
tive of servility and* impertinence
rather than a doty to be peribrmed.
The only protectors France has had
have been the men of intelligence.
They have resisted, they have kept
alive the sacred fire. Even to this
day it is only in tbis class that Lonis
Napoleon finds formidable enemies.
Bat althongh M. Renan looks to
the aristocracy of intellect as the
sonrce of salvation for France, he Is
very fi&r from sharing the opinions
popular among that aristocracy. One
fimlt of the Liberals has been, he
eays, the pretension <A doing with-
out traditUm$^ and of forming society
solely on a basis of logic. He de-
plores the loss of mnnidpal institu-
tions, and the provincial spirit of in-
dependence ; be regards centraliBa-
tion as a despotism and a curse.
^*L'errear de T^oole libtfrale est
d*avoir trop em qn'il est facile de
erier la liberUpar la rffiwtion, dt de
n'avoir pas vn qu'nn ^Mliasement
n'eet solide one qoand il a des racines
historiques.*^ The Irnth of this is
becoming eVery year more evident
We are a part cft the Pftst, as ^e
blossom is of the root. Life^is Aot a
theorem wUeh can be coBstnictsd ;
society is an organism which must
f^row. The SoaU KbinUe commits
the same mistake as has been so
fktal to Ohhia: ^Je venz direoette
fonsse opinion que la meilleare so^
d^t^ est celle qui est rataonneNe-
ment organist poor son pins grand
•Men." It seems a paradox to say
that society shoald not be ^ organised
for its good;" and yet a larger logic
teaches us tiiat just as organisms
must ffroWf carrying with them the
Imperfeetions of hereditary tenden-
des, and cannot be constmcted on
*' rational principles ;** so also mast
society grow, developing itself from
the past, good and evil together.
M. Renan finely says, that die ^U
Hbirale, in its rationalising scheme
^ oublia qoe le respeet des indlvidua
et des droits existants est antaat
au-desans du bonhenr de tons qa'nn
int^r^ moral sorpasse un int^rdt
Surement tempore!.*' Fo one will
ispnte that many of the existing
rights are indefonsible on a logidu
view of the social fobric ; bat they
are rights, and as rights on^t to be
sacred. Of the two poHtioal systems
which divide the worid, M. 'Renan
savs, France has preferred the one
which is baaed on oiMraet ri^ht, to
the one which is based on Mta^liihsd
right ; becanse France is the ^^coun-
tiv of logic and generous ideas.**
Who wonld reproach her, since it is
owing to this glorions fault that she
achieved the splendonr of her history
and the sympathy of tlte world ? Yet
the nation which, in perfect sincerityi
desired to achieve the liberty of the
hnman race, was unable to found
her own. Serib purchasing their
fi'eedom penny by penny, and after
centnriesof effort becoming not tiie
equals of their masters, but able to
exist in their presence, have in
modem times become more peribotly
free, than the natioh which even
during the middle ages proclaimed
the rights of man. liberty bought
or eonqnered bit by bit, has been
more dun^le than Ub«rtv decreed.
**£n croyattt fooler le droit abstratt,
on foodait la servitude ; tmidis qne left
hants barons d'Angieterre, fort f^en
g^n^reux, fort pen ^dair^ mais ifl'-
traltftbles qoand il s*^sfl^ de ^urs
privileges, ont en tos d<$fondant wnd^
la vraie Hbert^.**
m
AnMm^ Pk(umU JVvim& J9M.
[DeoL
IL Benin aeleotfl tlie obm of pub*
lid iMtraotion as one bMt fitted te
ftbow the evils of the priDcipUw
adopted by the hoUUMraU. £09-
land, Germany, and old Fraaot had
provided for edaoation by rioh cor-
porations almost independent <if the
Btate. France has now, according to
ber wont, endeavonred to solve the
difficult problem *^par l*admini8tra«-
tion." £very year each town <tf
France receives from the bnreaa in
the Roe de Grenellet, men of whom
it knows nothing, and who are com*
misnoned to educate ohildren accord-
ing to certain rules adopted in the
Bne de Grenelle. Every scho<d
must have a library of fifteen hun-
dred volumes; every school must
contain the mwim works; no woik
can be used there without the antho-
risation of the Minister of the Inte-
rior. This ^* creation ^' has been im-
mensely applauded ; it has numerous
admirers in our own country ; and
that it would be the best possible
mode of educating a nation, if the
Iduistem of Public Instruction were
always the wisest and the best of
men, no one will dispute. Unluckily
the hypothesis that the adminis-
trative power will always be in the
hands of the wisest and best is one
which will find few adherents. And
if the Minister should happen to be
bigoted, narrow-minded, servile, and
opposed to the free culture and de-
velopment (tf mankind, this system
of public instruction will be one to
raise a nation of slaves and bigots.
But we must not be seduced into
political questions. We have indi-
cated M. Renan^s point of view, in
which the migority of our readers
will probably agree. It is more ques-
tionable whether they will equally
agree with him in his protest against
Industrialism, which, in common
with many other writers, he stigma-
tises as Materialism. And first we
would suggest that Materialism is a
word which has been too much used
and abused ; indeed, serious men
will do well in future to avoid alto-
gether a term which is so equivocal,
and oarriea witii.it such degrading
connotations. There is an order of
conceptions which relates to material
things, and another order of conoep-
tions which rdates to things, spiritual
—the intellectaal and moral erati-
roeots. We are not aware that tirj
one disputes the distinotioii; and if
there is any one so absurd ss to
maintain that int^tgenoe aadntonl*
ity are to be estimated by the de-
grees of perfection attained in Cot-
ton and Machinery, this materialiaB,
however ridiculotta, wooM not be
worse than a spiritualism which en-
deavottred to mamifactare cottoo or
construct railways on transcendentil
principles. There are minds iudiffia*-
ent to the glories of art and liierft-
tnre, and passionately alive to th<
glories of Industry. There are other
minds indifferent to industry, and
devoted to art There may be, tnd
indeed, in the present oondttion d
Europe, there must be, more of the
first than of the second ; and from
time to time an energetic protest in
favour of the daims of the minorirf
may be called for. But unleM the
admirers oS. indnstry are as indiff^v
ent to region, morality, and sdenee
as they are to art and to phtloeophT,
it is an abuse of language to call th<aB
materialists. The word materisiisD
connotes a denial of things spiritoaL
A manufacturer may admit that he
thinks material progress mors bene-
ficial than progress in art or philoso-
phy ; but even be would saMt
that unless the material benefit wa
followed by a corresponding monl
benefit, it would scarcely be W(^
striving fcMT.
Having premised thus much, let
OS hear M. Benan's oomfdaints. He
admits that at no previous period in
the history of the world has there
been such a clearsighted theory d
the universe and of humanity ; that
there is in some thousands of oor
contemporaries, more penetratioo,
insist, real philosophy, and moral
delicacy than in all the previous oeo-
tttries togetb^: but tins rich cul-
ture is almost without influence. A
gross materialism, which onljr esti-
mates thin^ acomding to their im-
mediate utility, tends more and wm
to assume the direction of the worU,
and to cast into the ahade all tbit
only serves to oonteoot the tsete fo
the beantifiil, or pure cariosity. Do-
mestic carei^ with which society fo^
mw^. occupied itself but little^ have
beoome our great aflaua; and the
18091]
AM^h§r Fi909ant J^kmA JMt.
m
inasooline pmsQito of our fore&Ub«ra
baya giveo place to humbler eflfbrts.
Adopt what religion or philosuphy
Ton will, be oontinoee, man Is bere
below for an ideal, transoendentjd
end, something superior to mere en-
joyment and material interests. Bat
does material progress contribute to
bring na nearer to sucb an end ? Has
the world, since this transformation,
become on the whole more intelli-
gent, more honest, more anxioos
about liberty, more sensitive to what
is noble and beantifol? That is the
whole question.
Truly, that is the question; and
while every one will agree with
him that material progress can never
be considered a oompensation for
moral decadence^ the whole force of
his philippic against our age rests
on the assumption that there is this
moral decadence. We may be per-
mitted to doubt the truth of this as-
sumption. Like Kr. Carlyle, and
Bome other writers, M. Beoao takes
for granted that oar superiority in
industrial skill bos been purchased
by an inferiority in other directions.
But we cannot think that a dispas-
sionate survey of the condition of
England — ^the first of industrial na-
tions-detects an inferiority in intelli-
genoe, moraUty, love of liberty, or
appreciation of noble life, as com, ar-
ed with previous centuries. There
may be a tendency in some quarters
to over-estimate the value of luaterial
progAfSs. We think ^ere is this
tendency, and that it is vicious ; but
we have no fears that the nobler
fibres of our life will cease to move
us, or cease energetically to protest
against such over- valuation. Look at
industrial England, and ask whether
the great ideas of Religion, Morality,
Liberty, and Bdence, are banished
from the minds of active men. M.
Renan thinks that industry is good
and honourable, but not noble.
^^L'utile n'ennoblit pas: cela seal
ennol>lit qui suppose dans l*homme
nne valeur intelleotuelle et morale.*^
Perhaps so; but does usefid labour
§xelwU noble life f That is the ques-
tion, {{e considers that virtue,
*^ genius, science, when disinterested
and pursued with purely speculative
aims, piety, and military ^^atness H)
SQQoble hie.'* But who will seriously
^aver that these are inoompalible with
industrial progress? It was a fa-
vourite topic with certain writers,
that England had become enervated
by a long peace, until the sudden i^
luuiination of Alms, Inkermaun, and
Balaclava revealed the folly of such
decbunation. And it has long been
a stereotyped para^ph in French
literature, that the English care only
for '^ le eo^ifrtabU^^ interest them-
selves ^^ aoz petites choses bleu plut6t
qu' aux grandirs id^.s at auz grondes
passions." But is it the fact? Are
we insensible to great ideas and great
passions? Do we prefer comfort to
freedom ; do we neglect Religion,
Morality, and Philosophy, for our
mess of pottage ? If we are not an
artistic race, are we therefore mate-
rialist? If the English do not inter
re^t themselves in certain '^ great
ideas,^^ which to the Prench and Ger-
man mind seem of pre-eminent im-
portance, it is because the English,
by temperament, no less than by edu-
cation, see reason to question the
value and the truth of these ideas;
not because industrial activity has
made them forget the nobler aims of
lifs. The Englishman is as deeply
interested in religious and philoso-
phical questions as the Frenchman or
the German ; but he has little faith
in the representative abstractions and
the metaphysical metiiods which oc-
cupy his neighbours. We are re^
proached with being a nation of shopr
keepers; the truth simply being that^
OS shopkeepers, we surpass other na-
tions ; and this superionty in industry
is only one of the many evidences of
our national power. Are we inferior
as sailors, soldiers, thinkers, and wri-
ters ? Is there a richer, nobler litera-
ture than our own ? Are our men of
science unworthy of a place beside
their Continentiu rivals? Are our
poets — ^iu spite of otu: alleged un-
poetical character— inferior to those
of France and Germany ? We have
never been great in music, painting,
or sculpture; but he is a bold man
who will assert that, in other direc-
tions, this shopkeeping, comfort-lov-
ing, cleanly, prosaic England is infai-
rior to any nation. In every de-
partment of Intellect we have been
eminent. In the difi&cult art o'
Mlf-govenunent| uniting a dee]
u
1
~ -OJ
iUaotA^ JPltaaant Mrm^A, Book.
§76
^ TOg are, for the moBt. part, too
Ted to be compassionate. Capital
1 preeent a hard taskoaaater. The
seaa deaire to get rich rapidly,
^?art8 the Tery oljects of wealth,
ih are leisore and enjoyment To
r *cher thaa oar naghbours, rather
to be better, or wiser, or bi^>«
- - can never be a healthy ambi-
, . Unhappily it is too mooh the
I .' don of oor day. A passion for
-S ting on in life'^ has taken the
^ . of the desire for living happily.
^. J oannot rise above oar condi-
." .ve endeavoar at least to aeem to
^ ^. By imitating some of the ex-
^ ' Is of wealth, we try to cheat
^^ ^ into the belief that we are
'' than we are; and all in vain :
' _3 is deceived. In vain does the
' "it-girl, or shopkeeper's wife,
- in sUks or moslins which a
' ^ IS formerly would have been
*■ ) wear ; in vain are the new-
" nsian fashions rapidlv imitated
- '^ ' straggling classes ; the servant
- ^ wn to be a servant, and not a
•; IS ; and the servant knows that
1 . <? )pkeeper'8 wife is not a dachess.
«' ofeesional man succeed in per-
.1 ' T his friends, by his dinners
L tin de maiwn^ tibiat he is "get-
^ •• i" better than is actually tbe
.. «i le Buocees is but small, and the
^ ^ ^ lid for it in toil and anxiety is
^ Bat these and other mis-
/ill, let us hope, vanish before
; «*nd the deeper evils of ezoes-
' I npetition will find a cure in a
'^ ^nd more humane conception
-- ■ I orposes of life.
^^ ^ protest against an over-valua-
^ ^ the ben^ts of industry, and
' ' ^ >quent reminder that there are
^ * ^ bjects about which human
** ^.iud nations have to concern
< ' es, we accept' M. Benan's
-. - -1 the Poetry of the Great
. -<» 'm. He sees with something
' ^ 'less, that for the first time
^ ^convened its multitudes to-
J' -^ "ithout proposing to them an
■ ^ .- •. ^* Twice has £arope sent its
"^^J. 'o witness an exhibition of
-^ J^ "^lise, and to compare manu-
* '"y. and returning from this
- 'J^'^ ^grimage, no one has com-
^ 'bat something was missing.^'
^ , ^ 4 undertakes to show that, m
' .^ous history of the world,
*the epochs which wen great in art,
were epochs in which the " comfort-
able'^ was unknown. Comfort ez-
dndes beauty. An English jog is
certainly more adapted to its purpose
than a Greek vase; but the Greek
vase is a work of art, the English jug
will never be more than a utensiL
What then? If the utensil be in-
tended for art, it is a &ilure ; but if
intended for use, it Is a success. The
only conclusion we can draw is, that
art, appealing to other feelings than
thoee i^>pealed to by manu&oturea,
should never enter into competition
with use. It would be doubtless a
painful thought, if probable, that art
should ever be banished from life,
and poetry give place to industrial
energ^; but while man continues to
have an emotive, sensitive, aspiring
soul, there is littie fear lest poetry
should die out Art driven from
Vases bv the stem necessities of Life,
will find some other mode of express-
ing itself.
If. Kenan loves the past, and lin-
gers fondly over every vestige which
remains of the life that once was
vigorous on earth. Our readers will
probably share this feeling, this na-
tural piety which links £e present
generations with the past. *^ Poetry
and n^orality,'' he savs, "are two
different things ; but they both pre-
suppose that man is not the creature
of a day, without ties which unite
him to the infinite which precedes,
and without responsibilities to the
infinite which succeeds him. I con-
fess it would be impossible for me to
reside, or even to travel with plea-
sure, in a countiy where th^re were
neith^ archives nor antiquities.
That which gives interest and beauty
to things, is the trace of man havinff
passed there, loved there, suffered
there.*' It seems to us, however,
that M. Benan, like many oUiers, in
vindicating the .claims of the past,
forgets that the past itself was once a
present; and if piety towards the
generations that have been checks
the too ready scorn or indifference
which is sometimes felt and expressed
for the days of old, tiie same piety
towards the generations that are,
and are to be, ^ould check the ten-
dency to flout and scorn our own age.
Kot that M, Benan is a narrow-
eY6
Another PUiuant French Book.
[Dee.
inindckl worshipper of the past. " Do
not let tis too generonsly accord to
the past," he says, "a moral force
which has always been the appanage
of but a few. 'Virtue diininisshes or
angmenrs according as the impercep-
tible aristocracy in which hnman
nobleness resides, finds or does not
find an atmosphere in which to
breathe and propagate.*' And this
atmosphere, he thinks, is vitiated by
industrial development. A fatal law
of modem society condemns more
and more the life of him who can-
not produce what has a money valae.
The ideal of snch a state is one in
which every man should be a pro-
ducer. •* But who does not see that
such a state, if it were ever consti-
tuted (which I do not believe pos-
sible), would render onr planet unin-
baMtal»le for those whose duty pre-
cisely is that they should not sacrifice
their internal liberty for a material
advantage." As he disbelieves in
the impossibility of such a condition
of things, wliy sound the alnrm ? He
might reply, that although the ex-
treme case is impossible, it serves to
show what is the tendency oi an order
of things, which, if unchecked, would
lead to such results. And here we
may remark on a very common fallacy,
which vitiates the reasonings of all
classes of men on almost every sub-
ject. There is no line of argument
more common than that which con-
sists in putting what is called "an
extreme case," and from that conclud-
ing as to the value of any intermediate
position. To show that alcohol and
tobacco are poisonous, when drunk
diluted in wine or spirits, and when
smoked in pipe or cigar, es[)eriment8
are cited in which concentrated alco-
hol, and the oil of tobacco, act as
violent poisons. What is true of a
large dose must^ say these philoso-
phers, be true in a minor degree of a
small dose. It is all a question of
degree. The difference between an
arctic winter and a tropical summer
is likewise only a difference of degree.
Tlie fall of a particle of brick-dust and
the fall of a brick bat on your head, are
diflferencesof degree. There is, never-
theless, something more in the effect.
No one thinks of blaming another
whom he sees approaching a fire to
warm himself, although the tendency
of an approach to a fire It towsris
his being burnt to a cinder. ^Do
not go near that fire, however pfe»-
ant the warmth may be, beaoK if
you go too near you will be soorcbei"
" But I have no intention of gwag
too near." " Very tme ; I am only
putting an extreme case, dK>wiQ'g
what the inevitable result of ip-
proaching a fire will be.** This sonTids
very absurd, yet it Is an exact paraM
to argrments daily used. The ex-
treme case is put as a logical de>
velopment of certain conditions. Bat
the logic halts, because those vbo
put the extreme case omit the otber
half of the conditions; they take
into consideration only the line of
direction and the properties of fin,
without also considering the cfaaniies
of sensation which take place in tb«
man as he approaches the fire. Tt«
very motive which brings |i man neir
a fire — namely, his nneasy sensariom
— checks his further approach wh«
the fire begins to scorch him. Id Hh
manner, the very motaves whidi
make men adopt certain mod« of
action will, on the whole, pn;T«it
their carrying those actions to the
extreme, \fhich would be injurious.
Let ns apply this to the oase ^
by M. Renan. Let u«< grant that the
industrial element, if once it were
supreme and universal, would bao»b
from 8o6iety all poetry, all liberty.
Inasmuch as he admits that snch sq
extreme case can never occur, be
must believe that human beings hxft
other feelings besides those appealed
to by industrial success; and tbeA
feelings will not only denoand tb«r
satisfaction, but warn ns agaTn5t a
too precipitate industrial movemeut
His own <iloquent protest abaiild hav«
fhmished him with proof of this
resistance of the poetical inseii«;i
" Ferez vous de I'artiste un indu5tri^
produisant des statues on des tabieaox
d*aprds la commando expresseoo ?op-
pos6e de I'acheteurf Mais n'«st-»
pas supf>rimer du m^me conp )e graa^
art f This is one of those qoestiow
which require perfect explidtness in
language, before they can be ex-
plicitly answered. It » qaite dear
that no good art can be prodneed
"to order." Unless it be bora and
matured in the artist's own raiml, it
win be manufaotnre, not art— ^ nfet-
1869J
AjMih0r FUamnt Frmek B$ak.
WT
emmito of earigtfng material!, not a
visioQ of what ia new. The pur-
chaser of a piotmref or a statue, may
reasonably say, *^ I want a pioture of
a oertain size, and in a certain style ;
can you paint me suob?" If the
artist can do so, he probably will ; if
not^ the purchaser goes elsewhere;
but wherever he finds the artist ready
to meet his wishes, he can only stipu-
late for price, size, and style : he can*
not interfere with the artistes origin-
ating. The love and Tision out of
which a work of art will issue, can*
not be commandeci^^sannot even be
willed by the artist himself. Thus,
whether the artist find a purchaser
for what has issued out of this love
and vision, or whether no one but
hiniBclf will ever prize it, the money,
or no money, which may reward his
labonrs, is a subsequent, and, as re-
spects art, indifferent matter. The
creation of art is not industrialism.
The disposal of a work of art is. All
the gold of Oalifornia would be in-
sufficient to buy a single poem, or a
single picture, unlebs the poet and
the painter had seen and suffered
I what their art expressed. All that
industrialism can do to favour art,
is by stimulating the artist to labour
more ; and all that it can do to de-
teriorate art, is by seducing the
artist to become a rapid manufac-
' turer.
Grant that art cannot be pro-
^ duced ^^to order,** that the artist
must first 5d an artist, and create
' because the faculties witbio him im-
periously demand exercise, and the
question of whether he shall be paid
in money, becomes quite subsidiary.
A bruve strong man, beholding an-
other struggling with flames or the
waves, ru^es to the rescue, because
he is prompted by sympathy, not
because the grateful man wiU per-
haps reward that assistance in money.
! No sum of money will tempt the
I coward, or the unfeeling man. And
I if the consciousness that a large re-
I ward will follow, does mingle witJi
the motives which urge a man to the
I rescue of his fellow — ^if it act as a
BtinmluB, thia is surely not a matter
I for regret. Yet'M. Kenan is ap-
parently of those who would regrot
it. He seems to believe that ^
£aQt of an artist being paid tends to
degrade art. He would pay profes-
fional and meroantUe labour, but
not the labour of science or art:
^^ L'industrie rend k la 8odet6 dHm^
menses servieea, mais des servioee
oni, aprte tout, se payent par de
rargent A ofaacun sa rfecompenoet
aux utiles aelon la terre,la richesse,
le bonbenr dans le sens terrestre,
tontes les. benedictions de la terre;
an g^nie, k \a vertu, U gloire, la no-
blesse, la pauvret^." 80 true is this,
he says, that the only ^^ industriels
qui aient vraiment forc6 lea portea
du temple de la gloire sont cenx qxd
out et6 persecute ou miKxmnues. II
eat souverainoment inique que Jaoqu«
art n'ait pas 6t6 riohe, et pavoe-
qall a v6cu pauvre, la gloire lui it
m j QStement d6oem^." Yet history
has another story to tell. Stephen*
son was not }>oor; Watt was not
poor. Shakespeare^ Goethe, Hiohadi
Angelo, Ra£^l, and Robena managed
to secure their share of the good
things of thia life, without missing
the reward of glory. In fust, as we
before hinted, the artist produces his
work because he is an artist; whether
or not that work will be rewarded in
hard cash and present renown, de-
pends upon a variety of conditions:
but paid and aoplauded, or unpaid
and neglected, he will work on, if
the noVle impulse lives with him.
On the whole, therefore, we can-
not agree in the somewhat gloomy
view which M. Benan takes of our
age and ita industrial tendencies.
We can understand how his medi-
tative pensive spirit may be de^
pressed by the spectacle of much
that it contemplates, especially in
France. * We can empathise with
his protest against the political and
moral lassitude, which would abdi«>
oate the nobler strivings in favour of
a swvile oontentedness with some
material advantages. We can even
understand that such a voice of warn-
ing may not be without its efSaet
But our more hopeful minds refuse
to accept his sombre descriptions.
Sharing his repugnance at the idea
of an industrial supremacy which
would paralyse moral and intelieo*
tual vigour, we do not believe Bu<di
a supremacy to be probable, we d6
not believe Europe likely to forego
its birthright for the mess of pot-
Renan is a great advocate for
•78
Amth$r Pldamat Fnneh Booh.
(Dae.
Liberty, whloh meaiM mdiTidiial ine-
dom ; and. Mug ft wise jutn, he has
a profoand distrost of that ohimeti-
oal equality whioh uatare has em*
phatically declared can nerer be.
Indiyidaiu energy, and indiridaal
dharacter, are the born eoemies of
that mediooritr which aima at uni-
formity. Bo unpreseed is he with
the ralae of individnality, that,
althoogh a Frenchman, and a dis*
tingoished writer, he aetnally pro-
tests agiunst the snprtoiaoy of the
French classics; and this not in the
spirit of opposition whioh in 1880
founded the noisy EooU BomanUquOy
bat in the spirit of catholic apprecia-
tion whidi an Englishman or Gler-
num might dispUy. *^On ne pent
refhser an diz-septidme si^le le don
special qni &it les litterateurs cUm-
ij'tMf, je reuz dire une cwtaine oom-
binaison de perfection dans la forme
et de mesnre (j^allais dire de m^o-
orite) dans la pens^e, grace ^ laqnelle
nne litterature devient Tomement de
toutes lee m^moires et Tapanage des
tfcoles; mais les limites qui convien-
nent anz dctdes ne doirent pas ^cre
impost k Tesprit humain." He is
willing to admit the admirable qua-
littes of style which distinguish these
dassies, and thinks that in all times
they must be ei\joyed by men of
taste; but he donbts whether men
can condnne to hare recourse to
tihem for consolation, enlightenment^
encouragement We have outgrown
the intellectual condition of the (ige
which produced that literature; our
horizon is widened, our insight deep-
ened ; our wants are altered, and our
knowledge is more exact.* ^^11 est
difficile que la favear du public qui
lit, non par acquit de coosoience,
mais par besoin intime, s'attache in-
d^finiraent & des livres od il y a pen
de choses & apprendre sur les prob-
Idmes qui nous pr^occupent, oik notre
sentiment moral et religieuz est M-
quemment bless^" This will seem
Tory daring to the migority of French*
men. The idea of their *^ grands ^cri-
▼ains^* no longer being held as the
models of perfect litmture, which
modems may amuse themselves in
imitating, but can never equal, will
be paintul where.it is not exasperat-
ing. There is in all nations a strong
disposition to exalt the old writers at
the expense of oontemporuisi; ad
the writers now reverenced u dai-
sies had in their day to suffer thii
iignstioe, and were invidioodj ooo-
pared wil^ their pradeoesaon. BiS
this tendency, everywhere strong is
pecnliarly strong in France, owing to
that servility natnral to the Freodb
mind whioh makes it pecnliariy prone
to worship established power, sod to
domineer over individuals. IL B«aaQ
would probably assign another cause;
for he doubts whether the Freadi
mind, with all its brilliant ezteml
qualities, and its absenoe of monl
and religious depth, be desdoed to
anything higher than captivstiog ^
world by sonorous rhetoric, snd »
tonishing it from time to time '^pir
des bml4iles apparitions."
It is evident from what has bee
already cited, that M. Beoan is sot
one of those Frenehmen who pro-
claim France the centre and the iigfat
of the universe. It is also evideotio
his articles on Victor CooBin ibc
Lamennais, that he is not (tfthoe
Frenchmen who care more for ob-
quence and felidty of phrase, thai
for truth and honesty* He is too
good a writer not to love good viit-
io^; too serious a man not to de-
spise the sacrifice of matter to fom
In the estimate of Victor CotaiB.
which is written with exquisite ooor
tesy, and evident admiration for tbi^
writer's oratorical abilitv, m sae
plainly enough how he has gangi^
the shallow and insincere mbd d
that celebrated professor. Aftff
speaking of Cousin^s oratorical povo.
he adds with a sarcasm terrible in its
truth: — ^^L^^oquenoe comme ro-
tendit M. Oooain a des ezigeDoei
imp^rieuses. Toutes les dootrineiM
aontpas ^galement (;loquentes; eCj«
crois bien que plus d'nne foia ^
Oonsin a du se laisaer entrainer toi
oertaines opinions, aatant par la ooo-
sid^ration des beaux d^veloppnwats
anx quels elles prdtaient, qae ptf
des demonstrations porement acieo-
tifiqnes.** He also gently ridicaki
IL Oouain for his claptmp patriot-
ism in proclaiming Deaoartea tlM
graatest of philosophers, and hia pbi^
losophy *Ma philosophie Frao(a»»
To his auditors it was doabtlesa tift-
tamoant to a demonstration of tbe
truth of the philoiopfay» to aay ^
1859.]
Another Pleasant French Book.
679
it was pecaliarly French. M^endie
was wont to employ the same trick ;
and whenever he opposed a physiolo-
gical theory, pronoanced that it was
not *^ la physiologie Fran^aise,"
which of coarse cloaed the question.
The article on Augustin Thierry
will be read with great interest by all
the admirers of that conscientioas
scholar and admirable man ; whereas
the article on Lamennais will pro-
bably irritate all the admirers of that
writer who, according to M. Renan,
was neither a philosopher, a politi-
cian, nor a sarant, but an admirable
poet, obedient to a Muse shire et tou-
jours irritie. The metaphors which
he at first employed against liberal
ideas were afterwards turned against
kings and the Pope. His rhetoric
had little variety ; ^* Penfer en faisait
tons les frais.*' His rhetoric was that
of the priests ; he raised up a phan-
tom which he called Satan, and which
he made the representative of the evil
he had to destroy ; ^^ puis 11 frappait
de coups terribles et retentissants.
Le souci de Pexactitude ne le pr§oc-
cnpait jamais."
In the article on Procopins, M.
Kenan once more discusses tne vexed
question of the authorship of that
ehroniqvs scandaUuse^ which one
party believes Procopius wrote as a
secret vengeance — a hypocrite's
"aside" — ^and which another party
stoutly maintains be never did write.
The Historia Arcana^ whether writ-
ten by Procopius or not, must always
remain a questionable source for his-
torical students ; even when a ehron-
iqtte scandaleuse contains some truth,
it still remains scandalous, and the
amount of truth is not ascertainable.
Tliere was doubtless something piqu-
ant and attractive to historians in the
idea of Justinian, who had, till the
commencement of the seventeenth
century, made so majestic a figure in
history, suddenly losing that prestige
of panegyric, and finding a detractor,
if not a detector. His name was
attached to that code which gave
legislation to Europe. And the Mid-
dle Ages had almost canonised him,
ho less than his courtesan Theodora.
To discover that Caesar is bald, will
always delight the mass of mankind ;
to discover that a hero was a
scoundrel, seems also agreeable to
VOL, LXXXVI.
many. Justinian had been without
a satirist and without a critic until
1620, when Alemarini discovered,
among thre manuscripts of the Va-
tican, the unpublished appendix, as it
were, to the eight books of ofi&(nal
eulogy which Procopius had written
on the reign of Justinian. In this
supplementary book the historian pre-
tended to reveal the truth. In what
he had previously written he was
under the coercion of an official posi-
tion, and in fear of a tyrant's ven-
geance. He spoke, therefore, \vith
the same nice regard for truth as M.
do Oassagnac or M. de LaguerrioniSre
display when they speak of the acts
and intentions of Louis Nai)oleon.
Bat in this Historia Areana he was
resolved to unburthen his mind; a
resolution which may some day occur
to M. de Oassagnac, if a good chance
presents itself. But Procopius does
not deny the suspicion which must
attach itself to all such tardy revela-
tions. If he was an official liar, by
his own confession, how can he be
accredited as a veridical historian in
his private character? If his pane-
gyric was written under the pressure
of servile motives, what guarantee
have we that his accusation was not
written under the pressure of motives
equally base ?
The picture presented of Justinian
and Theodora in the Secret History^
is that of two demons delighting in
evil, not of two human beings. When
writers like Montesquieu and Gibbon
accord historical credit to such libdls,
they forget that the very exaggera-
tion of the accusation robs it of value
as testimony. It is more than pro-
bable that Justinian and Theoaora
were not saints; but it is certain
they were not devils. If the only
evidence we have of their infamy is
what a secret pamphlet, the avowed
product of a liar, can furnish^ we are
bound to treat that evidence as worth-
less. M. Renan justly remarks that
love of evil for the sake of evil has
never been sufficient to sustain a life,
or to sei-ve as a principle of govern-
ment. Making every allowance for
official flatteries, and separating the
personal from the regal character of
a sovereign, and admitting that bad
men may perform actions which will
give them a sort of false air of great
45
680
Another PUtumt Frmik Book
[Deo.
men, it is impossible to believe that a
monster ooold have left snoh a name
in history as that of Jastinian— im-
possible to admit that a reign so glo-
rious by its administration, its legisla-
tion, and its policy, conld hare been
the work of a Domitian, aided by a
Messalina. It is true that execrable
tyrants roled Rome, and Rome still
remained the mistress of the world.
But here the case is quite different.
Under Justinian, Rome did not pre-
serve her acquired supremacy; she
recited from an expiring condition,
and oDco more seized the sceptre of
the world.
Moreover, the general suspicion
which most attach itself to all such
secret and tardy revelations, becomes
confirmed when the manner of the
historian is examined. He delights in
vague declamations without definite
statements to warrant them; or he
collects the absurd scandals current
in Grecian cities, and among the idle
gossips of the court and antechamber.
Sometimes Justinian is an ass, at
others an astute tyrant exercising
prodigious intellectual activity. Then,
again, as M. Renan notices, it is diffi-
cult to reconcile the accusations of in-
famous debauchery with the sobriety
and indefatigable ardour for work
which is not refused the tyrant.
What, then, is the truth about
Justinian? We do not know; we
never can know. There may be a
foundation for the aoduationa of
Procopius, but the exact amount of
truth thev contain can never be esti-
mated. M. Renan thinks that the
emperor was **un esprit senenx et
appliqu^ mais lourd et grossier."
The performances of horses and ballets
seem to have .been his sole artistie
pleasures. This, in a private perscm,
would have been comparatively harm-
less ; but the tastes of abaolute mo-
narclis are not indifferent niatters:
" il n*est pas pennis k celui dont ies
preferences sont dee lois d^avoir telle
litt^rature qu^il lul plait.^^ It was
also a serious misfortune that the
emperor had a passion for theological
controversy, and shed iorrenta <^
blood about subtleties.
But we must not longer dwell oa
this subject, nor on M. R<:Da&'s
charming pages. We commend the
book to the meditation of all lovers of
serious and delicate literatare ; a hoA
in which they will find much tlutt
runs counter to their own opinions,
but in which an honest, thongbtfol,
elevated mind is everywhere maiiite^
It is in many respects a protest ; but
such protests are needed. As IL
Renan well says " A tontes les ^po-
ques, il y a eu une basse litt^ratore;
mais le grand danger de notre sidck
est que cette basse litt^ratnre,
profitant de nos d^sastrea, tend de
plus en plus il prendre le premier
rang."
1859.]
Popula/r Literatwre — Pfvte Essays,
681
POPULAR LITBRATURB — PRIZE ESSAYS.
EvEBTBODT knows the story of
the pedlar selh'ng cheap ksives at
a fair. "Selling them oflFI — ^selling
them off! Who'll buy? — only a six-
pence— here yoa air, sir, — another
sold — they are made to sell — going
cheap— sixpence each — ^nothing like
them — warranted to sell, sir, war-
ranted to sell — sold three hundred
and twenty-three to-day ; who'll
buy ?" It so happened that one of
the purchasers, in the simplicity of
his heart, returned to the pedlar with
the information that the knife be had
bought was worthless, and utterly
incapable of mischief. He argueo
that the trader, having' warranted
the quality of the knife, oaght now
to return the money. **Wot did I
say, sir?" was the reply. "Did I
say they wtis warranted to cut? I
said they was warranted to sell, and
they 'ave sold. You got it cheap,
and yon can 'ang it on the mantel-
piece, along o' the spotted chiney
dog that stands there, I know, look-
ing up everlasting at your grand-
mother's sampler. Yon must learn
to spell your grandmother's sampler,
my man, afore you ketch me giving
back the money." To some people
it will appear an awful heresy if we
class prize essays among the ware in
which our friend the pedlar delight-
ed ; but, in all soberness, there is a de-
ception about them wKlch ought to
be laid bare. The object of writing
a book is that it may be read ; but
the object of writing a prize essay is
achieved in the mere fact that it is
written. In truth, nobody does read
a prize essay. The chief producers
of this commodity are amateurs who
have no notion of writing, and with
infinite difficulty send forth an article
which has the same relation to a
genuine book that shoddy has to
broadcloth. Now and then it is true
that a practised hand competes fi)r
the prize, and produces something
better than usual ; while,^ as in the
case of the Burnett Prizes, when the
reward is sufficiently enticing, the
successful works are considerably
above the average, and well worthy
of public recognition. But, as a
general rule, prize essays must be
considered the work of amateurs;
and it is in connection with the sys-
tem of amateur writing, which has
of late sprung up among us, tliat
they are chiefly interesting. It is in
this aspect that we propose to exa-
mine the subject, in the first place;
and then, in the second place, we
may go on to answer a question that
will naturally arise out of our ex-
amination,— namely this. How is it
that the offer of prizes for intellectual
labour has most signally failed ? We
can get prize oxen and prize pigs that
come np to our expectations; but
prize essays, prize poems, prize monu-
ments, prize designs of every kind,
are notoriously failures in this coun-
try, no matter how high we bid.
For the Duke of Wellington's monu-
ment the offer was some £20,000,
and we all know the disappointment
which the exhibition of the designs
created. Why, we may well ask,
should success be casual and failure
almost certain ?
To begin with the subject of the
amateurs, the circumstance that in
these competitions the candidates are
known, or at least are presumed to
be known, only by certain mottoes
written on the backs of sealed enve-
lopes, which contain the real name
and address, makes a grand opening
for aspiring novices. They are in-
vited to fight with visors down in a
tournament where there is a chance
of reaping honour, and no chance of
being publicly discredited; and on
these terms men who have never
handled a sword in their lives are
willing to enter the list^ The plea-
sant proposal meets the wishes of
bundles upon hundreds throughout
the country, who, having a taste for
reading, very naturally aspire to
write. It is impossible to cultivate
the taste fur reading without also
exciting this desire to write. Not
only is it that we are imitative ani-
mals, and long to do what we admire
— to play the game as well as to see
it played ; the fact is, that we never
read satisfactorily until we learn to
write ; sooner or later we all find
682'
Popular LiteraUir^—Prm JSnayi.
[Dec
that our reading is of little avail to
us until its results are something
more than a passive memoiy — until
they take some active shape. This
is merely putting Baoon^s remark
into a dMerent form. *^ Reading,"
said that philosopher, ^^maketh a
fall man, conference a ready man,
and writing an exact man ; and
Uierefore, if a man write little, he
had need have a great memory; if
he confer little, he had need have a
present wit ; and if he read little, he
had need have much cunning, to
seem to know what he doth not.'*
When we speak of the eaeo^thes
KTibendi^ and bingh at the idea of
every man in the country setting
himself down to write, we ought to
rememher these pregnant remarks.
A man never knows what he has
read until he has either talked ahout
it or written ahout it Talking and
writing are digestive processes which
are absolutely essential to the mental
constitution of the man who de-
vours many books. But it is not
every man that can talk. Talking
implies, first of all, a readiness on the
part of the speaker, and, next, a sym-
pathetic listener. It is therefore, as
a digestive process, the most difficult,
if it is the most rapid in its opera-
tion. Writing is a different affair;
a man may ti^e his time to it, and
he does not require a reader; he can
be his own reader. It is an easier
although more formal process of di-
gestion than talking. It is in every-
body's power; and everybody who
' reads much makes more or less use
of it, because, as Bacon says in the
above passage, if he does not write,
then he ought to have extraordinary
faculties to compensate for such neg-
lect. It is in this view that we are
to understand the complaint of a
well-known author, that he was igno-
rant of a certain subject, and the
means by which he was to dispel his
ignorance — ^namely, by writing on it.
It is in this view that the monitorial
system of instruction has its great
value — ^to the monitors it is the best
sort of teaching. It is from the same
point of view that Sir William Ha-
milton used to lament the decay of
teaching as a part of the education
of students at the universities. In
the olden time it was necessary to
the obtaining of a d^g^ree that the
graduate should give evidenoe of his
capacity as a teacher; and in the
very titles of his degree, as magister
and doctor, he was designated a
teacher. A man never knows any-
thing. Sir William used to say, nntil
he has taught it in some way or
other*-it may be orally, it may be
by writing a book. It is a Kraod
truth, and points a fine moral. Know-
ledge is knowledge, say the phikso-
phers ; it is precious for its own sake,
it is an end to itself. But nature
says the opposite. Knowledge is not
knowledge until we can nse it ; it is
not ours until we have brought it
under the command of the great
social faculty, s|)eecfa: we exist for
society, and knowledge is null until
we give it expression, and in so doing
make it over to the social instincts
Especially in our day is the dis-
cipline of the pen an essential part of
study. The student nowadays not
only reads much, be reads many
things. The bounds of science have
been so widened, the objects of intel-
lectual interest have been so mnlti-
glied, that more than ever study
as become discursive. In acquiring
general information, we are apt to
forego special know;ledge, and in al-
most all the intellectual pursuits of
the day there is a want of concentra-
tion. We skim the surface of things.
There are so many pleasant dishes
before us, that we nibble at each
without getting a good meal ircxB
any. One wa^ particularly we may
indicate in which our modern litera-
ture is destructive to us, and requires
the antidote which the habit of writ-
ing supplies. In one of the eariy
chapters of his literary biography,
Ooleridge enumerates the various
habits that destroy the memory, and
among these he gives a very pro-
minent place to the habit of reading
newspapers. At first sight, it woold
seem as if he were making a broad
statement out of his' own particular
experience; but on examining into
the question, it will be found that be
is quite right, and we may even ex-
tend his remark to periodical litera-
ture as a whole. The reason of it is
not simply that in newspa{)er8 and
periodicab we read much, and read
hghtly, passing firom one article to
1859.]
Popular Literature— Prige Esaayi,
688
another of the most opposite charac-
ter with nncoDscionable rapidity;
there is this also to be taken into
account as perhaps the most ordinary
fact connected with the exercise of
memory, that it depends upon local
associations. When the memory is
very highly cultivated, it may to some
extent dispense with these aids, but
usually we remember what we read
and l.earn by its place on the page.
To the last hour of his existence, the
old man knows the Greek verb only
in association with the pages of that
(H'annnar which he first thumbed.
Now the shifting columns of a news-
paper do not supply, this aid to
memory. It is an aid which we get
from books that remain always the
same, and can be referred to again
and again. Bat periodicals come and
go so fast, and all so different, that it
would require a very extraordinary
faculty to be able to remember their
contents by reference to their pages.
Therefore the tangible form that
literature takes in our day tends to
weaken the memory, which is already
too much loaded by the extension of
onr studies and the multiplication of
books. The effort to write is nature's
antidote. What we write may not
be of use to anybody else, and perliaps
ought never to be published, but it
is of immense use to ourselves. The
amateurs know this; they have a
craving for the pen, and in one form
or another go through the discipline
which is essential to their mental
culture. Ben Jonson used to say
that he could repeat every line he had
ever written; and every man who
writes with care, weighing his words,
and fully understanding why in each
sentence he uses this term rather
than that, so that the choice of
diction depends on the nature of the
discourse, and the nature of the dis-
course on the necessities of the sub-
ject, must have felt an approach to
the same power. As it is more bless-
ed to give than to receive, so in the
mere act of expressing onr thoughts
we attain to a more perfect posses-
sion. There is not an editor in
the kingdom who does not know
what is the practical result of this
natural craving for the pen, and
perhaps the most amusing illustra-
tion of it, which is accessible to the
pnblic, is the oorrespondenoe which
appears in the penny daily papers.
Anybody who will take the trouble
of looking at that correspondence
will see how the popular mind is at
work, striving to write, and longing
for expression. In these voluntary
effusions we can distinctly trace the
hand of the incipient writer — the
man who writes because he wants to
write, and not becsuse he has any
special acquaintance with the subject
he is going to discuss. He goes to
work like the painter mentioned by
Horace. He thinks he can paint a
cypress tree ; but, unfortunately, the
great topic of the day is some tre-
mendous debate in the House of
Commons, and we can see nothing
for the time but the well-filled
benches of the Treasury and the Op-
position. The correspondent of the
penny paper has absolutely nothing
to say of the debate, but he has a
good deal to say about that cypress
tree of his, and so he plants it in the
floor of the House of Oonmions, and
writes an astonishing letter calling
attention to the fact. He has been
caught by a number of little phrases
and illustrations, such as ''Nous
avous chang^ tout cela," " Revenons
& nos moutons,'^ *^ Nihil humanum a
me alienum puto," ^^ rtoXv^xoCajioio
fiojuwaiyj ;" and for illustrations, Ma-
homet^s coffin, the genius in tlie brass
kettle, Macaulay's New Zealander,
and a few more. These phrases and
illustrations are bobbing up and
down his mind, keeping him in a
state of unrest until he can make
use of them. If he can once make
use of them he is satisfied, and they
may go to sleep again in the recesses
of bis mind ; bqt use them he must.
He must do that cypress tree, and
when he has done the cypress tree,
he will try a yew, and then a hoak,
and then a heim, and then a hash.
He has beard an effective anecdote
— ^he cannot resist the opportunity
of telling it; and he worKs it up
into a sort of cockade for Mr. Bright's
beaver, or'into a tin kettle to be tied
to the tail of some bloated aristocrat
— ^it does not matter who. It is per-
fectly evident in the letters that the
writing is an end to itself.
It was to meet this want that
there was lately published, if it does
68i
Popular Literature— Prize Emaye,
[Dec
not still go on, an amateur maga-
zIdo; and those societies, of whose
organizations we had to give some
acconnt a few months baok, play
upon the same chord. They propose
a subject for a prize essay, and endea-
vour to make the prizes as tempting
and numerous as possible. They ooant
upon receiving a great number of com-
munications which will be of value,
partly as a testimony from indepen-
dent parties to the opinions of the
society, but chiefly as a means of
exciting an interest in these opinions
among the class who are expected to
contribute the essays. A prize is
proposed on the advantages of a
seventh day^s rest, on the t)eauty of
teetotalism, on the benefits of early
rising, on the pleasure of swimming,
on the best means of preventing the
smoke nuisance. Persons who previ-
ously cared nothing for these subjects
are induced for the sake of the prize
to write upon it, and to advocate a
particular view. For the rest of
their lives they are committed to that
view, and by the vanity of composi-
tion, if not by the force of conviction,
become the apostles of a doctrine
which they previously despised. They
proselytise, and a little leaven, it is
calculated, will ere long leaven the
whole lump. If the essay be in itself
as heavy as lead, it has at all events
had the effect of making the writer of
it a convert. A publisher wants a
hymn for New-Year's Day. He
offers a guinea prize for it to the
public in general, and to Sunday-
school teachers in particular. Sun-
day-school teachers are quite equal
to the effort of writing hymns ; and
thousands of them set to work for
the sake of the prospective guinea,
and the fame that follows success.
The publisher receives an infinite
number of attempts, from which he
selects one, advertising it with a
flourish of trumpets. All the Sunday-
school teachers in the reabn are in-
terested in the experiment, patronise
the hymn largely, each hoping that
in the next year he or she will be the
successful candidate and the enter-
prising publisher makes a very hand-
some profit out of the transaction. In
the prize poems proposed for the
honour of Barns by the Crystal
Palace Company, we see the system
fully developed under a
Not the most innocent among as csa
be mistaken as to the nature of the
transaction. It was a first-rate me-
thod of collecting a crowd. But in
kind, it is precisely on a par with the
method pursued by some publishers
to obtain a large circnlation for their
books. There has just now been pro-
duced in London a Dictionary of
Universal ' Information^ which is
announced as the ^^ cheapest and
most valuable work ever produced.''
Though its information is aniversal,
its cheapness unrivalled, and its value
inconceivable, it is necessary to in-
duce persons to buy it by giring to
purchasers the advantages of a lot-
tery. It is ^^a complete gazetteer of
geography, with accurate and beauti-
fully engraved maps;" **a per/ect
cyclopesdia of history ;** *' a eampr^
hensive compendium of biography;"
^^an interesting epitome of mytho-
logy ;" " a treasury of biblical know-
ledge;" ^'a reliable chronological
record," and so forth, the whole pub-
lished for six shillings. But the at-
traction of the concern is supposed
to be so very doubtful, that the pub-
lisher announces £10,000 worth of
prizes to be given away to parchasers.
To any person who will send to the
publisher a list of 150 subscribers fur
this precious dictionary, a gold watch,
valued at ten guineas, will be given.
A gold watch, valued at five guineas^
will be given to any one who will
procure 75 subscribers. A silver
watch, value three guineas, goes to
any one obtaining 45 subscribers. A
gold pencil'Case, value two guineas,
will be presented to the individual
who can make up 30 subscribers;
and, small by degrees, a silver pendl-
case, half the value of the gold one,
will fall to the lot of him who can
muster 15. Here we see the prize
system in all its nidged deformity. It
is nothing more than an ingenious
method of investing a portion of the
retail profit in prizes, and giving
these instead of cash payments as a
premium to canvassers who tramp
the country to force their salesw
In other publications of the same
firm, the lottery system is judi-
ciously mingled with the reoogniiioa
of literary merit. We are told that
the ^''Englishwoman's Domeetk Ma-
1869.]
Popular Litera^iwre'^Prke JBssaya.
686
gasine stands at the bead of all peri-
odicals for the interest of the tales and
light literature, for the nsefalness of
many handreds of reeipes, and for the
mass of general information which ap*
pear in its pages.'' So little faith, how-
ever, have the publishers in this an-
nouncement, that at the same time they
advertise in large capitals "two hitn-
DKED Ain> FIFTY PRIZES OIVXN AWAT
XVEBT YBAB, VALX7E FOUB HTJin>RED
ouunsAs.'' During a period of seven
years, it is proclaimed that a sixty-
guinea pianoforte, manufactured by
So-and-so; fifty-four gold watches,
manufactured by somebody else ; one
hundred and twenty-nine gold chains,
by a third party; and a thousand
guineas' worth of articles in jewellery,
drapery, upholstery, silver and plated
goods, books, stationery, dressing-
cases, table cutlery, moderator lamps,
stereoscopes, and stereoscopic views,
supplied by certain establishments
named (all of which, by the way, ad-
vertise regularly in this most gene-
rous of magazines), have been distri-
buted among the purchasers of the
periodical. All that is necessary to
secure a chance in the distribution of
gifts, is to send to the pubhshers
certain numbered cheques, which ap-
pear with each issue of the magazine
on tlie corner of the last page. One
year of these cheques gives a chance;
the prizes are distributed by ballot^
and the names of the happy prize-
holders are duly published in the
magiizine. But combined with this
lottery system we have said there is
a fine homage paid to literary aspira-
tions. The prize of a handsome
guinea volume is ofiTered to any of
.the subscribers who will forward the
best selection of quotations fnmi the
g>ets, on Jealousy, on Reveoge, on
ope, or some such theme. The
selections are criticised. "We duly
received the very large number of
quotations on Itevenge forwarded to
ns by our fair subscribers. They dis-
play even a greater amount of care,
attention, good taste, and discern-
ment, than those on Hope." The
publishers of other periodicals eschew
the lottery system altogether, and
{>rofess to give prizes only for intel-
ectual merit. Among these it is a
favourite plain to publish difficult
riddles, and award prizes, from a
guinea downwards, to those who can
discover the answer soonest ; or, still
more frequently, to hold out similar
inducements to those who will in-
vent tolerably severe enigmas. The
publishers of one little annual, an
almanac and pocket-book combined,
which is called the LadM Fashion-
able Bepontory^ in the volume for
the ensuing year *^ renews his thanks
to his kind friends for their wel-
come assistance, and has pleasure in
awarding them the following books:
To E. C. M., two copies for the best
general answer ; four copies to Fanny ;
three each to Coralie, Charlotte, Y. 8.
N., and Santillion; and one each to
Z., Miranda, Gerty, and Flenrdelis;
and we offer two additional copies
to Fanny for some pretty original
verses." Although we are not in-
formed what are the volumes which
are thus benignantly bestowed, we
can imagine the sweet smile on
Ooralie's fair face; and who woidd
not wish to share the rapture of that
dear Fanny on receiving two addi-
tional copies? We may give that
fine fellow Santillion's riddle as a
specimen of the lot : —
^'AftiBiblemetal,
If backwards ^tls read.
Will become what a table
Ib made of Instead.*'
We rise a little in the scale when
we come to Young England's Jllm-
trated Newspaper; a periodical that,
if not very brilliant, is at all events
well intentioned. Its aim is the use-
ful, and it abounds in biography,
natural history, science, good advice,
and riddles. It offers a prize of two
guineas for an essay on teetotalism;
a prize of one guinea for an essay on
cruelty to animals, which is to have
speciaJ reference to the horse, and par-
ticularly to horses aged ; one guinea
for an essay on machinery, and it is
hoped that ^*our friends in Ireland
who have been breaking the reaping-
machines will try their hands for this '
prize;*' lastly, a prize of one guinea
for an essay on nursery-books — " the
essay to consider Coeh JRoJnn and
Jack the Qiant KiUer^ and to answer
the question, Are these nursery-books
good or bad for little England!"
What sort of interest the offer of
such prizes excites we may see in
68C
Popular LiUratu/r&^Prize Euays.
[Dec.
the result of the competition for Mr.
John Gassells' prizes. Jolin Oasseils
has a soul greater than his inches,
and has been deemed worthy of
Lord Brougham's patronage. There
was a time when in all the news-
papers, and in conspicuous type at
the end of all the magazines, we
used to read a great deal of **John
Gassells' Coffee," and it seemed as if
the combination of John Cassells*
coffee with John Gassells' cheap
books was to regenerate the world.
Somehow we have not lately heard
anything of the coffee ; bnt the
cheap books are going on, and in so
far as we have looked into them, we
must do Mr. Gassells the justice to
say, that his publications are not
without merit. They do not pretend
to be of a very high order; but at least
they are the genuine berry, with
but a slight admixture of chicory.
His lllutVrated Family Paper is
in some respects well done, and
seems to be the most meritorious of
the penny serials. One of his
schemes was to establish prizes for
essays on various subjects, to be
written by the working classes. The
prizes vary from £2 to £5, and the
subjects to be discussed were *^Self
Education," " Sanitary Reform,"
" The Advantages of Sunday," " Pa-
ternal Headship," "Physical Educa-
tion," " Temperance," " Indiscreet
Marriages," " Mechanics* Institu-
tions," "Courtesy," "Labour and
Belaxation." He got men of mark,
such as Lord Brougham, Lord John
Russell, and Sir Fitzroy Kelly, to
become the judges of the result, aod
it turned out that about 650 papers
were sent for adjudication — al-
most all of them written by men
and women of the operative dass.
Among the prize-winners we find
the names of a carpenter, a gun-
engraver, a biscuit-baker, a shoe-
maker^s wife, a plumber, a gardener,
a boot- closer, a sempstress, a carpet-
weaver, a china-painter, a ship-
smith's wife, a clothier's cutter, and
a compositor. The essays are said
to be of fair merit in themselves, and
to do considerable credit to the
writers who have produced them un-
der many disadvantages. The fact
of so strong a competition among
the working olaaaes for. petty prizes
of £2 and £5 is remarkable eoon^
Of course, Mr. John Gassells will get
his reward with the rest, in obtna-
ing a lai^ sale for these pns
essays; but he has it also in know-
ing, that he has compelled huAdnds
of the working classes to think
steadily and express themselTa
clearly upon certain subjects oi greit
importance. Having written osi
these subjects they have laid in
their minds the foundations of a
correct understanding of tbem, which
treble the labour spent in mere
reading would never have supplied
Whether anybody will care to read
the essays, except as literary corioa-
ties, is a different question ; and we
can only think with pain of whit
Lords Brougham and John Russell
must have endured in their labour d
love.
That the essavs of working jdxl
and women should not possess tnoefa
originality, and should prove bat &
poor feast to the reader, we are qaite
prepared to hear ; but it is not so
evident why prize essays executed
by a much more cultivated das
should disappoint our ezpectatioDs,
and should be utterly unworthy d
the extraordinary sale which tJiese
compositions command. Beesose
they are prize essays, means are taken
to insure a most extensive oirculatioD
for them, to which works of far higher
pretensions never have a chance c^
attaining. What is the meaniug d
this ? Why are prize essays so glit-
tering on the surface, and so utterly
worthless below itf Why are prize
poems a mass of inanity, decked out
in far-fetched metaphors and impos-
sible personifications? Why is a
prize picture something quits unin-
teresting— a conventional display of
balanced lights and slanting hnes,
subdued lints and stage expressions?
Why is a prize statue about the most
unreal thing under the sunt Wbj
has a prize monument never yet b«en
produced that we can think of with
pleasure ; and why are all tlie com-
peting designs so wonderfully like
each other in their poverty, that they
seem more like a repetition than «
competition? Why is a prize plsj
00 notoriously bad, that mau^
have long since ceased to offer prizes
for the inevitable damnation f It
.859.].
Popular JAUratuTt-^PriM Euay;
687
v^as onlj the other day that prizes
«rere offered for an improYed orani-
>us, and the resolt was a failure.
The difficulty of answering such ques-
ions is the greater, because against
iiese disheartening experiences we
mve to set the fact that, under a
lifferent system of civilisation, the
emulation produced by the offer of
)rizes was eminently succ^sfnl.
(Vhenever a Greek drama was act-
>d, it was a prize drama; and we
ire told that iSschylus won the
lononr so many times, that Sophocles
n the end beat iSschylus, and that
j^nripides in like manner had his tri-
imphs. Corinna, it will be remem-
)ered, won the prize for lyric Terse,
Pindar being her rival. Whether it
>e a fact or not about the poetical
contest between Homer and Hesiod,
ind the prize of a tripod won by the
atter, the tradition of such a contest
8 a voucher for the custom, and for
he honour in which it was held. At
;he Pythian Games, prizes for music,
md almost every species of artistic
^ork, were just as common and as
jelebrated as the prizes for horse-
*aces and foot-races; and to realise
(nch a state of things in our Ume, we
nust imagine all the poets from Ten-
lyson to Tupper, all tiie painters
rum Landseer to the weakest Pre-
*aphaelite brotlier, and all the mveA-
jians from Mario to Kcco, assembled
)n Epsom Downs upon a Derby day,
;o contend for the honours of the
>cca5ion with Mupjid and Promised
Land, Umpire and Nutbourne. Why
;hoDld that be possible in Greece
pvhioh is impossible now? Why do
ive draw the line between jockeys
R'ho ride race-horses and poets who
•ide their Pegasus— offer prizes for
:he grosser animals, and produce
*esu1ts that have made English
lorses the first in the world, while
;he most magnificent offers cannot
;et a fit monument for the greatest
^^Dglishman of the present century ?
Why can we not obtain brilliant re-
sult a from racing onr hobbies?
Were wo to consult Mr. Ruskin, he
(\'ould tel] Qs that competition has
n itself a blighting infiuence. There
8 not much harm in it, so long as we
save to do with such material things
18 horses and other cattle. Ton can
^et a prize horse, a prize canary, or
a prize tnlip, for money. The contest
is a material one, and must be de-
cided on the principles of commer-
cial value. But in the products of
mind we have to recognise a higher
element. There is a moral worth in
works of art which is independent of
mercantile standards, and the at-
tempt to produce such works from
mercantile or merely emulative mo-
tives, most have a baneful reaction
on the mind of the artist. Art in its
higher forms is the expression of
man^s delight in the works of God ;
literature is the exnression of his
love for truth, and desire to propa-
gate it. If we introduce Uic lower
motives — if we work with the ex-
Eress object of obtaining either the
ighest amount of remuneration, or
the highest rank of honour, we gag
the nobler impulses; we in the end
destroy them ; and our work, want-
ing the inspiration, gradually becomes
worthless. Undoubtedlv there is a
»)od deal to be said in fovour of Mr.
Kuskin's view. There was a tfme
when it seemed to be a species of
simony to take money for the inspi-
rations of genius. Nobody would
take the money who was not com-
pelled to it, and there was a sort of
degradation in the act. Nay, still,
if money is raised into the supreme
test of literary excellence, and if the
pecuniary reward is made the chief
object of pursuit, there must follow
a certain hardening of the heart,
which will in turn react upon the
intellect and freeze its energies. At
the same time, it does not appear that
the principle of competition, as it
exists among us^ has a very banefhl
effect. The habit of competition, and
the attractions of money, exist in
full force, and always will exist, even
where there is no definite system of
offering prizes. An exhibition is
opened ; crowds of pictures are sent
to it: the walls are covered with a
Bpread of canvass that would satisfy
the requirements of the British
navy. Each work is placed there on
the chance of obtaining a prize— not
a prize fixed by certain selected
indges, but a prize fixed by the artist
himself— in one word, a price. Who-
ever will give him that price, gives
him the prize which, according to
his own estimate, he has merited.
688
Popular Literature — JPrue E»aiy$.
(Dei
This system of oompetition and prize-
giving has always existed, and al-
ways will exist In some cases it
may be abused. Men may valae
filtny lacre too much; but in its due
place it is a healthy system, and we
cannot improve upon it. The labour-
er ia worthy of his hire ; and the ha-
bit of oompetition, which enters more
or less into all pursuits, is a whole-
some habit, that in the vast minority
of cases supplies a stimulus to exer-
tion, without in any way deteriorat-
ing the moral sense. We cannot think
that prize essays, poems, and pictures,
are bad, because they result from the
degrading 'infloences of competition
and emulation — bad fruit from a
bad tree ; for it so happens that this
tree of competition produces all the
fruit that we hare, and much of it is
very good. Depend upon it, there
must be something in the prize sys-
tem, over and above the fact of com-
petition, which makes it such a fail-
ure. What is that?
One way of stating the nature of
this inherent defect would be by
showing Uie difference between a
contest of horses and a contest of
poets, painters, or essayists. Let it
be observed that the pace of two
horses admits of absolute measure-
ment. There is a standard to which
we all give our assent. The race is
won by a head, or a neck, or a length,
or half a length. There can be no
mistake as to the comparison, and if
the rewards are tempting, we may
be pretty certain that the best horses
will run, and that the result may be
accepted as a fair test of merit. If
there were any dubiety about the test,
we can well understand that the
owners of the best horses would
never allow their favourites to run.
They would not expose themselves to
the chance of bemg vanquished by
inferior animals. Now, in any con-
test between painters or soalptora,
poets or essayists, there is just that
dubiety as to the standard of mea-
surement in this country which would
effectually prevent first-class men
frt>m competing. K it be retorted,
that the same dubiety existed in
ancient Greece and did not prevent
first-rate men from contending for
the honours, we must distinctly deny
the fact. It has been veiy weU said
that whoever has seen but cme ^^
of Greek art has seen none, and vb>
ever has seen all has seen but obt
In Greek art^ in Greek poeitt<, ii
Greek prose, there is this nnifdmiin
In the works of art that remaiL tc
us — in architectare, in fitatusrr, ia
pottery — ^the uniformity of aim, w-
do not say of exeoation, is so pal^
ble, that critics have again and a^i
been tempted to the oondnsion tcr
all this perfection of form is the n-
suit of mathematical roles, and xbA
by the accurate measurement of h&es.
angles, and curves, we may be a^i;
to reach the sources of ttut be&cr
which gives life to the pure Pentoi-
marble. For let it be sxtpposed tbs:
this appearance of nniformity is the
result of our ignorance. We go aa£
look at a flock of sheep, and ead
sheep is alike to us ; while the sU(-
herd who is constantly with tl;;3
sees a difference in eac^. It i» iwi
in this sense that Greek art bs9 te
us an appearance of nniformity. Ve
can trace all the little differexee
between artist and artist; we ca
say, here is a peculiarity of this OIjb*
piad, there is a peculiarity of anLitber
period ; we know quite well the tSs-
tinctions between the lyrical fire c^
^^chylos, the severer and ntore dnr
matio style of Sophocles^ and tk
eloquent sentiment of Caripidt«. Be
in every department of artinie ex-
cellence we see the inflaeooe of i
school; and the unity of aim lod
habit pronounced by a school give b»
a standard of measorement aboot
which there can be little ambi^C5.
On a lesser scale we see somethiof o^
the same sort in modern times. Cob^
pare French art and literature
with English art and literature. Be-
fore the Exposition of 1855, FKDd>-
men had not much acquaintance with
English art; and the remark whiek
was nniversally elicited by the pt^
tures sent then to Paris by Enfdia^
artists was an expression of sor^'niK
at their individuality. Every artist
seemed to be standing on his o«i
pedestal, and working out of his owt
head. There did not appear to be i
school of English art in the soise
sense in which there is a school of
French art The utility of the Eisg-
lish school consisted merely in thi^—
that each worker had his own styls,
859.]
Popular Literatur^^Ftke Iksayi,
689
Qd fought for his own hand. They
rere similar only in their dissimi-
irity. The similarity of the FreDoh
sbool, . on the other hand, is a
euuine approximation of methods,
theoretic oniformity of ideals. It
as often heen said that in politics
^e French democrat aims chiefly at
quality, while the chief aim of £ng-
si) men is liherty. It is a distinction
rbich is exhibited in art aod lite-
atnre as well as in politics. In
Inirlish art and literature there is
xtreme license of method, infinite
ariety of aim, the most astonishing
riginality of result. In French work,
n the other hand, we are at once
onscions of a certain monotony. One
'rench writer is exceedingly like an-
ther. What diversity exists is dis-
mayed within very much narrower
imits. One sees palpably the nni-
ersal inflnence of school— of fixed
tandards, of known rnles, of accre-
lited models; and we can under-
tand that, in such a state of things,
he prize system would be much
Qore successful than among us, who,
D the full fluHh of our Protestantism,
lave asserted the right of private
udgmeot, and our contempt for au-
hority in no measured terms. The
lation that has two or three dozen
eliiipons, and only one sauce, is not
ikely to have common standards in
>hiluBophy, in literature, or in art.
But wanting these common stand-
irds, what faith can we have in our
ndges? We have faith in the force
>f truth ; we have faith in the great
>ublic; we have faith in posterity ;
ive have faith in the awards of time.
But if there be any originality in ns,
NQ are extremely loth to stake our
-eputation on the verdict of any one
BUD, or of any two or three. The
irtist, the poet, or the essayist, who
las aimed at novelty, may very na^
rurally say, '^I am willing to take
Dhe award of time, and of the mi^o-
nty of my fellows ; but exposing my
work in a competition where my
judges are to be, not the great public,
but one, two, or three popes, eleotea
for the time being, who have their
own ways of looking at things, I run
the risk of having my work discre-
dited by their judgment, and by the
fact of failure depn ved of merit. The
difference between myself and any
three men selected to judge me may
be so great as to constitute an abso-
lute inability on their part to see
what is in me. But lessen the chances
of difference by increasing the number
of judges — ^neutralise the differences
altogether by giving me the whole
British public for my Judge, and then
I will compete. I have no objection
to your prizes, but I will win mv prize
by getting my price — ^by pnbli^ing
my work, and taking the opinion of
the public, not by sending it to three
judges, with whose appointment I'
have had nothing to do^ and abiding
by their opinion."
It is chiefly for this reason that the
offer of prizes does not and cannot, in
oar country, call forth the highest ex-
cellence. Upon no man's judgment
can we pin our faith, if we have faith ^
in ourselves. The scholar will have '
fiiith in his teacher, and when the
amateur takes to writing essays, he
has faith probably in those who are
so enlightened as to offer him a prize ;
but any man who has risen above his
models, and is capable of producing
an original work, must have a certain
assurance which amounts to a rebel-
lion against the adverse judgment of
individuals. The men who contend
for prizes are, for the most part, men
who have not emancipated them-
selves from the influence of models;
and hence the dreary uniformity of
prize works, which, as we have al-
ready indicated, are of little use to
any but the competitors themselves.
As the Russian prince danced all
night, not becanse he was fond of
dancing, or was in love with his
partner in the dance, but because he
wanted to perspire, prize essays are
valuable, not because they are worth
reading, or because their enormous
distribution can do much good, hot
because they make their writers think
and master their stores of know-
ledge.
690
MotUfy^s Dutch Republic.
[Ik
MOTLEY 8 DUTCH RBPUBLIC.
Thx literary pnblio had hardly for-
gotten the impression made oa it
by Presoott'B EuUyry of PMlip IL,
and by his able portraiture of that
gloomy, oonscientioQs, iDdastrioas,
narrow-minded, and least amiable of
monarohs, than it was recalled to the
same period of history, and to a second
portraiture of tlie same soToreign, by
the pen of Mr. Motley. The Ameri-
cans seem to have tidLen the history
of Spain as their especial province,
and they haye dealt with it in a very
masterly manner. Ko one will feel
that Mr. Motley^s book, even where
it goes over groond lately trodden by
his estimable predecessor, is in the
least degree snperflaons; bat, in fact,
it has a distinct and specific object —
the narrative of the rise of the Dntoh
Bepnblio — ^which is soffioient to give
to It a plan and character of its own.
A worthier subject no historian could
choose, nor one which legitimately
brings before him greater principles
to discuss, or events more terrific, or
a more striking and varied dramatu
permnm.
An intelligent Englishman or Ame-
rican, who wiU probably think that
he has little to learn on the rights of
conscience, or the liberty of opinion,
or the fundamental principles of good
government, may be apt to conclude
tiiat the sole value, as well as the con-
spicuous merit, of Mr. Motley's book,
lies in his spirited narrative of events,
and his powerful delineations of the
chief personages concerned in them.
He will be perfectly correct in accord-
ing his praise to the graphic man-
ner in which the terrible sieges and
battles and massacres which signal-
ised the revolt of ike Netherlands,
and the uprise of the Dutoh Bepublic,
are here brought before him,and in ad-
miring even still more the vivid pencil
with which Mr. Motley has sketohed
for us the chief heroes in these trans-
actions ; he will be perfectly correct
in applauding the iubight into char-
acter, and the dramatic power, mani-
fested by the author, and that perse-
verance with which — by meta^ona
of very laboriooa res^rch-^M b
tracked out for us the dark polki,
and revealed to us the tretcherr 12^
dissimulation of the Spanish kis^
but he will have formed, we thiok, 1
very erroneous estimation of bis uv*
times, or of the Lesson this bkur
conveys, if he ahodld proDoanes the
lesson to be trite or needless. Is
our own part, there is no hi^iy «<
should desire, at this present cpoi
to be more generally perused by <>..
and young, and by all clasMS of »
ciety, than that which rdsta ^
heroic and sucoeasfal struggle ot ^
United Provinces against the tss
power of Spain, acting as the tnsi
champion of a still greater pow-
the Catholic Ohurc^ and its fi£
European hierarchy.
We all kindle as we read of tb
greatest battle for the rights of tsr
science and the human intellect vbid
ever was delivered on the &ee of tk
earth; we all rejoice over the triasi;^
which resulted in the estab&biae:
of that Republic of Holland, to vii^
the whole of Europe, and Englaodk
an especial manner, owes so Dobki
debt; we all execrate that tjni&:T
of Spain which wonld hare crosfacc
the spirit of Freedom and the lore 1^
truth ; but we do not all of os per-
ceive that the tyranny of Spaio vhkii
we execrate, was but, in fact,ond^fa
of that tyranny of religioo0 opii*^
which is at all times ready to ^s^^aj
itself. We can estimate that tynear
when it displays itself in other nM
and in stnuoge forms <^ r^'gioo, «r
in remote epochs of history; bo: ^
detect it in our own roiods, or in on-
own epoch — ^to understand tki *
danger sinuhir to that which ocbt?
nations have passed through, naj
threaten those nations which DoTcofr
sider themselves the most $dnExSb
in Europe—and that the nioetMS^
century may have trials to nn^lerp
similar to those of the Hit«Bt^
— ^this is not so easy. It is, h^^-
ever, indisputebly true. The f^
7%e Rite of the IhUch Republic ; a Hitt&fjf.
don: Boutledge.
By John Lothbof Mcmir. I^
>.]
MotJey^s Dutch Bepuhlic
691
>n which Mr. Motley'a History
hes, and the stirring appeal it
:es to that noblest bat most down-
klen sentiment of the human mind
le lov^e of tmth, and liberty to
ik the troth — was never more
Jed amongst the wide family of
opean nations than it is at present.
L nation said to itself, There shall
Dut one faith amongst us — if pos-
e, there shall not be a single dis-
tient from the Catholic faith upon
soil of Spain ; and, moreover, the
endencies over which we rule, with
re or less of right or might, shall
OS pore as ourselves from the guilt
I pollution of heresy. That na-
1 was the most powerful then in
rope, and it partly succeeded in its
■pose. It succeeded for itself, it
cd in some of its dependencies,
lat is that nation now, with its
>lime unity of a Catholic faith?
id a<k of History what have been
). greatest achievements that later
1 tunes have left it to record, and
i will point to those Seven United
evinces, those dependencies that
3ke and rebelled from the sublime
ity of faith— she will point to
)IIand, and to those who learnt of
>lland, or learnt in the same school,
biding the nations who have achiev-
niost for humanity. When Philip
, on the abdication of the Em-
ror, entered upon his inauspicious
ign, bis monarchy was the most
tensive, the most wealthy, she most
•tent in Europe. His territories
mprised Spain, then in the first
nk of nations, not only for military
owess, but in its arts and com-
erce ; the north and the south of
aly; the Netherlands — that is to
y, what is now Holland and Bel-
uin, together with six departments
France ; the conquests in the New
'orld, Mexico and Peru ; and seve-
J outlying possessions in Asia and'
frica. In Spain itself the power of
le monarch was absolute; its great
ties still retained their wealth, but
&d resigned their liberties. The pro-
ince of Gastille alone is computed
) have contained more than six mil-
ons of inhabitants (greatly out-
umbering the population of the
rhole of England at that time), and
> have raised a revenue which, in
'reach money, has been estimated at
ten millions of francs. The wealth
of the great cities of the Netherlands
is well known. Antwerp, with her
hundred thousand inhabitants, ri«
vailed Venice in the greatness of her
commerce. Bruges done could bring
into the field ten thousand men. The
same monarch had at his command
the armies of Spain,, the industry of
Flanders, the arts of Italy, and the
gold of Mexico and Peru.
What a different position does the^
monarchy of Spain now occupy ? The
great subject now agitated in every
political circle is the regeneration or
re-partition of Italy, and the voice of
Spain is not heard m the matter. No .
one asks her opinion. She who ruled
the peninsula as Austria has since
ruled it, has not an inch of territory
in it, nor the least influence. Two
independent kingdoms, Holland and
Belgium, have risen out of her rebel-
lious provinces ; the one has run a
career of glory, and reposes under her
laurels ; the other, small State as she
is, is heard of in the councils of
Europe, heard of in the arts, in
lettex^ in science. Spain herself has
nothing left her but her priOe, and
her pride appeals always to the past.
Of all her conquests in America no-
thing remains but the solitary and
insecure island of Cuba, which the
United States ofifer to purclKue qft
her. And lookers-on think that
Spain might be wise to wink at the
insult, and take the purchase- money,
for these Anglo- Americans have a
new method of conquest which may
prove irresistible' — a method against
which the laws of nations have made
no provisions : their unrei»trainable
people may overflow into the island
of Cuba ; and thus, though the island
may still be called Spanish, the
Cubans may have become American,
and an annexation mast inevitably
take place.
What is the cause of this so re-
markable a destiny ? Let M. Guizot
answer the question. Tlie French
translation of Mr. Motley's work is
ushered in by an introduction from
the pen of that noble veteran in the
ranks both of literature and politics.
After observing that the best his-
tories of Spain have been written
by Americans, he continues thus :
^^ These historiaDS of both European
692
Motley^i Dutch EepubUe.
and Transatlantic Spain are tbem-
Belves neither Spaniards nor Catho-
lic. They belong to another race —
tiiey profess another reli^on — they
speak another language. Washington
Irving, Prescott, Motley, Tick nor, are
the children of Protestant England.
It is this race which now bears sway
in that hemisphere, discovered and
conquered some four centuries ago
by Oathoiic Spain. The very history
of Spain, like its domination in the
New World, has fallen into the hands
of strangers and heretics.*' Nor is
this, he proceeds to observe, any
isolated fact or any fanciful sport of
destiny; it is but in perfect har-
mony with the whole current of
events. Then, taking a masterly
survey of that declension of Spain to
which we have briefly alluded, he
adds : " The fate of Spain, its politi-
cal degradation, the stagnation of its
literature, its nullity in science and
the arts, and all that constitutes the
manifold progress of a great society,
is but the legitimate result of the
policy it pursued in the sixteenth
centuiy. The government of Spain,
in its zeal for the Catholic faith,
Btruch at the intellectual life of the
nation^ This is the answer to be
given to our question, and we prefer
to use the words of M. Guizpt, that
the truth may have all the weight
it can derive from the authority of
one distinguished as much for his
calm, temperate, mature judgment,
as for his learning and philosophic
habits of thought. In Spain, an ab-
solute monarch, boastful of his piety,
sustained and clamorously applauded
by a superstitious mob, crushed and
destroyed the rising spirit of inquiry.
The Catholic &ith triumphed, and the
nation sunk. The mental life died
down. Henceforward nloth and ignor-
ance are varied only by outbursts of
democratic violence and vulgar infi-
delity, which again are hushed up
into the old ignorant superstition,
and the old contented sloth.
It is not that Spain remained
nominally Catholic; it is that she was
not allowed to think — this was the
malady under which she sunk. It
was the repressive policy which was
Sursued that proved fatal to her.
[. Guizot remarks that the six-
teenth century was the critical age
of onr modem Soropec --^
the epoch at "which tbey ^- ■
the character that has nr^ii.- - 1
them. This may be trw. -:
pears to us that the age ^- -i
mg through at this pre^sr i
hardly less critical. WiB ±* '
sive policy attain generaDy -•
out Europe a triumph wbc^ *
will be felt for centnriep to r
will liberty of thought grow
grand characteristic of the E-- i
nations? This is theqoeetkc
ourselves. Let it' be rememlw^- a
this policy of represeitm mar -•
effectually pursued, though ::
not assume precisely the ar-jz-
that it did in Cathoh'c Spa'
pleased Pliilip and his prie^ :
upon the trembling heretic :•
him over with painted dev-"-
painted flames, and then bun 1
that real hell-fire which they ^-
kindled upon the earth. It w^
they laid the spirit of inqmrr. j
emperors and priests in the : -
teenth century may accompli^b
same feat by methods less rer.- .
to humanity. The means used ~
be less cruel, but it will be tht sc
disastrous triumph. Spain lal-' '
successfully at the grand pn>jrt' "
dear to priesthoods — she estabti'.'-
in her own dominions the unity
the Church — she banished all r?
speculative thought. All was ^*-
factorily settled. And who felt i
least want of philosophy ? TTie snT
peasant and the dissoiute noblcii:::
could both pass their lives excee-M
well without a single reflection b^
yond their labours or their pleader ^
How happy should all be that tKy
have not to think upon dark peri^It-i-
ing themes — only to live on in re-
light the Church throws upon then:'
It seems a beneficent resulL B^^
the mental life which would hiM
been developing itself here and tbcrb
in a heresy and a doubt, was thf
same mental energy which woold
have animated the citizen and tl^
scholar, the physician and the m^
chant, in their several tolls, studfes,
and enterprises. Yon have qoteted
your patient by an opiate that bs?
stupified him^ or perhaps he aIte^
nates between stupor and ddiriom.
It was, moreover, the monkish trp*
of Christianity which prevailed aiA
869.]
Motley*i Dutck BepvibUo.
698
ras rendered predominant in Spain.
The secnlar intellect was not allowed
o interpenetrate it, pnrify and exalt
t, or, at all events, render it a fit
ervnnt to secalar purposes and a
nandane prosperity. This monkish
onn of piety held hnman life in con-
empf, set a stigma npon earthly
)nM'perity, made renanoiation and
-esignation the sole virtnes of the
elevated man. XJsefnl enough where
>vils are without a remedy ; and no
loubt it acted as a beneficent coanter-
K)i:<e to the violent passions of Goths
md Scythians, and the other bar^
>arians who overthrew the Roman
mipire, or who were found living
n it ; but it is a form of piety an-
tagonistic to those vigorous efforts,
x> that persevering and hopeful in-
iastry, which Is the source of all our
modern progress. The Christianity
which has been allowed to advance
3r modify itself with the general in-
telligence of the day, lends its aid to
every effort to remedy evils ; is heard
imongst us demanding sanatory mea-
sures; is seen resolutely mthhold-
ing the charitable gift that tends to
make want perpetual by allying it
to sloth. The monkish Christianity
of the middle ages set up for its
standard of excellence the man
who endured aU evils complacently,
whether remediable or not; who
suffered with inexhaustible patience ;
whose charitable gift was but another
form of the virtue of renunciation:
if it incrsased the poverty of the
world, was there not wider scope for
the exercise of patience and resigna-
tion? Was it not his own stand-
ard of piety to sit smiling serene
amidst dirt, and vermin, and starva-
tion? Where this monkish ty[>e of
Christianity keeps its hold, as it did
in Spain, sloth and ignorance have
one permanent ally; and (what is
worth considering) the finer spirits,
and the most conscientious of men,
are, under such a state of religions
opinion, carried off from the real ser-
vice of mankind, and that real ser-
vice loses its due honour, its due ap-
plause, and its due place in the
human conscience. When, therefore,
we further remember what type of
Christianity it was that Spain re-
solved to preserve intact, we cannot
be surprised at the little energy and
mental life it thereafter displayed.
Such a people, saying amongst them-
selves, ** There shalj^ if possible, be
no heretic amongst us,'* have pro-
nounced their own sentence. Thev
have struck as with ^mace petrific/'
and the society is immovable.
But we must forego, or postpone
for the present, any further prosecu-
tion of these tempting generalities,
and look at the work before us, ana
endeavour to convey some idea of
its nature, and of its literary merits.
Mr. Motley has no hesitations, makes
few compromises. He does not write
like one who is alternately an advo-
cate for both parties; but as a fair,
honest, downright advocate of that
party and of those men who, he is
convinced, deserve his admiration.
He writes like a lover of liberty, but
without any undue partiality, that
we have observed, to democratic
institutions. Whether the portraits
presente<l to us are always, and
m all respects, minutely faithful,
who would venture to say? They
are, in our estimation, fair and
truthful in the main; and they
are always life-like, always drawn
in a very masterlv manner. The
vivid picture he leaves behind of
the chief actors in his period of his-
tory, is one of the striking character-
istics of the book. Those who rather
shrink from the prospect of having
to read over again of the atrocities
of the Inquisition, and of the sieges
and massacres to which such atroci-
ties conducted — who feel no desire to
have again revived in their minds
such scenes as the slaughter of Ant-
werp, or the sack of Zutphen, or the
terrible sieges of Haarlem and Ley-
den, will find the narrative agreeably
relieved by this vivid portraiture of
men and manners.
Mr. Motley is an artist who hides
no blemish, physical or moral — who
spares no delinquency, conceals no
weakness — who is regardless of the
ideal, looks to the actual and real.
His predecessor, Mr. Presoott, though
entitled to the praise of extensive and
original research, had always a lin-
gering attachment and strong bias
towards what may be described as
the romance of history. His charm-
ing narratives of the Spanish con-
quests of Mexico and Fern reveal this
694
Mothy'i Dutch BepubUc.
[Dec
tendency-— reveal, at least that he
leant rather to historic faith than
to historic doubt. We read on de-
lighted ; we live, verily, in a nevr
world, amongst his Mexicans and
Perovians; but we close the book
with an uneasy suspicion that much
exaggeration, and some fable, have
been admitted into the place of
history, and that the new world we
have been moving in, is partly the
world of imagination«-of Spanish
imagioation or credulity. And in
ids portraiture of Philip II., able
though it is, and faithful in the main,
we trace a touch, a manner more
poetic than truthful. The Spanish
fiat and plume, and the mystery of
a Spanish palace, are allowed to
throw a certain grace and dignity
over the features and bearing of a
man who was as narrow-minded
as our James II. — who had the bi-
gotry of a monk without his self-
denial — whose conscience, trained by
priests for their own work, and for
the service of the Church, knew no-
thing of truth or justice as between
man and man — whose best virtue
was the mechanical industry of a
clerk, and whose greatest talent was
to trick and deceive, and play the
gome of dissimulation even with the
very tools he osed for his treachery.
Mr. Motlev has no respect for Spanish
or regal dignity ; he delights to push
up the hat and plume, and show
what sort of eye and tbrehead are
really there to meet the- light No
illusion remains to us after our au-
thor has passed his examination.
The Philip of the poets— H>f Alfieri
and of Schiller — dwindles down to the
quite ordinary man — placed, how-
ever, in the quite extraordinary posi-
tion. A slave of the Church, his
religion never kindled one generous
thought, or excited to a single virtue ;
it could not always restrain his king-
ly ambition any more than it could
regulate bis private morals; but it
was obeyed with fidelity and zeal
when it taught him to tyrannise over
his subjects, and put heretics to
death — it made him one of the most
terrible potentates that have existed
on the face of the earth.
But it is the emancipation of the
Netherlands from the grasp of this
unworthy monarch that is the theme
of Mr. Motley's book; and therefore,
if he has a tyraot and a bigot on the
one side of his canvass, supported by
a Cardinal Granvelle and a Duke of
Alva, he has also his patriot asd
liberator, in the brighter part of his
picture, in the perM>n of WilUsmof
Orange, named the Silent and the
Wise. William of Orange is the hero
of the book. On him Mr. Motley ex-
pends a perhaps unchecked enthu-
siasm. A cool impartial critic may,
indeed, suspect that the lights and
shadows are thrown tbrougboat the
work with too strong a oontnst;
but we know that the indignation
and the admiration are both, upon
the whole, well bestowed. It ii
a very wholesome indignation, and
a very profitable admiration, that
we are called upon to sympathise
with. Nothing is more easy than to
suggest, and even to prove, thai
** black^s not so very black, nor white
so very white ;" nowhere can praise
or blame be weighed oat to the tot
scruple ; it must sufiioe us if we feel
we can honestly applaud aod right-
fully condenm ; and it is a good thing
at times, to have both these sentiments
kindled within us, and to detest and
admire cordially, and with the foil
energy of our souls.
Our author's style la bold, vigoroiB,
full of power; but we should desert
our critical function if we did not add
that it is sometimes intemperate, and
that in the earlier pages there is an
apparent effort, a straining after effect,
and (in his topographical descrip-
tions) a certain semi-poetic or fanci-
ful diction that appears to us out of
place. Abusive epithets are some-
times scattered with an injadicloas
prodigality. We might instance the
description of our own Queen Mary,
of disastrous memory, to be found in
the first volume, page 123; bot ve
have no wish to dwell on what are
only casual blemishes. And theee
errors of taste and judgment appear
to us to be chiefly at the commence-
ment of the work. To discharge oar-
selves at once of all the critical veD(»D
we have on this occasion to distil, t0
must add that, vigorous as bis nar-
rative generally Is, our author is also
capable, at times, of being tedioos
and prolix. He is not quite master
of that art which gives to all portions
of his subject a fair and sufficient
attention, and no more than what is
859.]
Mhtley^t Duteh Jiepuhli&.
695
nfficient. On the motiyefl and Tie ws
»f some of his leading diaraoters —
n his elaborate defences of his great
lero against impotations that had
»een raised against him^he is more
engthy than seems necessary, at least
0 the impatient reader; while the
ame impatient reader would gladly
lave received, on some other topics,
1 little more information than is ao-
torded to hino. He would probably
vish to know a little more of the
tate of pablic opinion, political and
eligions, in the several cities of the
l^etherlands. Mr. Motley, of coarse,
loes not overlook the great movement
>f Protestantism; bat how far the
everal cities partook of it, and what
lad been the career of pablic opinion
n each, he might perhaps have more
ninotely informed as. One wants
o see tbese burghers and citizens a
ittle more distinctly. We cannot
expect that the historian should pro-
secare their own privileges, not to
sustain any great cause of civil or
religious liberty, was their real object
Of these Dobles £gmont was the
leader and the type. Appease them
by acquiescence to their personal
cfaiins, even ciyole or flatter them,
and tbese bold, turbulent, wine-bib-
bing spirits were easily controlled.
Philip II., if he had been really
the skilful governor— even the mere
crafty statesman — he was reputed to
be, would have found no difficulty in
dealing with these pleasure-loving
nobles. Flattery and some personiS
favours, and a share of confidence and
esteem, had proved sufficient to win
Goant Egmont, who had returned,
from his visit to Spain a very suffi-
cient royalist. The execution of the
Oount by a monarch who up to the
last had treated him as a friend, was
as great a blander as it was a crime.
Tbe King was destroying a good Oa-
lace for us the same individual por- tholic, and a very loyal gentJeman,
raitii as he does of kings and princes.
We know very well that tbe burghers
)f Antwerp and of Ghent have left
io letters behiDd them, laid up in
oyal archives, fated to come to light
md reveal the secret springs of ac-
ion. But from the literature of the
;ime, the preaching of the time, and
rom characteristic incidents of the
;ime, something more might have
>een extracted, we think, to enable
is to represent to ourselves the
)urghers and the populace of Uiis
period. We have the motives and
conduct of a few leading nobles ana-
ysed and described ; but when a citj
tself is brought apon the field, in all
;he tumult of rebellion, or tbe heroic
mdurance of the utmost afilictions of
Ik siege, we are not prepared for this
iisplay of energy, except by such
l^enerai knowled^ as every reader
3rings with him of this period of
European history. The revolt of the
^Netherlands, as related here, opens
mth a patriodo movement, or an
effort for independence, amongst the
Qobility. But these nobles were in
personal character (though their po-
litical position was difiTerent) very
much what our Cavaliers were in the
time of Charles L Ttiey were a high-
spirited race, attached to their order,
wrbo, if they arrayed themselves on
the side of the people, did so only in
inimosity to the Spanish oonrt^ To
VOL. LXZXTL 46
who, if be loved popularity too much
to be a complete and faithful servant
of the Spanish crown, would at all
events have proved a cause of divi-
sion and embarrassment to the patriot
party. It was not till these gay
nobles had in a measure left the
scene, that the real strength of the
resistance to Spain manifested itself.
That stubborn resistance was to be
found in tbe burgher class, in the
Protestant citizen who had learnt
by woeful experience that the rights
of conscience, the liberty tb be of
that religion which had won his con-
viction, could be only sustained by
the maintenance of his civil rights.
Amongst this class, as amongst our
own Puritans, religion and liberty
went hand in hand. Nor is it pos-
sible to say, at every period of the
struggle, whether Protestantism or
patriotism was in the ascendant;
they were, in £act^ inseparable, or be-
came so as the contest advanced.
Now the growth of public opinion in
this class ; the progress that the new
religion had made in the several
cities, or in the country at large ; the
tone of political sentiment, and how
far it had assumed a republican cast —
these subjects are not treated with
that fulness and discrimination we
mi^t have expected. The people
have been in some measure over-
looked by an historian devoted to the
696
MotUy'M Dutch B^9ubUe.
[D»t
oaase of the people. The arohiyes <^
a court have been sedaloasly examined
to track ont the treacherous and wily
course of a king or a minister; bnt
the archiTes of the pablic, the litera-
ture of the time, or whatever remains
of spoken or acted thought amongst
the people, have not been ransacked
with equal zeal to determine the
state and condition of public opinion.
A minister, or a regent, or a general,
is introduced to us with ail his dis-
tinctive characteristics, and we are
prepared to follow and appreciate his
conduct ; but a great city is some-
times brought suddenly before us in
its highest state of turbulent or en-
thusiastic action, without any prepa-
ration to warn the reader or to
explain to him this particular out-
burst of passion or of heroism.
Bat if our historian has more es-
pecially devoted himself to portray
the chief actors in his great drama,
it is fit that we should follow him to
his chosen field; and our limited
object, in these few pages, will be
to draw attention to his masterly
delineation of some of these person-
ages, as of the King, the Regent, the
Cardinal Granvelle, Alva, Egmont,
and Orange. One pleasiint pecu-
liarity distinguishes his historical
portraits ; he never forgets the per-
sonal appearance of the man, his fea-
tures, uis stature, or any trick of
gestnre, hot introduces these in such
a manner that they accompany us
throughout the history. As we have
intimated already, there is nothing of
the courtier in the descriptions he
gives. If there is a deformity of per-
son, a weakness or a vice, a blemish,
physical or moral, it is set down with
frank, unmitigated distinctness. We
have a striking specimen of his gra-
phic power near the commencement
of the work, where he introduces to
us the Emperor Charles V. and his
court as they are seen arrayed in all
their pomp and state, on that cele-
brated day when the Emperor re tired
from the cares of government, and re-
signed to his son Philip the largest
and the most powerfal of the king-
doms of Europe. From this point
we may as well take up the thread
of ^. Motley^s History, so fiir
as we can follow it, as frt>m any
other.
On the 25th day of October 1555,
the dty of BmsseiB was the scene of
a grand $pectaele or ceremonial, oA
as is rarely exhibited iii the theatn«f
the world. It was one of those occa-
sions, indeed, when the re«l everii
of life assume a theatrical aspect ad
take upon themselves the stadkd ar-
rangement of the stage. They ceea
to mimic what is itself a mimioy d
life, and to outrival the ficUooos
passions and the raock heroism d
the theatre, and whereas the sta^
exclaims, Behold a real court! tbft
imperial court might say, BeboU
another stage. This g^raod ot^reoo-
nial affords a very appropriate op«fr
ing to Mr. Motley's narrative : —
" Many individuab of existing or futsr*
historio celebrity in the NeibeHaoik
whose names are ao fazuiJiar to the »ta-
dent of the epochs seemed to have beea
grouped, as if bj premeditated desiga,
upon this imposing platform^ where tk
curtain was to fall for ever upon t^
3htiest Kraperor since Char1eina^«,
where the openine scene of thek>2^
and tremendous tragedy of Philip's r?igr
was to be simultaneously euActeo. Tbe.'e
was the Bishop of Arras, soon to U
known throughout Christendom bv tie
more celebrated title of Cardinal 6ru-
velle, the serene and anilinr priest whan
subtle influence over the destinies of 9
many individuals then present, and or*
the u>rtunes of the whole land, was to be
so extensive and so deadly. There wm
that flower of Flemish chivalry, the Um-
al descendant of ancient Frisian kioj^
already distinguished for hia bravery ia
many fields^ but not having yet vcd
those two remarkable victories wlkh
were soon to make the name of E^nxiat
like the sound of a trumpet throngboat
the whole cou ntry. Tall, ma gn ificent ia
costume, with aark flowing hair, acA
brown eye, smooth cheek, a slight mas-
tache, and featnres of almost feminiBS
delicacy — such was the gallant and iO*
fated Lamoral Hgmontw The Cosst
Horn, too, with bold, sullen free aai
fan-shaped beard — a brave, bonest» uia-
cun tented, quarrelsome, un popular mAii;
the bold, debauched Breaerode, witb
handsome,reckless lace and tnrbuleot de-
meanour—the8e,with many others wbc«e
deeds of arms were to become celebrated
throughout Europe, were conspicuous is
the brilliant crowd. T^ere, too, »••
that learned Frisian, President Vigliai
—crafty, plausible, adroit^ eloquent— a
small brisk man, with long yellow hair,
glittering green eyes, round, taaad,
rosy cheeks, and flowing beard. Fore-
most among the Spanish gnndeok
and close to Philip^ stood the iuaom
ikronrite, Roy Gome^ or, m he vtf
L869.]
Motley'B Dutch B^uUic.
697
Amiliarly call«d ' Re y Gomez* (King
^ud GoinezX a man of meridional aspect
srith coal-black hair and beard, gleam-
ng e^ea^ a face pallid with intense ap-
plication, and Blender but handsome
figure ; while in immediate attendance
ipon the Emperor was the immprtal
Prince of Orange.
" Such were a few only of the most
prominent in that gay throng, whose for-
tunes, in part, it will be our duty to nar«
rate: how many of them passing
:.hrough all this glitter to a dark and mys-
terious doom 1 — some to perish on public
scaffolds; some by midnight assassina-
tion ; others^ more fortunate, to fall on
the battlefield — nearly all, sooner or
Later, to be laid in bloody graves 1"*
Conspicuous above all was, of
course, the aged Emperor himself.
Not that he was old aocording to the
uamber of his years, but his strena-
Dos and active life — strenaous, yet
s^lf-indulgent, and occapied to the
full with war and business and plea-
sure— had given him the appearance
of old age. He, his son, and the
Qaeen of Hungary, stood as central
figures in the scene, while the several
governors of the provinces, the great
councillors, and the Knights of the
Golden Fleece, were artistically ar-
ranged before him. The personal
description which oar author gives
of the now infirm and toil-worn Em-
peror is by no means flattering ; yet
we see the wreck of what, setting
aside all the prestige of rank and
power, was — ^mind and bodj— one of
the must remarkable of men : —
'* He was about the ndddle height, and
had been athletic and well-proportioned.
Broad in the shoulders^ deep in the
chest, thin in the flauk, very muscular
in the arms aod le^, he had been able
to match himself with all competitors in
the tourney and the ring, and to van-
quish the bull with his own hand in the
mvourite national: amusement of Spain.
He bad been able in the field to do the
duty of captain and soldier, to endure
fatigue and exposure and every priva-
tion, except fasting. These personal ad-
vantages were now departed. Crippled
in hands, knees, and legs, he supported
himself with difficulty upon a crutch,
with the aid of an attendant's shoulder.
In face he had always been extremely
ugly, and time had certainly not im-
proved his physiognomy. His hair, once
of a light colour, was now white with
age, olose-clipped and bristling; his
beard was grey, coarse^ and shaggy. His
forehead was spacious and commanding ;
the eye was dark blue, with an expres-
sion botli majestic and benignant His
nose was aquiline, but crooked. The
lower part of his face was famous for de-
formity. The under-lip— a Burgundian
inheritance, as faithfully transmitted as
the duchy and county — was heavy and
hanging, the lower iaw protruding so fiur
beyondthe upper tnat it was impossible
for him to bring together the few frag-
ments of teeth which still remained, ot
to speak a whole sentence in an intelli-
gible voice. Kating and talking— occu-
pations to which he was always much
addicted — were becoming daily more
arduous in consequence of this original
defect, which now seemed hardly hu-
man, but rather an original deformity.**
But though this catalogue of fea-
tures may be correct — and Mr. Motley
cites his authority for each item as
he proceeds — ^the impression which
the retiring Emperor made on the
auffust assembly before him, was
fully equal to the occasion. That
halo of divinity which is said to sur-
round a sovereign, prevented them,
we presume, from seeing these per-
sonal defects ; they saw, in fact, with
the mind^s eye, and saw before them
the man with whose name all Europe,
for the last age, had rung from side
to side; they saw him descending
from the throne he had so long filled,
to the pious retreat of the cloister;
and there was, we are assured, one
universal weeping, and every cheek
was bedewed with tears. Old gen-
erals, veteran diplomatists, Knights
of the Fleece, all broke into tears, as
the Emperor, in his oration, danced
at the past, and bade farewell to the
toils and state of government ; —
" there being," said tibe English en-
voy, Sir John Mason, **in mine
opinion, not one man in the whole
assembly that, during the time of a
good piece of tins oration, poured
not out abundantly tears, some more,
some less."
Mr. Motley is very hard upon this
weeping. He asks what signal be-
nefits had his subjects, especially his
Netherlanders, received from this
monarch, that they should so bewail
his retirement? "What was the
Emperor Charles to the^ inhabitants
of the Netherlands, that they should
• Vol. i p. 9 1.
698
Motley^i Dutch RepMie,
[Dee.
weep for him ?'' He had spent their
money in wars and oonqaeets in
which they were ntterly uncon-
cerned ; he had infringed . their old
municipal privileges; he had perse-
cuted many on account of their new
religion, and had shown his determi-
nation to coerce them hy the Inaui-
sition. Mr. Motley cannot find a
rational cause for all this weeping.
He forgets that a rational cause is
not indispensable on such occasions.
Borne one sentiment prevails at the
moment ; it is aggravated in each by
the participation of numbers ; it acts
as a panic does in the field of battle,
and people find themselves shouting
or weeping, they scarcely know why.
It does not follow that these weeping
Netherlanders were quite oblivious of
their own interests, or were pecu-
liarly servile : they were simply car-
ried away by the loyal sentiment of
the hoar, linch the same thing oc-
curs daily amongst ourselves. We
will not risk any imputation on our
own loyalty by asking whether those
crowds who throng the streets, or
cluster about a railway, when our
Queen is to pass, know why it is they
are bawling as if with the full inten-
tion of splitting their own throats.
We will take an illastration of a
quite social, not political nature. An
actor has been nightly before the
public ; the public has now praised
and now abused the actor, and the
actor ^has often abused the unreason-
able public. By-and-by this actor,
sometimes praised and sometimes
abused, and to us altogether per-
sonally indifferent, assembles his last
audience, and bids them fiirewell.
There is not a dry eye, we are told,
in pit or boxes. Next morning, pit
and boxes, and the retiring actor
himself, are laughing at the wondrous
enthusiasm and tenderness that had
seized upon them. And doubtless
every one of these Netherlanders,
fh)m the Knight of the Fleece to the
i&mplest burgher who was present
at the great ceremony, wondered the
next morning how or whv it was that
his cheek had been wet like the rest.
Charles's persecution of the Pro-
testants is the crime which, in our
historian's opinion, ought not to have
been forgiven him even at ^is affect-
ing moment. We will not stay to
ask what proportion of the asGa&blr
shared in the Protestant faith, whkh
at this epoch was not likely to le
embraced by many of those who wee
entitled to be present at this aaget
ceremony; but we stop to obsem,
that Mr. Motley deals rather severeh
with the old Emperor when hed«i»ai
to him that excuse, ao readily ac-
corded to his son, tliat he acted is
accordance with his sense of religkKs
duty when he used the power pboed
in his hands in the extirpation of
heresy. It is quite true that he wis
not always consistent, not almjs
faithful to the Church ; that the ordi-
nary motives of political ambiticB
could at times trinmph over ths
sense of duty, iust as the ordinair
motives of cupidity or pleasure ci£
triumph at times, in each one of »,
over what we nevertheless deem to be
a religious or moral obligation; b^
because the monarch was stronger hi
Charles than the ehurehmany it doe>
not follow that he was not, up to tU
measure of his capacity for such sdh
timents, a very faithful and meat
son of the Church. The man whose
armies sacked "Borne, who laid bis
sacrilegious hands, as Mr. Motlef re-
minds us, on Christ's Yio^erent,aiid
kept the infallible head of Uie Chincb
a prisoner to serve his own political
ends, was manifestly capable of being
carried away hj the pecoliar tempte-
tions of his high imperial podtloo.
But, in the absence of such tempta-
tions, he might very sincerely regard
it as his especial duty to protect tbe
Catholic faith, and preserve tbelonitT
of the Church. And why should tb«
historian throw any doubts or sFper-
sions on that personal piety of which
he made profession? In Charles, ts
in so many others, it was a piety thsi
had a very limited influence on moral
action; it displayed itself chieflj iQ
ritual, in prayer, in fasting, and the
like ; there was more of saperstitioc
in it than religion, but as a sopeisQ-
Uon it was apparently held with per-
fect sincerity. "No man,'' sajt 3fr-
Motley, " could have been more ob-
servant of religiona rites. He heiid
mass daily ; he listened to a sermoo
every Sunday and holiday; he csod-
fessed and received the sacnuiiens
four times a year; he was sometiines
to be seen in hb tent, at midni^t, on
1850.]
MMey'B DuUk Btpuhlic.
699
bis knees before a ornoifix, with, eyes
and hands nplifted; he ate no meat
in Lent^ and used extraordinary dili-
gence to discover and to punish any
man, whether coortier, or plebeian,
^ho failed to Cast during the whole
forty days." Why should Mr. Motley
cruelly add, that "he was too good
a politician not to know the value of
broad phylacteries and long prayers?"
Is every one who knows the v^due of
orthodox behaviour to bo therefore
twitted with hypocrisy ? If it be really
true that "he ate no meat in Lent,^*
he gave a very notable proof of his
sincerity, for the appetite of Oharles
V. was'enormons, and he was accus-
tomed at other times to indulge it
without stint. He seems, indeed, to
have had a craving, pretemataral ap-
petite, amounting to a disease, such
as might well have obtained from his
confessor an especial exemption in
this matter of fasting.
Very marvellous is the account
here given us of the gastronomical ex-
ploits of the Emperor. Captain Dal-
getty was a child to him. Mr. Stir-
ling, in his Cloister Life of Charles
T., had revealed to us that the mon-
astic seclusion of the ex-emperor
did not imply a monastic regimen,
or what is generally understood as
snob. Mr. Motley has given us a
programme of the day's performance
while his appetite was in its full vi-
gour. Never was such dietary. "He
breakfasted at ^Ye on a fowl seethed
in milk, and dressed with sugar and
spices; after this he went to sleep
again. He dined at twelve, partak-
ing always of twenty dishes. He
supped twice; at first, soon after
vespers, and the second time at mid-
night, or one oVlock, which meal
was perhaps the most solid of the
four. After meals he ate a great
quantity of pastry and sweetmeats,
and he irrigated every repast by vast
draughts of beer and wine."
To return to our grand ceremonial
of abdication. The second person in
the scene was the son, Philip, to whom
he was about to resign the far greater
part of his power and territory — all
but the empire of Grermany, which he
had been unable to relinquish in his
favour. Let us hear Mr. Motley^s
description of the gloomy monarch,
so great a favourite of tragic poets:—
*'The son, Philip IL, was a amal],
meagre man, much below the middle
height, with thin legs, a narrow cheat,
and the shrinking, timid air of an habi-
tual invalid. ' His body,' says his pro-
fessed panegyrist, Cabrera, * was bnt a
human cage, in which, however brief
and narrow, dwelt a soul to whose flight
the immeasurable expanse of heaven was
too contracted.* The same* wholesale
admirer adds, that ' his aspect was so
reverend, that rustics, who met him
alone in a wood, without knowing him,
bowed down with instinctive veneration.
In face he was the living image of his
father, having the same broad forehead
and blue eye, with the same aquiline,
but better proportioned, nose. In the
lower part of the countenance the re-
markable Burgundian deformity was
likewise reproduced. He had the same
heavy, hanginff lip, with a vast mouth,
and monstrously protrudins lower |aw.
His complexion was fair, hia hair light
and thin, bis beard yellow, shorty and
pointed. He had the aapeet of a Flem-
mg, but the loftiness of a Spaniard. Hia
demeanour in public was still, silent — al-
most sepulchral He looked habitually
on the ground when he conversed, was
chary of speech, embarrasaed, and even
suffering in manner. This was ascribed
partly to a natural haughtiness, which
he had occasionally endeavoured to over-
come, and partly to habitual pains in the
stomach, occasioned by his inordinate
fondness for pastry."
Was there ever such an incongru-
ous combination presented to the
imagination of the reader I This
downward look and stooping pos-
ture is partly the reserve and hangh-
tiness of a Spanish king, and partly
a contrite bending of the body, pro-
duced by a schoolboy's love of
pastry 1 Other indnlgenoes, not quite
so innocent, our most orthodox of
princes seems to have permitted
himself. What a medley we have
here 1 — " He was most strict in reli-
gious observances, as regular at mass,
sermons, and vespen as a monk-
much more, it was thought by many
good Oatholios, than was beoominff
to his rank and age. Besides several
friars, who preached regularly for his
instruction, he had daily discnssions
with others on abstmse theological
points. He consnlted his confessor
most minutely as to all the aotioDB
of life, inquiring anxiously whether
this proceeding or that were likely to
700
Mbtley^t Dutch RepubUe,
[Dec
burden hfs ooTisdence. He was
grossly licentious. It was his chief
amusement to issue forUi at night
disguised, that he might indulge
himself in the common haunts of
vice. This was his solace at Brus-
sels in the midst of the grayest affairs
of state."
This prince, when he quits Brus-
mIs and enters into his kingdom of
Spain, solemnises his entry by an
atttO'cUhfe^ at which he utters the
pious sentiment, that he would rather
cease to reign than reign oyer here-
tics, and declares that he ** would
carry the wood to bum his own son,"
if his own son proved a deserter from
the faith. A strange production it
is to contemplate I — ^this of the con-
science of a Christian prince, as
educated by a Catholic priesthood.
"Where the 'duty borders upon crime
— ^where, to the secular mind, it is
an act of cruelty and injustice, there
the conscience is inflexible; in the
simple moralities of temperance and
of truth, it is but a silken rein which
the priest touches from time to time,
merely to show that he holds it, and
holds it laxly.
The dissimulation of Philip, and
how completely the deception of
others entered mto his idea of good
government, is well known ; but Mr.
Motley has been able, by comparing
together the preserved letters of this
monarch, to display the working of
this high order of statesmaTiship in a
dearer light than it has perhaps ever
been placed before. We thread the
petty labyrinth which the secluded
monarch found it his greatest delight
to plan ; we are introduced into the
very study of the king; we see him
forming his plot, preparing his con-
tradictory letters — theM to be read
iJoud at the council-board, those to
be kept secret. Arrangements are
made that the Regent of the Nether-
lands, or her minister, shall write cer-
tain letters, which are to receive from
hdm certain answers— letters and
answers both mere fictions to dis-
gnise the real nature of tlie transac-
tion. Dissimulation, indeed, is the
<M*der of the day. His ministers all
practise it upon him, as he upon his
ministers. He deceives every one.
Though always in the leading strings
of some man more able than himself,
though taking bis asastanee, tod
conscious of the need of it^ he aKnja
kept some secret fh>in bis moet coo-
fidential adviser, and yras alwip
prepared to dismiss him the moment
that his services became needloB.
One good quality deserves mentkii-
ing — ^the king and his mixusterB wen
all hard-working men. It is do
Eastern court, where the saltan ooo-
suits only his ovm pleasure, and
leaves all to the vizier, and the vizier
occasionally hangs 0T9qtiee2e9 a pacha,
and then takes his pleasure also. 5*0
English minister works harder thar
the favourites of Philip. He himself
delighted in the use of the pen, and
sate whole hours at the desk. Mr.
Motley says —
*' His mental capacity in geoerml yrm
not very highly esteemed. His talents
were, in truth, very much b^ow me^
ocrity. His mind was incredibly snail
A petty passion for contemptible detuk
characterised him from his voiiUi, and
as long as he lived, he could neitbcr
learn to generalise, nor undentaod thai
one man, however diligent, eonld dM be
minutely acquainted with all the pnUie
and private affairs of fifty millions ef
other men. He was a glutton of work
He was born to write despatches, and to
scrawl comments upon tnoee which Iw
received. He often remained at tlw
council-board four or ^^e hours at a
time, and he lived in hia cabinel He
gave audiences to ambassadors and de-
{)Qtie8 very willingly .listening attentive-
y to all that was said to him, and aa-
sweriug in monosyllabiea. He spoke no
tongue but Spanish, and waa suffieieotly
sparing of tbat^ but he was inde&tigabie
with hii pen. He hated to converse;
but he could write a letter eighteen
pages long when his correspondent was
in the next room, and when the anbieet
was, perhaps, one which a man of tileot
could have settled with six wordk"
The favourite, Ruy Gomes de Silva,
Avas a prodigy of industry. This no-
bleman had been brought up with
the king, and when a boy (so the
story runs) had struck Philip, and
been condemned to death for so »c-
rilegious a blow. Philip had thrown
himself at his father^s feet, and im-
plored and obtained the foi-girencss
of the culprit. In after life, a more
probable cause la assigned for the en-
durance of their frien&hip — ^the com-
placency which he exhibited towards
the King, as the husband of the eriSi-
1859.]
Motlep't Dutch Bspublie,
roi
brated Princess Eboli. Roy Ggmez
and his oooopations are thas de-
scribed : —
** At the present moment he occupied
the three posts of valet, state councillor,
and finance minister. He dressed and
undressed his master, read or talked him
to sleep, called him in the morning, ad-
mitted those who were to have private
audiences, and superintended all the ar-
rangements of the household. The rest
of the day was devoted to the enormous
correspondence and affairs of admini-
atratiun which devolved upon him as
first minister of state and treasury. He
-was very ignorant He had no experience
or acquirement in the arts either of war
or peace, and his early education had
been limited. Like his master, he spoke
no tongue but Spanish, and he had no
literature. He had prepossessing man-
ners, a Auent tongue, a winning and
benevolent disposition. Hie natural
capacity for affaire was considerable;
and his tact was so perfect that he could
converse face to face with statesmen,
doctors, and eenerals, upon campaigns,
theolog3% or jurisprudence, without be-
traying any remarkable deficiency. He
was very mdastrious, endeavouring to
make up by hard study for his lack of
genedbl knowledge At the same time,
by the King's desire, he appeared con-
stantly at the frequent banc^nets, mas-
querades, tourneys, and festivities, for
which Brussels at that epoch was re-
markable. It was no wonder that his
cheek was pale, and that he seemed
dying of overwork.**
£qual1y indastrions, and far more
accomplished, indeed one of the most
accompliBhed and learned men of his
time, was Cardinal Granvelle,* who
long held whnt we may describe as
the position of prime minister to the
Dachess of Parma, Regent of the
Ketherlands. The Regent was as-
sisted by a conneil of state, and three
of this council formed the coruulta
by whose advice she was to be espe-
cially guided. Of these three, Gran-
velle was the chief; in fact, he and
the eomulta were said to be the same
thing; he was the earmdta. The
Cardinal was a man of learning;
could write and speak well, and that
in several languages ; bat that which
stands oot so eonflpicnonsly in the
history is the admirable tact with
which, for a long time, he governed
the Regent and gnided the Xing.
Principles of his «wn, we venture to
think, he had none — ^nnless the
determination to uphold that autho-
rity of churchman and of minister, in
which he shared so largely, be
called a principle — but he very dex-
tronsly assumed the views of the
Zing, and threw his own ability, so
to speak, into the mind and opinions
of his sovereign. When we see him
removed from the court, he lives and
speaks like an epicnrean philosopher;
when he writes to the King, he is an
alarmist for the faith, supersti-
tious, and a persecutor. Bis con-
tempt for Uie multitude was, no
doubt, sincere enough ; and this sin-
cere contempt led him, as it has led
many others, to uphold, without
scruple of conscience, whatever power
or authority was in the ascendant.
Such men cannot, at least, be said to
violate any generous conviction, for
they have none. They can have no
reverence for kings or cardinals — they
know them too well ; but tbev have
still less reverence for any other human
beings. Granvelle Avas well born, of
an obscure but noble family in Bur-
gundy, and his father had been n min-
ister— " held oflBce," as we shoidd say,
in the Court of the Emperor Charles.
At the age of twenty, we are told he
spoke seven languages with perfect
facility, and his acquaintance with
civil and ecclesiastical laws was some-
thing prodigious.
** He was ready-witted,** continues Mr.
Motley, *' smooth and fluent of tongue,
fertile in expedients, courageous, reso-
lute. He thoroughly understood tiie
art of managing men, particularly his
superiors, lie knew libw to govern
under the appearance of obej-inff. In
his intercourse with the King, he co-
loured himself^ as it were, with the King's
character. He was not himself^ but
Philip ; not the sullen, hesitating, con-
fused Philip, however, but Philip en-
dowed with eloquence, readiness, faci-
lity. The King ever found himself an-
ticipated with the most delicate obse-
quiousness, and beheld his struggling
ideas changed into winged words with-
out ceasing to be his own. No flattery
could be more adroit He would write
letters forty pages long to the King, and
send off anotner courier on the same day
with two or three additional despatches
of identical date. Such prolixity en-
chanted the King. The painitaking mo-
aarch toiled, pen in hand, after hiSi won-
ro«
MoiUy'$ DuUik BepvMie.
[Dft
derfdl ininiit«r, in Tain. Philip w
only fit tx> be the bishop*^ olerk, yet he
imagined himaelf to be the directing and
governing power. . ... His industry
was enormons. He could write fifty
letters a-daywith his own hand. He
could dictate to half-a-dozen amanuen-
ses at pnce, on as many different sub-
jects, in as many different languageSi
and send them all away exhausted."
Of which last story we haye our
own opinion; but there can be no
doubt of the oonsnmmate skill with
which, for some time, he directed the
lUffiiirs of the Netherlands. Oonsnnfi-
mate skill I but shut out from a wiser
statesmanship by his priestly contempt
for the opinions of an unlearned class.
He could not see that — as a mere pro-
blem of political forces — it was not
only the King he had to direct, and
the Duchess to control, and the Fle-
mish nobility to resist and to counter-
plot, — he had some account to giye of
this burgher spirit awakening to its
liberties, and aboye a)), to the liberty
of conscience. Had he measured this
force ? At the first superficial glance
at the man's history, yon would say
that, at all eyents, he was a snfiSoient
alarmist, an unhesitating persecutor.
He piously writes to his very pious soy-
reign, — ^ For the loye of God and the
seryioe of the holy religion, put your
royal hand yaliantly to the work,
otherwise we haye only to exclaim,
* Help, Lord, for we perish 1' " Thus
he runs with his torch before the man
who, he knows, will and can travel
but on the one road on which he pre-
tends to guide him. He has appre-
ciation enough of the moycment going
on around him to abuse and execrate,
to punish and vilify it; but if he had
rightly estimated its strength, such a
man asGranvelle would have respected
it for it$ mere itrengtk^ and held a
very different language towards it.
The Prince of Orange and Count
Egmont were members of the state
council. Of course they chafed under
the rule of the Cardinal, and were in
open hostility to the policy he pur-
sued. At length a detennined effort
was made by the patriot party to drive
him out of the Netherlands. Orange,
Egmont, and Horn united in a letter
to the King, in which they represented
that it was absolutely necessary for
the peaoe and salvation of the pro-
vinces (which tbej were doing theb
utmost to quiet) that the GirdiDi}
should be recalled. The Cardinal wm
prepared, at all events, for theatiad.
" He wrote to the Kingths dav i^en
the letter teas written^ and A«a|r
weeJc9 h^ore it was 9ent, U> o^fpnm
him that it woe coming^ and tc ioMtnut
himae to the answer ike woBt^mmie^
This storm broke over. But it w»
in vain that the Cardinal had not onlj
the ear of the King, bot also held fas
pen — it was in vain that he repR-
sented the Flemish nobility as liotofis
and ambitious voloptuaries — (one of
them even eating meat in Jjenir)--m
spendthrifts so encnrobered wit
debt that they sought a season ci
anarchy to rid them of their ohfiga-
tions : it became evident, even at the
Spanish court, that the Cardinal, with
all his diplomatic skill, had nol
sufficient power to make head agsiml
his opponents. There must be con-
cession, or force of another kind must
be employed — the sword, and not the
pen. And now having resolved oa
the recall of the Cardinal, all the
finesse and petty hypocrisj of the
King bad a fair field for their exer-
cise. Orange and Ef^ont and the
people of the Netherlands should
never have it to say that he, the
King, had dismissed his faithful ser-
vant in consideration of their ofunioD
or their wishes. That he would think
of the matter, is the most ood-
ciliating answer he gives to them.
Nay, &e Cardinal himself shouU
never know that he was in reality
dismissed. His recall should appear to
the minister himself as a temporuy
departure, counselled by the emergui-
cies of the moment ; to all others this
temporary absence from the Nether-
lands should seem the voluntary aod
spontaneous act of the Cardinal.
Had not the Cardinal a mother,
living in some rennote dis^ot ? And
must not so benevolent and tender-
hearted a Cardinal be desirous* after
a long interval, of visiting his ^ped
parent ? The Cardinal shall in a let-
ter, which may be seen or heard of all
men, solicit of the Regent, or
the King, permission to retire for a
space from the cares of ^veroment ;
and the King or the Regent shall,
Mith much regret, yield to the ohums
of filial %ffeotion, and of a oonstita-
859.]
Motl&y't Dutch Bqntblie,
708
Ion requiring repose. This shall he
lie aspect of the transaction to the
vorld at large. The Cardinal receives
lis privaU letter. He has now the
>«n pot into his hands, and is in-
;tracted what to write. In his cor-
espondence with the King, he had
reqnentlj implored his majesty —
Jeaven knows with what sincerity 1
— not to scmple at sacrificing him
>r his interests for what might he
leemed the pnblic welfare. To this
>rief retirement how then coald he
>bject ? He writes, requesting very
iubrnissively a leave of absence — it is
^iibliol^ and blandly granted him.
lie retires to his country-seat, there
o indite most contented letters on the
iliarms of a philosophical retreat, and
)ine in secret for the return of power.
The Cardinal seems to have be-
ieved, or tried to believe, that it was
he King^s intention to reinstate him
ifter a brief interval. The public, in
3Ceneral, though mystified by this pre-
irranged correspondence, concluded
:hat the Cardinal never would re-
turn, and great was their joy at his
ileparture. Even the Duchess was
;lad to be liberated from a minister
who had grown too powerful and
Jomineering. Tlie young nobility
were in extacies. **Brederode and
Count Hoogstraaten were standing
together, looking from a window of a
house near the gate of Caudenberg,
to feast their eyes with the spectacle
Df their enemy's retreat. As soon as
the Cardinal had passed through the
^ate on his way to Namur, the first
stage of his journey, they rushed into
the street, got both upon one horse,
Hoogstraaten, who alone had boots
on his legs, taking the saddle, and
Brederode the croup, and galloped
after the Cardii^al with the exultation
of schoolboys."
After some interval, the Duke of
Alva succeeded to the Cardinal, and
those who rejoiced most in the depar*
ture of that wily minister might have
wished his return ; for Alva united
in himself all the craft and subtlety
that the court of Philip could teach,
with a cruelty and hardness of na*
ture seldom learned in camps. But
we are not attracted to this man —
his lineaments are well known, and
are not attractive ; consummate
general as he was, his moral qualities
are those we associate with a Grand
Inqubitor, not a great Captain. And
his range of thought must have been
very limited ; for when he had suc-
ceeded in quelline all resistance by
his arms, he undid his own work, and
kindled against himself the wrath of
every citizen, Catholic or Protestant,
by the absurdest system of taxation
that ever entered into the head of the
merest dragoon to establish. Amongst
other taxes he imposed, this stands
out conspicuous — ten per cent of the
value of every article of merchandise
to be paid as often <u it should he told.
Had ne designed to put down com-
merce as well as heresy, he could
not have framed a better system of
finance. Imagine every tradesman
and merchant, in the thriving cities
of Flanders, being compelled to keep
an account of every sale they made
in the course of the day, in order that
they might deduct from their profits
this ten per cent to the government.
It was monstrous ; it was impractic-
able. His coadjutors in the Council
of State remonstrated with him, but
in vain ; a like tax he had imposed
on his own little town of Alva, and
why should it not be equally feasible
in the great commercial cities of the
^etheriands? But commerce was
better able to protect itself than
heresy, and it raised such a storm
about the generaPs ears that he
at length seemed very willing to
escape from these Flemish citizens;
and Philip, who had no other re-
source than to appoint new men —
being utterly incapacitated for the
reception of new ideas — was equally
willing to recall him.
It is time we torn to the opposite
and patriot camp. Amongst the
brave, jovial, gallant, rich, but
thoughtless nobility of Flanders,
there was one man of earnest pur-
pose, keen insight, heroic persever-
ance, whose mind expanded as events
developed themselves, who finally
devoted himself to the cause of the
people — of freedom civil and religious
— the Prince of Orange. He too, as
we first catch sight of him, is the
magnificent nobleman, sumptuous,
munificent, of generous natnre, and a
lover of justice, and withal as pro-
fonndlv versed as Philip himself in
what he called the art of government
— but not apparently possessed by
any great principle of action. As,
704
Motley's Dutch Republic,
[Drt.
however, his own life matures, and
as the crisis of public affairs ap-
S roaches, he takes upon himself the
ill solemnity of the times; he be-
comes the worthy leader of that great
movement, whioh is agitating, in a
vagne and distracted manner, all
classes of the community : he devotes
himself till death to a great cause.
His son is seized, and detained by
the court of Spain as a hostage ; his
vast revenues are spent in the levying
of troops to resist the Duke of Alva,
and bribes of princely wealth are
held out to him ; but he is pledged
to his work, and sacrifices all, pa-
rental affection, and finally life itself,
to his great canse.
His early edncation was more
adapted to develop his talents than
his moral nature, but it was evident-
ly preparing him for the great task
he was to accomplish. At an early
age he entered as page into the ser-
vice of Charles V., and the Emperor,
recognizing the ability and discretion
of his prince-page (for he had already
come into possession of his title and
estates), delighted to have him fre-
quently in his presence, and retained
him even when the greatest affairs
wdre discussed with his ministers, or
when he gave audiences of the most
confidential kind. The youth grew
up with a knowledge of men and
things that is rarely acquired. At
an age when most men are gazing in
foolish wonder at the spectacle of
courts and governments, he had been
introduced behind the scones, and
understood what men were, and what
their real motives, and how common
a flesh and blood hides beneath the
velvet and the ermine. Nor did the
Emperor trust his shrewd and silent
observer in the cabinet only; he
trusted him also in the field. Before
the Prince was twenty-one, he was
appointed, during the absence of the
Duke of Savoy, to be general-in-
chief of the army on the French
frontier. After the Emperor s death
he was equally trusted by Philip,
being employed to negotiate the peace
with France. He was one of the
hostages selected by Henry of France
for the due fulfilment of the treaty.
It was at this period that the
incident occnrred which is said to
have procured him the name of the
"Silent." He and Henry, while
hunting in the wood of Viiioem^
found themselves together, sstanto:
from the rest of the oompany ; i>:
the French King, oondndiog tbsdt tk
envoy of Philip was privy to a£ fab
designs, began to open his mind '^
the great scheme which he was tkr
secretly framing with hia brother rf
Spain. The two zealous momrefe
were solemnly to pledge tbem9e>«
for the extirpation of heresy in tbar
several kingdoms, and that by tLe
decisive process of a massacre of ths
heretics, "that aocnrsed vermiB."
The French King proceeded to ^
cuss the details of this most reKgicKa
plot. The Prince was silent, and kepc
his countenance ; and earned his nairn
of "Silent," from the manner is
which he received th\s blondeiio;
confidence of the King. The ttorr
wears an apocryphal air. The Priw*
of Orange was not yet a Protestaol
and the confidence, therefore, was t^x
80 strangely misplaced ; and a nick*
name is not given from a traB&&>
tion, which at the time is know?
only to a few persons, for the Priue*
of Orange would not talk of thk
But if Henry of France did mskt
this indiscreet revelation, we may be
sure that Orange would not fkil to
reflect upon it at an after period,
when he was engaged in the conffic:
with Philip. It was a lesson, if U
needed one, of what kind of "haJf
alliance " the Ohristian sovereigns of
his epoch were capable of formin|c.
As Stsdtholder of Holland, Frxas-
land, and Utrecht, it fell npon hiio
to carry oot the polioy of the Spanish
monarch in his treatment of herecies:
he received secret instmctions to
enforce the edicts against all the
sectaries without distinction, and
with the utmost rigonr. From s
mere sense of humanity and justice,
he was &r less severe than Philip
required; still he gave orders to et*
force conformity with the ancient
Church. He was rich, powerfiil,
young; a luxurious and princelr
life lay before him. His bospitaiirj,
like his fortune, was almost r^
" Twenty-four noblemen and eighteen
pages of gentle birth officiated rcgo-
larly in his family." It was a daily
banquet in his household, and tbs
generous host of winning maniier
and address, was beloved and hon-
oured by all It waa not at tliii
8^9.]
MoiUyU Dutch SepuUie.
ro5
period of life, that he was disposed
o regard the sectaries with any other
eeling than that of oompassion, min-
gled probably with some degree of
jontempt.
Bnt, while mingling with all the
est! Titles sni table to his age and
'ank, he evidently kept his head clear,
ind his heart free from any of the
nalignant passions of the time. All
>artie3 trusted him. The Protest-
Lnts looked for justice at his hsnds ;
he Dachess-regeut knew that she
lad in him a friend to order and
^ood goYernment, and had recourse
rom time to time to his mediation
(71 th the cities she had provoked
ilmost beyond endnrance. He en-
leavoared to moderate his own party
nrhen he saw their proceedings as-
mTning an insurrectionary character,
^hen Brederode, at the head. of a
innierous procession, presented what
nras called the Beque$t to the Duch-
ess, it was the presence of Orange
hat preyented the circumstance from
eading to serious disturbance. It
nras this Bequest, as our readers may
remember, that gave rise to the fam-
>U8 name of The Beggars^ which the
young nobility chose to assume for
bbemselves. The Councillor Berlay-
mont is reported to have said to the
Duchess pK>inting to the multitude
that accompanied this petition: —
^^ What, madam I is it possible that
your highness can entertain fears of
these beggars?^' (gueux). At a magni-
ficent repast that took place shortly
after, over which Brederode presided,
that far too boisterous champion of
liberty, repeating the offensive ex-
pression of Councillor Berlaymont,
exclaimed, '^They call us B^garsl
Let us accept the name; we will
contend with this Inquisition till' we
all wear the beggar's sack!'* He
then beckoned to one of his pages,
who brought him a leathern wallet
and a large wooden bowl, such as
were worn and used by professional
mendicants, and slinging the wallet
round his neck, and filling the bowl
with wine, he lifted the ungainly
goblet with both his hands, and
drained it at a draught. ^^ Long live
the beggars 1" (Vivent le$ gueuxl)
he cried, as he wiped his beard and
set down the bowl. "Then," says
Mr. Motley, ^ for the first time, from
the lips of those reckless nobles, rose
the famous cry which was so often to
ring over land and sea, amid blazing
cities, on blood-stained decks, through
the snooke and carnage of many a
stricken field." Amidst shouts of
laughter and applause Brederode
threw the wallet round the neck
of his nearest neighbour, and handed
him the wooden bowl. Each guest
in turn took the knapsack, and, push-
ing aside the gold and silver plate
before him, filled the capacioifs wood-
en bowl, and drank the heggan ! The
new shibboleth was invented. While
the tumult was at its height, the
Prince of Orange with some other
nobles entered the apartment. He
was immediately surrounded by the
"beggars," these bacchanalian pa-
triots, and compelled to drink their
toast, though, in the confusion of the
scene, its meaning was still unex-
plained to him. He drank a cup of
wine with them, but used bis infin-
ence to prevail upon them to break
up their dangerous festivities.
On every occasion he is seen to be
the friend of order and authority, so
long as these do not violate the most
palpable claims of justice and hu-
manity. It is astonishing how the
country began to look upon this
man, as if flieir hope lay with him.
Thus it is in disastrous times; if
the multitude will, by their fidelity
to the greatest amongst them, make
him strong^ they find a pillar of
strength on which they themselves
can lean. Antwerp is in a state bor-
dering on insurrection. The preach-
ers of the new faith are forbidden
the churches, the cliapels, the public
rooms, the public streets — are driven
from the city; the people encamp
without the walls, and listen to their
preachers there. The sermon, we
may be sure, is none the less stirring
for being listened to in a half-rebelli-
ous spirit ; nor is the city quieted be-
cause it takes its intoxicating draught
of spiritual enthusiasm without the
walls. What can the presence of
one man do, who brings with him
neither arms to terrify, nor power to
revoke the destructive and fanatic
measures of the King 7 Yet the whole
city of Antwerp calls for the Prince
of Orange. And the Duchess en-
treats him to use his mediatorial in-
fluence. He goes, and is received as
a saviour. Some brief period of
706
MotUy*9 IhOek JUpfOUe.
P*
peace follows, bat the insane resolu-
tion of the Spanish monarch oannot
be shaken. Only through war, and
war of the most terrible kijid, can
peace finally be secured.
Not only between Protestant and
Catholic, bat between Lutheran and
CalTioist, he has to act as mediator.
The true principle of toleration seems
to be embraced by no one— certainly
by no party or sect. He does em-
brace it^ contends for it against friend
and foe. At a second visit to Antwerp,
it falls on him to prevent a civil war
between Lutheran and Oalvinist
The storm rages higher, and Orange
erects himself to meet it. The pupil
of Charles Y. knows well what man-
ner of men he bas to deal with ; no
simulation or hypocrisy of the Spanish
court can deceive him ; to him it is
clear as day that there can be no
amity with the King except by re-
linquishing entirely all freedom, civil
and religious. He oasts in his lot
with the people. His friend Coont
Egmont still hoped to combine loyal-
ty with patriotism. Very touchmg,
indeed, is the parting that now takes
place between the two friends. Orange
m vain tries to open the eyes of
Egmont to the true character of the
King of Spain. Loyal and generous
himself, he cannot believe that Philip,
who treated him so courteously and
hospitably daring that visit, so un-
fortunate for his own fame and
honour, which he paid the court at
Madrid, means his rain and destrao-
tion. Alva has now come upon the
scene. Orange knows well that both
he and Egmont are proscribed men.
But Egmont is fatally deluded.
'^ Alas 1 Egmont," said the Prince,
" the King's clemency, of which you
boast^ will destroy you: would that
I might be deceived ; -but I foresee
too clearly that you are to be the
bridge which the Spaniards will de-
stroy so soon as they have passed
over it to invade the country." With
these words he concluded his vain
appeal to awaken the Count from his
fatal security. "Then, as if per-
suaded that he was looking upon his
friend for the Inst time, William of
Orange threw his arms around Eg-
mont, and held him for a moment in
a dose embrace. Tears fell from the
eyes of both at this parting moment;
and then, the brief scene of simple
and lofty pathos temdnsted, Egocs:
and ^Oranjge separated frum esd
other, never to meet*agmiii on earth'
The " bridge" was very littk oaed;
its destraction seemed the mun ihm
that was plotted. Philip wrote w
the Count m the moat frteodly^^
after the commission had beak gira
to Alva to arrest him and the oti»
nobles of his party. Thus, in spits
of many admonitions — some of tkc:
even from Spaniards — the nuh^^
Count was lured to hia destnictks.
Alva was enabled very dextro^T
to accomplish his arre^. He b*l
however, the mortification to fi^
that the man whom ahove all otltas
it was necessary for him to captore,
had escaped. The ex- minister, tbe
Cardinal, on hearing that Orax^hid
not been seized, said very truly, ""Thai
if Orange had escaped, they baidtaka
nobody, and that his captme ^€^
have been more valuable than thai ^
every man in the N^etherlands."
The contest had now become ear-
nest indeed. It was no longer a weik
woman who held the regency; s
was the most oonsommate geooii
and the most inflexible man th£
Philip could have selected who dov
held the Netherlands onder a militsir
despotism. Orange declared vtr
against this tyrant, levied troops b
Germany, expended all his resocrees
to bring an army into the field ; \m
through the masterly generabbip ^
Fabian tactics of Alva, he was doom-
ed to see the season pass, and fas
troops disband, without effecting uj-
thing. The Prince of Orange gaitf
no victories in the open field. Hardlj
any great man has accomplished «
much with so few snccesses. But per-
severance through advtt«ity, tbroogii
defeat, through calamny and slaodt?,
met with its reward. He tnetal
always to his sacred canse, and ut
that he and it must be under tbe
providence of God. And this is tbe
place to mention that he had now eis-
braoed, with a sober and sincere teal,
the Reformed faith ; thus arming him-
self completely for the grett ta^
committed to him. We have no &^
count here of the gradual etop^oihs
conversion. Mr. Motley veiy jodici-
ously observes that tbe real inctdeatB
of his life, and not religious contro-
versy, led, in all probability, to tiw
ohange. Feeling the neoeaaty iat
859.]
MotlyyU Dutch Sspuhlie.
ror
he support of religion, and feeling
his neea at a time when two forms of
)hristianity presented themselves for
lis selection, he preferred the Pro-
estant. A Oatholic may suggest
hat he chose the religion of i&at
)arty with which his own fortunes
vere henceforth to he hound up—
hat his was, in fact, a political con-
rersion ; hut his after life, and the
enor of his private correspondence,
>roYe him to have become sincerely
ind zealously pious. To us the choice
^eems Tery natural : he who had seen
lo much of priests — though perhaps
>f the higher and not the more
spiritual oi5er — was not likely (if he
)onId adopt another) to select that
form of Christianity in which a priest-
iiood stands hetween the human soul
sind its God. He would prefer the
theology which led him at once into
communion with Gk>d and Christ, to
that which put a priestly confessor
beside him to dog his footsteps evexy
moment of his life. One thing is
Indisputable, and highly to his glory ;
— ^both for Catholics and Protestants,
for Lutherans and Calyinists, he
claimed liberty of thought, freedom
of worship, the full and manly enun-
ciation of every sincere conriction*
He was misunderstood even by his
own party ; his noble sense of jnstice
was often traduced as lukewarmness
and irreligion. Peter Dathenns, a
fiery zealot who for some time exerted
an overbearing influence from the
pulpit of Ghent, denounced him as
*^an atheist in heart, — as a man
who knew no God but state expedi-
ency, which was the idol of his wor-
ship.^' And a far more temperate
Protestant, St. Aldegonde, seemed
incapable of comprehending that
there was any necessity to preach
toleration to those of the Reformed
faith ; he evidently cannot under-
stand that ^^ religious peace'' at
which the Prince was aiming, that
mutual forbearance, that freedom of
restraint far all in matters purely
religions. "The Prince." he says
complainingly, in one of his letters —
and the complaint remains an honour
to his misapprehended leader — '^ The
Prince has uttered reproaches to me
that our clergy are striving to obtain
a mastery over consciences. He
praised lately the saying of a monk,
who was not long here, that onr pot
had not goue to the fire as often as that
of our antagonists, but that, when tJie
time came, it would be black enough.
In short, the Prince fears that after
a few centuries the clerical tyranny
on both sides will stand in this re-
spect on the same footing."
The Prince of Orange Jived to see
Holland and Zealand obtain, throush
many trials and the fiercest struggle,
their independence ; and had just
accepted some modified sovereignty
of these provinces, under the title of
Count, when his assassination took
place. We regret to find how con-
spicuous a part his old opponent,
Cardinal Granyelle, plays in this
transaction. It is he, it seems, who
whispered into the King's ear the
expediency of removing the Prince
by the assassinatioD. He couples the
advice with a base calumny against
the courage of the man whose life
was one constant exposure to danger.
He was in favour of publicly setting
a price upon his head — ofiering a re-
ward of thirty or forty thousand
crowDs to any one who would deliver
up the Prince dead or alive ; and he
added, " as the Prince of Orange is a
vile coward, fear alone will throw him
into confusion." Thus writes, thus
counsels, the priest; and the King,
who was not difficult to persuade on
such an occasion, accordingly pub-
lished what is called his '* ban,'' in
which, after enumerating the offences
of Orange, after banishing and put-
ting him out of the pate of law, he
continues thus : " And if any one of
our subjects, or any stranger, should
be found sufficiently generous of
heart to rid us of this pest^ deliver-
ing him to us alive or dead, or taking
his life, we will cause to be furnished
to hini, immediately after the deed
shall have been done, the sum of
twenty-five thousand crowns in gold.
If he have committed any crime, how-
ever heinous, we promise to pardon
him ; and ^ hehe not already noble,
toe will ennoble him for hu talour?^
Thus, says Mr. Motley, by Cardinal
Granvelle and by Philip, a price was
set upon the head of the foremost
man of his age, ns if he had been a
savage beast, and admission into the
ranks of Spain's haughty nobility
was made the additional bribe to
tempt the assassin.
Balthazar Gerard, the miserable
708
Motley'i DuUK SepttbUo.
IPt
creature who executed this royal
ban, had been already led by his
fanaticism to believe that the mur-
der of the arch -rebel and arch-
heretic, as he thought the Prince,
would be a work of supereminent
piety. If now, wealth and nobility
in this world were to be added to the
highest honours in the next, why
should he any longer delay to strike ?
On the one hand there was the im-
minent risk of being captured after
the blow was struck, or the shot
fired, and being put to a most orQel
death ; but, on the other hand, there
was a great prize to be gained, and
there was every satisfaction that an
orthodox Catholic could require for
his conscience. His King commanded
— his confessor approved. When he
confided his scheme to the regent of
the Jesuit college, ^'that dignitary
expressed high approbation of the
plan, gave Gerard his blessing, and
promised him that, if his life should
be sacrificed in achieving his pur-
pose, he should be enrolled amongst
the martyrs." Under a false name
and character he contrived to gain
admission into the house of the
Prince of Orange, who was then re-
silling in the little town of Delft.
He represented himself as a Protest-
ant, and the son of a Protestant who
had suffered death for his religion.
*•*• A pious, psalm-singing, thoroughly
Calvinistic youth he seemed to be,
having a Bible or a hymn-book un-
der his arm whenever he walked the
street^ and most exemplary in his
attendance at sermon and lecture.
For the rest, a singularly unobtrus-
ive personage, twenty -seven years of
age, low of stature, meagre, mean-
▼isaged, muddy - complexioned, and
altogether a man of no account."
His appearance had so little pre-
possessed the then Begent of the
Jfetherlands, the Prince of Parma
(who had advanced money to villains
of all nations, who had spent it and
done nothing), that he refused to
lend him any assistance, and he was
absolutely so poor that he received
as charity from William of Orange
the means of purchasing the pistols
by which the assassination was to be
committed. With money thus pro-
cured, he bought a pair of pistols, or
small carabines, from a soldier, cW-
fering long about the price. On the
following day, it la emd tluit tibe id-
dier stabbed himself to the heart ifid
died despairing, on hearing for nhA
purpose the pistola had been boii^.'
The shot was fired as the ?nset
wa^ passing from the dining-TOcsi ^
his own private apartmexLt& Tbea
balls entered his body. He opiitd
in a few minutes. ^' O my God, kvi
mercy upon my soul I O my God,
have mercy upon thia poor peopkr
were the last worda he nttered.
Thus expired a man who saj
Justly be called Great ; for the title
is then most legitixnatelj mp^td
when one in a high statioii, or m-
dowed with great po'v^eia, devotai
himself to a noble cauae. Ihe ndss-
able assassin, with his meagre fnsx
and contemptible appearance, had, «
all events, that species of coonge a
endurance which we find in p6I;fe^
tion in the wild Indian. He bad
almost made his eacape ; he lad
reached the ramparta, from which k
intended to spring into the moO,
when he stumbled over a hei^ d
rubbish and fell. Thia led to ia
capture. From that moment he wai
calm as a martyred saint, snpporcis;
every species of torture that coaM U
devised with an equanimity ao so^
prising that it was thongfat nnaD-
countable, except on the groond of
witchcraft and sorcery. He -w
clothed, therefore, " in the shirt cia
hospital patjent,'' that being a chars
against sorcery, and tortored anew;
but even in the shirt he manifested tbs
same apparent impassiveneaa to pun.
To pass in review a history of tk
Revolt of the Netherlands, witbact
dwelling at all on the many terribk
sieges and massacres that di^
guished it, seems a strange oni]S6io&;
it would be an omission stiB las
justifiable if we were to quit J{r.
Motley^s work without giving snr
idea of the spirited and poweifbl
manner in which he has described
the horrors of this civil war. Does
the reader remember the siege of
Leyden f Probably he does;, yet oot
so vividly but that he will read iht
account of it in these volomes with
keen interest
We instance the siege of Ley^eo,
not only from the quite peculiar or-
cumstanoes that attended i^ bot
because, happily, it does not end in
one of those fearful maasacrcsi when
869.]
MotUy'i Dutch lUpublic,
709
meltj, lost, and brutality, take their
ao6t exaggerated form, and of which
ve necessarily have to read here till
ve recoil frois the page. We abridge
dr. Motley *8 account.
"Xieyden was now dertioed to pass
hrough a fi«ry ordeal. This city was
•ue of the most beaatiful in the Nether-
ands. Placed in the midst of broad and
ruitful pastures, which had been re-
1 aimed oy the hand of industry from
lie bottom of the sea, it was fringed with
iniling Tillages, blooming gardens, fruit^
ul orchards. The ancient, and, at last,
lecrepit Rhine, flowing languidly to-
i^ards its sandy bed,* had been imulti-
>lied into innumerable artificial currentS|
)y which the city was completely inter-
aced. These watery streets were shaded
>y lime trees, poplars, and willows, and
crossed by one hundred and forty-five
^ridgee^ mostly of hammered stone. The
mouses were elegant^ the squares and
streets spacious, airy, and clean, the
shurches and public edifices imposing,
tvhile the whole aspect of the place sug-
gested thrift, industry, and comfort
ijpon an artificial elevation in the centre
>f the city rose a ruined tower of un-
known antiquity. By some it was con-
sidered to be of Roman origin, while
others preferred to regard it as the work
of the Anglo-Saxon Hengist, raised to
commemorate his conquest of England.
Surrounded by fruit-trees, and over-
grown in the centre by oaks, it afforded
from its mouldering battlements a
charming prospect over a wide expanse
of level country, with the spires of
neighbouring cities rising in every direc-
tion. It was from this commanding
beight, during the long and terrible
sunimer da^'s which were approaching,
that many an eye was to be strained
anxiously seaward, watching if yet the
ocean had begun to roll over the land."
This fair city was completely in-
vested by the Spanish army under
Valdez. The Prince of Orange had
no troops which could encounter the
enemy with the least chance of suc-
cess. There was no possible way of
throwing provisions into the town.
Famine must exterminate the inha-
bitants, unless the sea, which was
twenty miles distant, could be brought
up to the walls of the city I The
sea, bearing the Dutch fleet to their
assistance through those meadows
and oudying villages, was their only
hope. Such was the plan of the
Prince of Orange, and such the des-
S irate expedient that the States of
olland were willing to sanction.
Rather let the whole land be sunk
than the nation be enslaved! But
the Prince of Orange lay ill of a fever
in Rotterdam, and the work went
on slowly, and to many the expe-
dient seemed altogether wild and
visionary. "Go up to the tower,
ye Beggars.! '^ was the taunting cry
of some in the city who were the
opponents of the Prince, — " Gro up to
the tower, and tell us if ye can see the
ocean coming over the dry land to
your relief?" And day after day
they did go up to the ancient tower
of Hengist with heavy heart and
anxious eye, watching, hoping, pray-
ing, fearing, and at last almost des-
pairing of relief by God and man.
But the Prince recovered from his
illness, and the necessary prepara-
tions were vigorously resumed. Ad-
miral Boissot got his vessels together,
with eight hundred veteran sailors
—the " sea-beggars "—renowned far
and wide for their nautical skill and
ferocious courage; he also collected
good store of provisions for the
starving city< The dykes were de-
stroyed, and the flotilla made its
way fifteen miles up the country to
the strong dyke cidled the Land-
scheiding ; and there it was arrested.
Between this and Leyden were seve-
ral other dykes; and, moreover, the
Spaniards were encamped there, or
IcKlged in forts. The Land-scheid-
ing, however, was vigorously seized
on by the Dutch, was broken through
in several places, and the fleet sailed
on. Then came another dyke, the
"Green- way," and that was seized
and opened, and the fleet still passed
inland. But now the sea, which had
thus fJEir borne them on, diffused itself
under an adverse wind, and became
too shallow for the ships.
** Meantime the besieged city was at
its last gasp. The burghers had been
in a state or uncertainty for many daysi
They knew that the wind was unfavour-
* The reader may observe here (if he cares to notice it) an instance of that poe-
tical or metaphorical style by which we have ventured to intimate Mr. Motley
does not improve his descriptions. If he would take a hint fh)m us, he would
Avoid all indulffenoe in poetic fancy, and let his eloquence be under the sole inspi-
ration and guidance of strong feelmgs and strong facta.
MotUy*$ Dutch Bepuhlie.
710
able ; and at the dawn of each day every
eye was turned wistfolly to the vanes of
the steeples. Bo long as the easterly
breeze prevailed, they felt, as they anxi-
ously stood on towers and house*>topfl,
that they must look in vain for the wel-
come ocean. Yet, while thus patiently
waiting, they wore literally starvhig ; for
even the misery eodured at Haarlem had
not reached that depth and intensity of
agony to which Leyden was now re-
ducei The daily mortality was fright-
ful The pestilence now stalked
at noonday through the city, and the
doomed inhabitants fell like grass be-
neath its scythe. From six thousand to
eight thousand human beings sank be-
fore this scourge alone ; yet the people
resolutely held out — women ana men
mutually encouraging each other to resist
the entrance of their foreign foe — an evil
more horrible than pest or famine. Ley-
den was sublime in its despair. A few
murmurs were, however, occasionally
heard at the steadfastness of the magis-
trates, and a dead body was placed at
the door of the burgomaster, as a silent
witness against his inflexibility. A party
of the more faint-hearted even assailed
the heroic Adrian van der Werf with
threats and reproaches as he passed
through the streets. A crowd had ga-
thered around him as he reached a tri-
angular place in the centre of the town,
into which many of the principal streets
emptied themselves. There stood the
burgomaster— a Ull, haggard, imposing
figure, with dark visage, and a tranquil
but commandine eye. He waved his
broad-leaved feU hat for silence, and
then exclaimed, in a language which has
been almost literally preserved—' What
would ye, my friends I Why do ye mur-
mur that we do not break our vows and
surrender the city to the Spaniards? — ^a
fate more horrible than the agony she
now endures. I tell you I have made
An oath to hold the city, and may God
give me strength to keep my oath I I
can die but once, whether by your hand,
the enemy's, or by the hand of God. My
own fate is indififereut to me, not so that
of the city intrusted to my care. I
know that we shall starve if not soon
relieved ; but starvation is preferable to
the dishonoured death which is the only
alteniative. Your menaces move me
not ; my life is at your disposal ; here is
my sword, plunge it into my breast, and
divide my flesh among you. Take my
body to appease your hunger, but expect
no surrender so long as I remain alive t*''
But the wind rose, and the sea
with it, and at a fortunate coiguno-
ture, a panic dispersed their enemies,
P>«.
and the relieving fleet sailed into tk
city! The quays were lined wit^
the famishing population, sod frco
every vessel bread "vras thiwra
amongst the crowd. Sonfte choked
them^ves to death with tbe foc4
thus snddenly presented to the^
By the spontaneona moTeznest g^
the multitude, or aa a measore wi^eib
ordained to calm the oTer-€xd»-
ment of the moment, all the inhabi-
tants, the magistratea and eitzsKa
the sailors and the soldi^^ repaird
to the great church, there to be:^
in humble gratitude before the Ki::^
of kings. Thousands of voices ral-^
the thanksgiving hymn ; bat tk
imiversal emotion became too fi".
for utterance — ^the hymn was abrupt-
ly suspended, and the maltitade w€^
like children.
Surely no people ever won is
f^^om through greater ^Torts, ^-
ferings, and sacrifices than these
United Provinces of the Netheriaa^
God forbid that any European lo-
tion should again pass through m
terrible an ordeal; still it is insm^
tive, and it stirs the heart to ka?:
what men con do and auSer ii. i
righteous cause.
With the death of Orange ten>
nates the first instalment which lir.
Motley has given as of his historj.
The remaining pordon will tMi
more especially of the- acta and tbe
career of the Dutch Republic. Tbee
will be the fit occasion to offer sooe
remarks on the ^^ place in histoir^
of this famous republic; ifs C
Europe, and England especially, owc»
a great debt to Holland. We trt
accustomed, and with justice, to ssj
at the present epoch, that Eo^aoi
teaches practically, to the rest d
Europe, how £eir the pare govermoesi
of equal laws can be estabUsbo!
without interference of arbitrarr
power. There was a time wbn
England learned this leaaon of H^
land;— not to mention that itwa^i
stadtholder of Holland who came tJ
our liberation at a time when vt
could not have borne a republic, vA
when we should have looked in vsit
to any other quarts for a liben!
sovereign. No other qoarter in £s-
rope could have grown or edocued
the man we wanted. We sfaail ex-
pect with much Interest the reaaia*
ing volumes of 2iCr. Motley's Hiitor.
1859.] The National QcIUry^ms Purpose and Management
in
THE NATIONAL GALLERY — ^TTS PURPOSB AND HANAGKHBNT.
The management of the National
QaHery has long been the chosen
subject for abase. Sometimes the
oatcry is raised that pictures have
been flayed and destroyed under the
murderous hand of cleaners and re-
storers— sometimes that mere copies
have been imposed upon the Trustees
in the place of originals ; and then,
again, that the pnblio money has
been squandered in tho porcha.«e of
a class of works more calculated to
corrupt than to improve the public
taste. Snch charges are but too
easily made in the matter of picture-
dealing, in which the dealer is often
the designing knave — the purchaser,
it may be, a too credulous dupe — the
general public, in great measure, in-
competent judges — and even the ac-
complished and qualified few a court
of doubtful appeal, constituted pos-
sibly of opinions the most diversified.
It were, then, almost vain to pre-
sume to adjudicate on these much
vexed questions, which even piN*-
liamentary committees have fatled
to solve, save by that oblivion which
notoriously shrouds all subjects com-
mitted to " Blue-book'* custody.
Pictures have an existence only
less painfully sensitive than that of
the artist- painter himself. You can
scarcely in a stndio venture to com-
pliment an artist on his work, in the
dread of wounding the delicacy of his
nature ; and you oan surely scarcely
venture to hang his picture in any gal-
lery, fh>m fear that an oblivious sha-
dow or some appidling light may mar
a cherished beauty. But these are evils
merely of the passing hour. Think
then, O gentle reader, of the accu-
mulated injuries heaped in the lapse
of centuries upon works by Raphael
which have been taken from panel
and transferred to canvas — upon pic-
tures by Gorreggio, roughly scoured
and then repainted — upon paintings
by Titian, tinned and scraped, and
then regla^sed. Ponder, we say, on
the delicate sensitive existence of
a picture— those lines so lovingly
traced by the band of Raphael, lines
upon which the spirit • world of
I beauty intones its gentlest harmonies
VOU LXXZTI.
— think, too, of those lustrous fanes
of radiant glory, tempered by th«
cool of grateful shade, which in
Titian seem to exult in all the life
and fulness uf voluptuous pleasure;
and then raise your lamentations
over the ravages of time — rata
pouring in by skylight — heat and
cold, with fever and with chill, rack-
ing each delicate member — ravages
but rendered still more fatal by re-
storations which man comes merci-
lessly to inflict. Is it a wonder^
then, that from every gallery la
Europe the outcry is raised against
the havoc which time and man have
thus committed? In Madrid, Ford
tells as that the pictures have beea
absolutely flayed and mas^^acred. Ih
Dresden, likewise, it is but too evi-
dent that the great Oorreggios have
suffered violence. In the Pitt I of
Florence, the palace -like polish of
well- kept surface can only be main-
tained by doctoring ce()arations. In
the far-famed Tribune, in the same
city, we have been ourselves askei
to expose the system which now,
under the plea of restorations, threat-
ens the great masterpieces with stiH
further destruction. Thus it ea«
easily be understood that there is
scarcely a picture in Europe over
which Raphael once lovingly doted
— scarcely a work in which the great
masters have poured out the fulness
of their spirit, or apportioned with
costless pains a priceless labour —
that has not been marred or mas-
sacred either by time or the hand oT
man.
These considerations must certainly
materially affect the ' character and
quality of any national gallery which
is now attempted to be formed. The
great works of which we have spoken
as injqred, and sometimes all but de-
stroyed, are still justly deemed such
priceless treasures as to be withheld
from our reach. They never come
into the market^ and cannot be
bonght at any price. The raanagere
of our National Gallery are then ne-
cessarily, in thefr selection, reduced
to a class of works, it may be, hid in
convents or held in private hands,
46
712
The NatioMd GaUery^iU Purpou and ManagemetU. [Det
the history and pedigree of which
are probably Bomewhat donbtfol.
The great masters, it is well koowD,
were aided by numerous scholars,
and hence it is that countless works
are found not only in Italy but
throughout Europe, which presume
to bear the master's name, but
which were, in fact, executed only
by his pupils. We are told that a
scholar of Baphael made a copy of
one of his master^s works, which even
Baphael himself mistook for an ori-
ginal. Let us, then, for a moment
look at the difficulties which beset
the formation of any national gal-
lery. In the first place, the great
and important pictures are now pro-
verbially difficult to obtain. In the
next place, it is not always possible
to determine whether any given work
has been executed by master or
scholars. And then, again, a onoe
original picture may have been so
injured by time, and so far repainted
by reetorers, as to leave little or
nothing of the master's hand. Such,
indeed, are the difficulties which beset
the purchase of pictures, such the
snares deliberately cast with the
purpose to entrap, that even the
most wary and the best informed
must occasionally be deceived. It
may, therefore, be matter even of
surprise that, in the lengthened his-
tory of our National Gallery, more
errors have not been committed.
Without going into the details of
any given charge, we may, in the
very necesnty of the case, almost
take it for granted that some unwise
purchases have occasionally been
made. We would say, however, let
- these be forgotten in the remem-
brance of the great and invaluable
works which of kte years have been
wisely secured, forming at length for
this country a National Gallery of
pictures worthy of its name and pur-
pose. We have, for example, secured
one of the largest and choicest works
of Paul Veronese. We have become
the fortunate possessors of a Perugino,
which, for purity of spurit and b^nty
of colour, is scarcely surpassed in
Europe. We have purchased, more-
over, in Florence a series of early
Italian pictures, which gives to our
Gallery that historic ba& which is
essential to accurate knowledge and
study. The authoritier^ . (hen, is
these and other serrices may id^.
we think, appeal tx) the grand gcsen!
result, against any minor errm vkidi
may have been laid to their dmrp.
The difficulties in the formatJoB tf
a national gallery are, as we hai?
seen, so great, the poaiibilitia «f
error so many, that ii u sosraelj »
prising that the anthoritica mtroid
with the management, should hue
been made the victlmB of eooEUc:
and inveterate attack. It is nc
easy for Mr. Coningbam in the Bocs
of Commons to denoonoe eenit
works as *' viUanoas.** It ootaislj
is not difficult for any oonBoiasBK.
even the most BhaIlow» to write ic
anonymous letter to the Timts eka^
nating some recent purchase u i
wretched daub. Aod all this, as!
much more, is easj and tenptar
afibrdioff a ready ro!ad to noisy t£^
riety, because both hearen c:
readers in the House, and bra
its doors, are self-eikBowed witli i
capacity to judge of all snttenit
latin^ to pictures and the fioe it
just m proportion to the dteettf
their ignorance. It was oscc id
said by Mr. Labonchefe that tit
House of ComaM>iw never appoe
to less advantage than when it fB
itself to discuss the merits of t
picture. And a late Chaaeelkir i \
the Exchequer, the preseot Stet
tary for the Home Office, stated c
his place in Parliament, that
had learned by exnerieooe
was scarcely a duty m
to discharge than that of bmaf
pictures for the National GtiieiT
for himself, he declared thtt It
would infinitely rather ne^te i
loan for ten millions sterling, tkt
he would undertake to purchifti
single picture." On these ocaseii
when the wisdom of the Hobk d
Commons condescends to diaeoas t^
merits of the fine arts in geoenlf^
the mansgeraent of the Natiooi! i^'
lery in particular, Lord Elcfao vsf^l
leads the attack, and wins the Hcftt
by ready wit and pleasant U^'
often, it may be feared, at theezpei^
of better reason. Hr. Caas^
follows, quotes his frieod )^
Moore, and relies greatly oo ais^ ,
pamphlets published inBeriiail^
Dr. Waagcm Dr. Wa^en, !«*»
thatt^
difis:
1859.]
The Naiiorud Oallery^iU Purpose and Management
713
with Sir Charles EasUake, and
especially Mr. Moodier, the late tra-
Telling agent, are the Ymfortnoate
objects of abose. Finally, at the end
of a Doiay debate victory is pnrchased
upon teroQB which can only be regard-
ed as disastroQsly fktal to the victors
themselves. A false appeal has been
made to prejudice both within the
House and beyond its doors^ and votes
and public opinion may be then bat
too readily secnred npon those purely
democratic principles, under which
overwhelming ignorance always con-
stitutes a numerical majority. Bat
the victory, we again repeat, is fatal
and humiliatmg to the victors them-
selves. True lovers of art, we
venture to say, are amazed. Respon-
sible Ministers stand aghast, finding
their wisely-matured plans of public
administration overturned by the
capricious blast of popular prejadioe.
But what matter can it be to
financial reformers, ballot-box mong-
ers, and the Manchester school of
cheap cotton, what fate befalls the
arts of their country, or whether,
indeed, in London there be a National
Gallery at all ?
It is but right that the represen-
tatives of the people should keep
jealous guard over the public porse.
it is but fitting that the pnblic preset
ever eager in the people's service,
should expose any casual error into
which a pablic servant may have
fallen. An officer of hi^h integrity
and intelligence woald rejoice in the
subjection to such surveillattce. The
authorities of the National Gallery
have, however, this grave ground of
complaint^ that not only their casual
errors, but likewise their signal ser-
vices, have eqaally been laid to their
charge. It is this injustice which
has especially, to onr minds, prejudic-
ed the cause of their opponents, and
induced us to claim on their behalf
at least fair-play. Whatever work the
authorities may have selected for pur-
chase, their opponents have thought
fit systematically to condemn. In
Venice, for example, was a great' pic-
ture, towards which every traveller
invariably directed his gondola, as
it passed the Pisani Palace on the
Grand Canal. Tradition attached to
the work a pleasing story. Its great
pamter, Paul Yeronesey having been
hospitably entertained by the Pisani
family, the artist executed by stealth
this very work, and left it in conceal-
ment as an acknowledgment for the
hospitality he had received. And
here, in a large room of this Venetian
palace overlooking the Grand Oanal,
has this sumptuous work, by the
most gorgeous of Italian painters,
been long the admiration of vi\
travellers, the envy of every royal
collector. Goethe, towards the dose
of last century, in his well-known
letters, from Italy, tells us that he
''paid a visit to the palace Pisani
Moretta, for the sake of a charming
picture by Paul Veronese." He re-
lates the story of the picture's origin,
and then proceeds : ** Certainly, it well
deserves to have had a singular birUi,
for it serves. as an example of all the
peculiar merits (^ this master. The
great skill with which the artist
usaally distribates his light and
shade, and at the same time contrasts
his local colours, producing a delight-
ful harmony, yet without monotony,
is in this picture most strikingly
evident The work, besides, is m
excellent preservation, and stands
before us almost with the freshness
of yesterday." The King of Prussia
desired to obtain this great prize,
but failed. And Sir Charles East-
lake, tells us, that '* within the last
thirty years, sovereigns, public bod-
ies, and opulent individuals, have
in vain endeavoured to secure it"
The authorities of our own National
Gallery were, however, more succesB-
ful. Yet will it be credited that this
picture, even in Venice deemed a
masterpiece of one of her greatest
painters, no sooner reached the
shores of England than it was
hooted with even more than usual
abuse by the constituted opponents of
the Gallery 7 By some it was hinted,
that instead of an original work we
had obtained but an indifferent copy I
Others gave it as their opinion, that
this painting, for which the nation
had paid nearly £14,000, would not
fetch at London auction more than
£200011 And finally, Lord Elcho,
who aspires to be the leader of these
discontented dilettanti^ having given
in the House of Commons to both
these charges the force of farther
reiteration, fitly concludes a speedi
714
The National Gallery— Us Purpose and Management,
[Dr
borderiDg vpon the grotes^qae by
objecting to pay an eDormoos price
'*t'or a second-rate picture by a
eecood-rate master 1 1 " We need
scarcely say in conclasion, that by
criiicifiin such as this honourable mem-
bers condemn themselves. The an-
measured exaggeration of the attack
almost constitutes a defence. A pic-
ture which in Venice has been deemed
by all the world a grand masterpiece,
may certainly, when brought to Loo-
don, hold itself superior to noisy
clumoar. Works carefully collected
in Florence as gems of rarest masters,
may assuredly stand indifferent to a
praise or censure little worthy of the
areopagus of any modern Athena In
spite, however, of all this prejudiced
opposition, we rejoice to say that the
National Gallery now at length im-
partially represents all tastes, bow-
ever diversified; all wants, however
opposite ; includes all schools, all
nationalities, all climates, religions,
and tongues; and thus has attained
to that universality which may well
defy the noise of party, or the narrow-
ness of sect.
Let us now further inquire for what
purpose a national gallery should be
founded— let us determine what class
of pictures should be purchased by a
nation wishing to promote among its
people the knowledge and the cul-
ture of the arts. Now, it is evident
that two somewhat distinct principles
may guide the selection of appro-
priate works, and determine the cha-
racter and intent of the nation's cen-
tral gallery of instruction. On the
one band, it is probable that public
opinion may with some plausibility de-
ciiie that a national gallery, as a guide
and standard of public taste, form-
ing an essential part of a great cen-
tral school or academy of art, should
exclusively consist of roaster works,
which are themselves standards of
excellence. But opposed to this
plausible notion, there has been long
a growing opinion that even a gallery
thus constituted would be far from
complete and satisfactory. It hss
been felt that the greatest pictures
and painters have been in great mea-
sure historic products, belonging, no
less than poets and poems, states-
men and laws, to the times ^in which
they have been cast^ Great events
have been for the most part fw
shadowed, great men have bad tBc:
antecedents, and grand reTdati^
their forebodings. The Befon&Lt-c
of Luther was the revolt which f.-
lowed upon long years of d<ial£.':
discontent, the great Freoeh L
volution but the last Tolcaaic or
burst of internal firea. And «e Ksf
scarcely insist on the obvious pr»
position, that in order rigbiij t
estimate such historic cbaracten uc
phenomena, it is needfal to uL>of
stand the historic periods out ;'
which they have arisen — to tn^
admitted facta back to their eSc/i:
causes in preceding centarkit, ia
again forward to their oltisirf:
results in all succeediog timesw Net
it has been rightly felt that in ^JL^^
respects the arts form no exc^t.-:
to other branches of knowledge. I:
art, no less than in phiiosDp-;
science, or politics, it has been K<^.
impossible wholly to isolate a& j ^ .^
master or epoch. A Lather, a Bi: :
or a Newton, it is admitted, ma*: >
studied through the age in vht:
they lived. And so, in like maze
Raphael or Michael Angelo, toft:it'
with the great works pr<»ceediDgfrvT
their hands, can be rightly estuaitf
only by a comprehensive reviev •.' |
the times out of which they u» <
arisen, of the masters who ^^ '
their eontemporariesy of the tsry-
sculptors and painters who dr?-.
their historic ancestry, and evtn
those later men who are kcoiPCL-
their degenerate descendants. Ec«s
then, it will be understood vhj .
has been deemed needfal tiat i
national gallery should coosbt
works forming a historic m^^
progressive deTeloproaat, }»i^'
from the earlier periods of ooapsn*
tive immaturity down to those zxl>
masters whose supreme creanca*
constitute for art the last gkvj a.-
perfection. The student, we firu
repeat, can alone nnderstsnd ti^
genius of Raphael in its simplis;
yet maturity, when brongbt i&i
comparison and contrast with sli ^
inchoate crudity which went b^r
and all the showy ostentatioo vba:^
followed after. The stadent mi^ ?e
taught by failure, no less tbu; ^l
success. He must know how isa
men have fallen from lack of gecia
1859.] The National Gallery^its Purpose and Management
715
others from want of op|
He mnst be able to find, oo the walls
of the public gallery, pictares painted
in all times, even the most degraded
— pictures nevertbelesa justly prized
because tbey teach an important
lesson — show the deepest depth to
which the arts had fallen— and hence
tell of that progressive labour of
ages, that noble achievement of
genius, by which art at length be-
came divine, and accomplished for
man its highest mission.
Some of the most important and
instructive among the galleries of
Europe ane chiefly valuable by virtue
of that historic selection and ar-
rangement for the advantages of
which we are now contending. In
the Uffizi, and the Belle Arte in
Florence, the traveller or student
may trace the great Florentine school
of pointing, from its first rise with
Cimabue in the thirteenth century,
to its grand consummation with Fra
Bartolomeo, Raphael, and Michael
Angelo in the fourteenth snd fifteenth.
The gallery at Siena, in like manner,
is specially important as containing
the earlier works of that eminently
spiritual school, into which some of
the greatest Italian masters were
subsequently baptised. In Germany,
the gallery at Munich likewise is
chiefly prized for the unrivalled
Boisseree Collection of early German
works, extending from MeiAter Wil-
helm of Cologne, in the fourteenth
century, down to the more recent
pictures of Albert Durer and Holbein,
a series through which can be traced
the history and development of trans-
alpine art, in all the individuality of
its detail and the grotesqneness of its
character. Finally, in Berlin it is
well known that^ under the direction
of Dr. Waflgen, a gallery has been
collected and arranged pre§(ninently
historic in its basis— assigning to
each work its chronological position
— a gallery in which, therefore, may
be traced the rise and the progress of
pictorial art, and the laws which
govern its development. In the face,
then, of all objectors, we insist that
our own National Gallery should be
formed upon the same broad founda-
tions, that so it may secure for the
people of this country the like sound
and comprehensive instraction.
We have urged that art, like
science, philosophy, and other bran-
ches of knowledge, can only be
mastered and fully understood
through the records of its history
and the development of its chrt)-
nology. The full - flowing river,
which bears the commerce of the
world, must be traced back to its
firat precarious source ; we must
know what clouds have nurtured it
in infancy, what streams have fed it
on its way, what lands have been
watered by its floods ; and then,
whether it be the Nile giving fertility
to Egypt, or the Danube bearing the
commerce of Central Europe, we can
say this river we have made our own,
we understajid its ways and wander-
ings, we know its position and value
in the map of nations, the part it
has taken in the physical mutations
of our globe. And not less needful
is it to trace the full tide of art
which sweeps throcgh sunny tracts of
civilisation, or spreads fertility and
flowery fragrance in blissful valleys,
back to the bleak barren mountains
of its first precarious origin. We
know, in short, through our own re-
peated experience, that it is impos-
sible rightly to appreciate the true
greatness of the Italian masters,
until we have traced the river of the
arts to its earliest source, walked day
after day along its banks, marked
its erratic course, the rude obstacles
checking its career, and the broad
channels it has worn for its way.
Hence, we would recommend that
the student should enter our National
Gallery with this same definite pur-
pose. He cannot, it is true, pursue
the proposed investigation to com-
pletion ; some links is the great chain
of succession will be wanting; some
tracts in the wide territories of art
are as yet not marked in our still in-
compltted chart. These deficiencies
it has been the anxious care of the
authorities to supply. Bat in the
msan time, nevertheless, the entire
field of history is open before him ; he
may grope in the darkness of the
darkest asres, or bask, as in the
works of Titian and Veronese, iu the
golden sunshine of civilization.
We will now give a few examples
of the instruction to be derived from
the mode of study we Lave ventured
716 Tke Naticnd GaUery^iU Purpose and Management. [Dk
to recommeDd. The pictnres in the the depth of debasemeot ; OBtnfit
'< Lombard i-Baldi '' collection of early natare may have long fled the ank^
Italian masters will furnish as with studio, and yet art, endivwed «a
materials. Let ns begin at the very the immortality which inheres x
beginning, and at once tarn to per- the essential in bnman n&tR.
haps the most ungainly work ever still lives on, mioisterB still to "k
painted, "The Virgin and Child/' with glory of the church — still aids i
accessory pictares from lives of the the worship of the Banctnary. k
saints, signed ** Margarit de Aritio looking at these three pictom
me fecit." We learn from Mr. Wor- b^ Margaritooe, Cimabue, asd I>l^
num*s instructive catalogue that this cio, repulsive though they be, la r
painter, Margaritooe, was born' at be remembered that we have alres^
Arczzo in the year 1236, and that entered on the period of the revivv
this picture '* is on every account the for a light had then dawned vhid
most characteristic and important" made at least the darknees vi^y&
of his works. Four years later, in Dreary and desolate is the sonucBd- ^
the neighbouring city of Florence, ing tract, yet have we reached *Jt '
was bor'ii Oimabne, comoMnly re- fountain-head, whence flowed tb:
garded as the father of Italian art. exulting and abonnding river wkid:
It is therefore most fitting and for- watered with fertilitj and sprad
ttmate that the National Gallery with civilisation the l>eanteoiis ^
should possess, as in *' The Madonna of Italy. These three pietoresi caj
and Gbild enthroned,'' some example now in London provoke a smile lad
of a master who, like his contempor- excite derision, yet works sadi s
ary Margaritone, boldly sought to these were once borne in exuhitis
emancipate the arts from the fetters through the streets of Florence ui
of Bjzantine bondage. Then, again, Siena. They were onoe regarded s
in a neighbouring and rival republic, the triumphs of genios, the deaott
was born in the self-same century tributes to religion ; and now to g&
the painter Duccio of Siena, a man after the lapse of five centaries, tii^
scarcely less celebrated than his serve in our own National Giliej
great contemporary Gimabue in Flor- to mark the commenoeaient of th;
ence, each loving alike the freedom epoch which was at length crovac
of natare rather than the bondage of by a Leonardo and a Raphael. Tijct
tradition. The picture, then, by are indeed the first rade geros or
Duccio, "The Madonna and Child, that organic growth which, em-
with Angels and Saints," however mencing here at a point far beno^i
strange and unal luring to our more nature, at length, through sdcccser
educated eyes, serves, as the two pre- stages of development, sooght t
ceding works, for a historic landmark transcend nature,
in the history of art It is true that We have seen that up to tiiis p«st
to the mere artist hungering for the little progress had been made. IV
feast of beauty, to the mere picture- career of Oimabne in Florence, d
maker searching out materials for Duccio in Siena, was hot a stcs-
his trade, such paintings can bring bling in the dark, and we shall M
but little pleasure or assistance. Yet that the transition from darkneei to
to the student who regards art as one light, from early dawn to nerii&a
of the appointed languages by which day, was not a question of bows, bsl
thought obtains expression — one of of ages. Margaritone was bora ia
the ordained means by which man 1236 ; Gimabue only four years btcr;
speaks to man^and even God, we Duccio still belongs to the aaoM eo-
would venture to say, at times and tury. Between these early mai uA
through appointed agents, grants a the birth of Raphael there roUd
visual revelation ; even such works more than two hundred yem
as these are pregnant with instruc- Already the great cities of Italy Itiil
tion. They tell of the indestrncti- attained to wealth and power; tbe
bility of art — indestructible as the republics of Venice, Pisa, and GeaoL
primal faculties in man. Man may had sent their fleets to aid io tk
fall into the barbarism of the dark first crusade; Dante had inven to
ages; the arts, as here, may sink into Italian poetry its gloij ; Hildebnod
1859,]
The National GaUery-^tt Purpose and Management,
717
had achieved for tbe Charch a proad
dominion; and yet the plastio and
pictorial arts, of slower growth than
commerce, poetry, or priestly domi-
nioQ, were atill, in the thirteenth cen-
tury, but struggling into light, peas-
ing b^ slow stages of development
from iofancy to manhood. Giotto,
with Gaddi and Orcagna belonging
to his school, formed the first import-
ant epoch in this progressive deve-
lopment ; and works by each of these
great masters are now found on the
walls of oar National Gallery. The
war, we now see, had fiirly set in be-
tween natnre and tradition. It was
nature which henceforth was to en-
dow with truth, enrich with beauty,
and animate with life. An injured
and an outraged nature at length
came to teach those truths of man's
bodily structure — the anatomy of
limb, the symmetry of proportion,
which bad been so blindly violated ;
to allow those tAiths, moreover, of the
outward world — those laws of vision
and perspective, those facts of earth
and phenomena of sky — of which
the earlier artists had been so darkly
ignorant. It was Nature, too, who
came with softened step and gentle
mien to win the artist to the charm
of beauty, to give to art all the poetry
and loveliness of earih, all the pro-
mise and the blessedness of heaven.
It was Nature who at length came
with all the ardour of rapturous
youth to breathe into the artist's
work the breath of impulsive life, so
that at length art became a living
soul animating a healthful body.
Thus ia it that the historic develop-
ment of art was analogous to a
growth in nature — a growth of
slow decrees and successive stages,
progressive from the ruder germ to
the maturity of the perfected work.
. Thus is it that the study of art is
analogous to tbe study of nature, the
observation of the mode and process
whereby art became a second nature,
a second creation, shadowing forth
the truth and the beauty of that
wider and more universal creation
which came from the hand of God.
Bat the process of growth, though
sure and constant, was elow and pro-
tracted. In the works of Giotto,
Gaddi, and Orcagna, as seen in the
National Gallery, the student must
be content to mark merely the first
rudimentary germs of future ma-
turity. He must be content to trace
the first feeble motions of life ani-
mating the cold and deathlike limbs,
tbe first faint glimmer of intelligence
and love gleaming upon features long
stricken with stupefaction. But the
hem of the garment has been touched,
and the deathlike shroud moves as
with Lazarus awaking. Mark those
hands clasped in worship, as if some
unaccustomed revelation had aroused
to life limbs long stricken with para-
lysis. Mark, too, those upgazing
eyes fixed in ecstasy — those parted
lips panting with gasping breath, as
if the vision of heavenly glory had
awakened long-slumbering powers to
expectant life and beatitude. Thus
to the observant student may be
found in these early works the first
rude germs of art's future greatness
— a greatness and a goodness which
nature came to give.
But art in its earlier stages is spe-
cially finite, while nature in all her
multifarious manifestations is all but
infinite. Nature is infinitely vast,
infinitely minute, infinite in its rela-
tions, material and even spiritual.
Human nature, again, is scarcely less
boundless — boundless in its destiny
through time, infinite in variety of
manifestation, material and spirit-
ual Hence it was found impossible
that an art finite in its powers could
embrace the infinitude of this bound-
less nature, thus multifarious in her
forms and manifestations. Therefore
the history of art soon became divided
into divers schools each taking to
itself some special aspect of outward
or of human nature to which it might
give preponderating import Now,
humanity itself has two great aspects
— the material and the spiritual ;
and hence we find, as by an almost
necessary consequence, that there
speedily arose two distinct schools of
art—the material and the spiritual —
corresponding in typical form and
mentJ manifestation to these two
great divisions in human natnre.
Thus, aeain, we see that art may be
regarded as a reflex of humanity.
The artist, by a necessary intuition,
takes from the infioity of nature that
which reflects him%If ;— the spiritual-
minded, the spiritual in form, in char
718
2%€ I^ationdl QaUery — it$ Purpose and Manctgement,
[ftr
racter, and in life; tbe carnally-
minded, the grosf, tbe animal, and
tbe material. Tbas pbiloeopby, theo-
logy, and art, all alike point to tbe
lame grand divisions of the ma-
terial and the spiritnal — elements
which too often war the one against
tbe other, not less in the field of art
than in the conflict of the world.
Enter, then, the National Gallery
as itself a little world — the micro-
cosm of tbe greater world withont —
a pictorial history, npon the antique
pages of which are emblazoned the
aspirations and passions, tbe virtnes
aiid the vices, which have redeemed
and enthralled mankind. Bot this
full evolation of man's entire nature
is to be fbund only in tbe complete
range of art, through the progression
and decline of successive centuries.
The decline of art is naturally tbe
manifesfation of man's passions and
vices ; its rise the expression of man's
aspirations and virtues. Tbe birth
of Citristian art, indeed, was like to
the first creation in Eden — spotless
and free from the taint of sin. Hence
do we find that the earliest pictures l:>e-
long to that spiritual school in which ■
the soul communes with Heaven,
even as the first man talked with
God. The paintings of the earliest
Christian masters seem, indeed, once
more to reconcile man with Gud, and
to bring earth again into communion
with Heaven. Of this earlier school
•* The Coronation of the Virgin," by
Orcagna, in our National Gallery,
may be taken as an example. Mark
in the upward and earnest gaze of
saints kneeling in adoration, in the
ecstntic rapture of angels making
melody on harps, that striving for
spiritual expression, that fervent out-
pouring of thanksgiving and praise,
which in these early works seemed
designedly to exalt the soul, even
through the annihilation of mere
flesh and blood. Again, in the early
work ** Christ on the Cross," by
Segoa, a master belonging to the
spiritual school of Siena, we find in
tbe attenuated and pain stricken form
of the Saviour \X\U same subjection
of tha body to the dominion of the
loul. In like manner, in the small
'• Eece Homo" by Niccolo Alanno,
Christ crowned with thorns, the
hands crossed upon the breast, do
we find a maDifestatfon even to e-
cess of that Bpiritnal raonagtidsa
which sought to exalt religion k ^ I
mortification of the flesh. In tia
head of Christ we fiod almoat a& %
tentional want of drawing, a h^at
about of the nervelera feat ores, girkt
to painful excess tbe arpect of pl;^*
cal prostration, an otter powe^s-
ness and abandonment, a state d
nothingness and emptioess apprad-
ing to physical dfssolotion, ^ if tk
cup of anguish had been to tbe bet
drop drained, and yet the resigns
words spoken, " Thy will be doat"
After thus following this act of aus-
tere spiritualism as she walks thro^
tbe dark valley, led bj the hand d
death ratber than gnidM by tbe ao^
of the resurrection, it is some oobbd*
lation to turn to Angelico, the bleaed
and the blissful, who leaves the fee-
ments of tbe grave for the raiobat
garments of the tkies. *^ The Adorft-
tion of tlie Magi " is of his qsk
spiritual purity — coloars dippeil k
heaven, faces beauteous and holy, a
if spotless angela again walked' tk
earth. This, too, is an art which e
now gone for ever — gone that sie-
plicity of faith, that intensirj of vcr-
ship, that oblivion of self, that visile
of angels ; for men now eat greeci.;
of tbe tree of knowledge where ooe»
they communed face to face whh
God. We desire not again for srt,
even were it possible, this rpoties
Eden. She has tasted both for gwd
and for evil of tbe tree of knowlc^
she has exchanged tbe solttode ir.
the crowd, is now a eecalar d»izn
of the wide and bosy world, a^
therefore this ecstatic art of the re-
cluse and the devotee is gone ^^
ever. And just becaose it is gone do
we the more rejoice that Sir C4urks
Edstlake and Mr. Mundler have res-
cued for our instruction the aeries of
those early works to which we bare
now claimed attention. What a prize;
for example, have they woo in ViA
purchase of that masterpiece bj
Benozzo Gozzoli, " The Virgin tsA
Child enthroned,*' — angels with ei-
tended wings, saints in adontit'D.
with a f(»reground of lilies, roees, aod
birds! Let it be remembered ttxi,
not without reverence, that tbae
works, which we now idly gase oCr
have been approached oo beoded
1859.]
The National Gallery^U PurpoM and Management
719
knee ; tbat these same forms to onr
ejes ^o QDwooted, have, as altar-
pieces wafted by iDceDfie» attended
by song*, given to the worehip of the
mQltitade a beanteous poetry and a
visaal reality.
Tbe opposiDg school of matertal-
ism was fitly iDaagarated by Fra
Filippo Lippi, a painter ^vlioee life
of proflighte adventure brought scan-
dal upon his fraternity and art. It
is a point of carious stndy to trace
the according relation between tbe
depravity of this painter's life and
tbe seDBuality which nnconsciooBly
intrudes into bis religions art. He
was manifestly a man of extraordi-
nary powers. On comparing the
wotks of this painter in the National
Gallery with the neighbouring pro-
duct ions of Cimabue» and even of
Giotto and Orcagna, it will be seen
bow great bad been the advance
made in all tbat belonged to the
materialism of art. I'he drapery is
well cast, details and accessories
are fully eUbo rated, and the entire
work evinces a manly study of actual
natnre. But, on tbe other- hand, the
spiritaality of earlier and even of
later times is wanting. Even angels
have lost their habitually refined and
elongated features, and are now
chubby and fat cheeked. The straight
tapering nose has become the debased
world Iv pug ; and instead of the lan-
guishing almond eyes shadowed by
pendant eyelids, we tind tbe round,
wide-awake, gaping orbs, into which
tears never fl«»oded, before whose
staring gaze visions never ventured.
Our Gallery contains other ex-
amples of this early naturalism,
which, in its lower forms, necessarily
took on tbe aspect of debased mate-
rialism. Fra Filippo Lippi had a son,
Fitlippino, who inherited the father's
vigour, together with.somewhat of bis
co/ir6ene>s. *' The Virgin and Child,
with St. Jerome and St. Dominic," is
an important work by this somewhat
rare master. The landscape in which
the figures are set serves as a con-
trast to that spiritnal school where
no storms rend tbe tranquil eky,
where no rude blasts bufftft the
growth of gentle trees, or blight the
beauty of fairest flowers, blossoming
in tbe path of blissful saints. In this
mjre tumultaous landscape we find
nature darkly draped in somewhat
savage and repulsive grandeur. A
lion and a bear are roaring and
growling at the mouth of a distant
cave; and St. Jerome himself, with
stone in hand ready to dash against
bis breast, is shaggy and dishevelled,
less of the saint than of the wild
man of the desert and the woods.
Tbe whole picture, indeed, as usual
with this school, seeks for marked
character at the expense of benuty —
character for the most part uncouth,
and often even grotesque and repul-
sive. Botticelli, Cosimo Rosselli,
Paolo Uccello, and Pullajuolo, all be-
long'to this same materialistic style —
a manner well exemplified in two large
and important pictures now fortu-
nately belonging to our National
Gallery ; tbe one, " The Battle of
Saint iSgidio," by Paolo Uccello ; the
other, ♦* The Martyrdom of St. Sebas-
tian,'^ by Pollajuolq. It is said that
Uccello was versed in geometry, and
that he studied perspective with pas-
sionate ardour. Certain it is, that
this great battle-piece, among the
mof>t important of his works, signally
exetnplities the realistic, positive ten-
dencies which had now taken posses-
sion of art The lances, armour, and
accessories are all elaborated to min-
ute detail ; the splintered arms bing
on the ground are painted up to real-
istic deception ; a dead knigiit, with
feet turned towards the spectator, is
a bold attempt at difficult foreshort-
ening; and the picture throughout,
necessarily destitute of spiritual re-
finement, is in all points secular and
worldly. Thus seeing in nature no-
thing more subtle or inward than her
material aspect, finding no spell even
in the outer forms of physical beauty,
these men, almost of necessity, fell
victims to the grotesque, caricatured
that nature which they profetsed to
imitate, and, in ignoring her higher
expression, did violence to her actual
form.
The two great schools, the mate-
rial and the spiritual, which we have
hitherto placed in opposition, are
man{ft«tly but partial and onesided.
Each is but half of a great(# whole,
which, when united, implies the per-
fect man, and consequently makes
the completed art Accordingly, we
soon fortunately arrive at those more
720
21ie National Oallery-'its Purpose and Managtmeni^ [Dat.
matured epochs when art was en-
abled to embrace the wide circuit of
a many-Bided humanity, when the
body, no longer a mean and despised
prison-house, was glorified as the
temple for the soul's worship. The
sound body was now found, even for
art, to be the only condition to the
sane mind,— a body in which all the
members, without schism or division,
should perform their healthful func-
tions; a body so harmoniously fash-
ioned, so happily balanced, as to be
at peace within itself, subdued and
subordinated, moreover, to a higher
ministration, perfect in itself, yet sub-
ordinated to a still higher perfection,
its wondrous functions but willing in-
struments to the soul's movings, its
matchless symmetry but the reflection
of mental harmonies, the entire fabric
an instrument of volition, a mirror
of expression, a tabernacle specially
built for the spirit's dwelling. In
this perfected ideal do we fiod the
union of schools spiritual and mate-
rial, the perfection of humanity, and
by consequence the ideal of Christian
art — an ideal which all true artists
have sought after, and some few have
happily found. Artists there have
been blessed with that equipoise of
nature, which as a reflex of higher
harmonies revealed itself through
the unities of a well-balanced art
We see even, on the walls of our Na-
tional Gallery, works by Lorenzo di
Gredi, Perugino, Leonardo, and others,
in which outward physical form is,
as it were, inspired by spiritual ex-
{)resBion, in which even hard intel-
ect is softened by emotion, literal
truth adorned by subtle, sensitive
beauty. It was thus, in the union
of all natures, physical and mental,
inward and outward, human and
divine, that art found its full fruition.
The greatest artists became great
just in proportion as they gave to a
hitherto partial and fioite art these
wide and infinite relationa It was
/ the supreme glory of Raphael, the
reward of a well-balanced nature, the
good fortune, moreover, of having
lived at a happy epoch, that he
united %i his greatest works the
hitherto divided elements. He lived
at that culminating point when, on
the one side, spiritualism had already,
in Siena, Florence, and Umbria,
reached its ntmost parity and bentv;
and when, on the other hand, natiii^
ism in the school of ManfegoA, and ^
materialistic masters of Coitrat Itah,
had attained to accaracy and vigoar.
He came endowed with a nature hip-
pily balanced betweea these two a-
tremes, and hence it became, as vs
have said, his special miasioa to bind
into one these hitherto abtagooatie
elements, to rear to art the outer tee-
pie of the body, BpoUesa and node-
filed, and then to eoshrine within tte
tabernacle the animatiniir 0^^ ^ ^
indwelling deity. Oar National Cil-
lery, unfortunately, does not eoabSe
the student fully to realize the greil-
ness of this artist's genios. ^ The
Vision of a Knight,*' an early work :
**8t. Katherine," belonging io he
second period ; and the ^ For
trait of Julius II.," fail adequately
to show the high service which Ra-
phael conferred upon that art which,
under his bands, emphatically becaiae
divine. In Florence, Rome, and other
Italian cities, we can, however, folly
analyse his more complex worics bad
to those essential elements out of
which we have seen they took their
historic origin. In bis earlier |He-
tures belonging to his father's sehod
of Umbria, and to the manner of ha
master Perugino, we naturally fiad
predominant the hard severity and
the attenuated purity of the ante-
cedent spiritual masters^ HieDt
again, with the vigour and indepec*
dence of growing manhood, the fraiS-
ty of a spiritual existence becazne
clothed in forms more highly dev^
oped ; his characters grew fitted for
the fulfilment of every healthful fooc-
tion, suited to the enjoyment of ths
present world, yet aspiring to a life
beyond. Here then, we find, in some
few favoured works, that perfect bal-
anoe of body and of soul, that entire
harmony between forms and func-
tions, bodily and mental, which coih
stitnte a completed humanity, and
therefore, as we have said, a perfect
art But, alas i we have foond a per-
fection which is seen but once, and
then departs. Even Raphael him-
self, in unguarded moments, fell away.
He lost at times the finely-adjasted
balance which made his genius po^
haps the most harmonious and com-
plete which art had yet known ; aod
1859.]
The National GaUery-^iti Purpose and Manafement
721
thus, in Bome few later works, he fell
over toward that physical material-
Um which, as hy hrnte force, bat too
often 811 bj agates the finer motions of
the spirit. We are not among those
who believe in the fall of Raphael.
At moments, indeed, he faltered, wa-
vering between two opinions ; and
these partial failings bat serve to
show how frail is the thread which|
in art no less than in natare, anites
the soul with the body; how easy it
is to sever the cord of life which in
art as in natare binds the higher
world of spirit and the lower mate-
rialism of earth into one beaateoos
creation.
We have dwelt npon the genios
and works of Raphael, because they
may be taken as the calminating
point in the history of art— becaase
they serve perhaps as the best iliaatra-
tion of that idesa perfection which we
would make the altimate test and cri-
terion of all sabordinate excellence.
We have now eodeavoared to show
in what manner oar National Gallery
of historic pictures, some of which are
necessarily all bat repalsive, may
illustrate and establish great generic
truths which lie at the basis of all
sound criticism, and are even essen-
tial to all high enjoyment Oor space
has permitted us to ^ive only some
general liints and indications, which
the reader, we hope, may carry oat
for himself to completion. In a
more detniled and extended survey of
the varied schools he will be able
still farther to apply and to illoatrate
those fundamental principles which
we have but vaguely indicated. The
closer examination of the schools of
outward materialism will lead him,
for example, to discriminate between
masters and works holding among
themselves a very varied rank and
dignity. The works of Michael An-
gelo, for instance, as may be some-
what seen from the grand master-
piece in our National Gallery b^ one
of his scholars, '*The Resurrection of
Lazarus,** are doubtless material. In
looking at his vast creations, we feel
ourselves under the tyranny of a co-
IosshI humanity, physical, organic,
and material, even to the utmost pitch
of the sublime. We feel that all which
is gentle and lovely has been driven
oat from those gladiatorial monsters
which, as rude rocks or impending
mountains, frown upon the loveliness
of natore. And yet, in the midst of
all this, we are conscious of the
presence of a mighty mind and a
residtless will dwelling and heaving
beneath the giant mass. Thus, if the
works of Michael Angelo are material,
the materialism is at least informed
by no less gigantic mind. Passing
on to the pictures by Rubens, of
whom there are many grand examples
in our National Gallery, w6 are still
in the very midst of a material art, —
a materialism, however, to which
mind adds little dignitv. Then, again,
coming to the ecnool of Venice, we
shall find it needfal to draw still fur-
tlier distinctions, as the unoonscious-
nees of matter grows sensitive under
kindling mind and emotion. On
closer examination we shall find that
the school of Venice, like, indeed, to
other schools, is the mingling and the
intermingling of things material and
spiritual, which, as shade and sun-
shine, play the one around the other,
Tintoretto, it is well known, design-
edly formed himself upon the noble
manner of Michael Angelu — a manner,
or rather perhaps a mannerism, spe-
cially the exponent of genius. Titian,
again, though he loved to revel in the
intoxication of passion, and sometimes
even sank into the grossest of ma-
terialism, knew well how to inform
the tenement of clay with that dignity
and high expression which noble
minds alone can give. Lastly, the
materialism of Veronese is of a some-
what dififerent character — a material-
ism little redeemed by mental expres-
sion. It is true, we are often in the
presence of a queenlike beauty, which
proudly commands our worship as by
conscious and innate dignity. But
again, too frequently the nobility of
man, and even the beauty of woman
are overlaid and eclipsed by the mere
ostentation of princely apparel and
the material grandeur of worthless
wealth. These and other aspects of
materialism the reader may, with
little difficalty, work out for himself
in our own National Gallery, or in-
deed in any other of the gre^ Euro-
pean collections. * Then, again, under
the generic head of schools spiritual,
the btudent will soon find himself
making subordinate divisions corre-
I
J
722 2%e Nationai GdUery'-its Purpose and Management, \Dts.
spoodiDg to the faDdamental facalties pomp of earth. ^ Tkns again do v?
and diviBtoDS io the mind of man. find tliat art is the laogiiaee ^.
The Intellect, the Emotions, and poa- thought — that e^ry form aod^ toK
sibly also the Will, the three great and coloar in art, do less than a
divisions of the metaphysicians, may natare, has its ordaioed ezpre^m
at once give him a threefold dassifi- taking rank according to the nobilitf
cation. He will find, for ezam{}Ie, of the thought or emotion of vhkh
that the German schools of art, in it stands as the symboL
the austerity of the features ' and The National Gallerj, we this f^
the shrewdness of the expression, are may be made not only an Acadt^j
for the most part the product of of Art, but also a School of PhOo-
the cold, dry intellect. The Italian sophy. It can, indeed, be easily thowi
masters, oh the contrary, more sensi- that the fundmental prlocfples lym
tive and impulsive, painted their at the root of Mental Philosophy an
greatest works under the spell of no less the basis of an Art PhUo^
the emotionp. Then, again, there are phy. " Gonscionsness" is the admiv
painters of dashing, daring purpose — ted groundwork of all Mental Piul9>
Salvator in his landscapes, and some- sophy, and ^ conscionsness " Is eo
times Velasquez in his figures, who less the ultimate and simple deraei:^
handled the brush with the same out of which the Philoeophy of An
resolute will with which they would must be evolved. A ptctare, iod^
have wielded a sceptre or used a is a visible and tabulated '* cooscicMS-
Bword, Thus we ibave attempted to ness," the expression of the arti^'s
show that the two fundamental cIbbsI- mind in a visible and outward fora.
fications of spiritualism and material- We take, for example, a picture, sod
ism, with tlieir varying shades and say. Here is a mental manifestalioQ;
subordinate divisions, will embrace and, as such, at once we submit it
all schools of art, as they include all to the same analysis as meDt^l cos-
phases of mind. sciousoess itself. The consciuusofs
We dwell npon these considera- of metaphysicians, we know, is dtrid>
tioDS with the greater ardour, be- ed into the "subjective"' aod tbe
cause we feel that the National Gal- " objective," the " ego " and tbe
lery, now so rich In resources, may *'non ego." And what, in short s
become for every cultured mind a the division which we have alreadr
feast of intense and refined enjoy- adopted into art spiritual and ma-
ment. With what interest may be terial, but these same eseeottal ds-
traced out the subtle relations be- tinctions of tbe mental philosopher?
tween outward form and inward What is spiritualism in art, but tk
thought I How wondrous does it outpouring of the artist's sool or self:
seem that certain lines and curves tbe **ego" of tbe man, in its 8a^ja^
should possess a spiritual meaning, tive individuality, clothing itself k
and then, again, that other forms, outward or objective pictorial fbna,
rugged, and radely jagged, and torn, according to that law whereby everj
and inharmoniously cast, should b<) spirit seeks aod finds for itstrif t
as the natural symbols for mental fitting body to inhabit? Aod what
deformity aod moral obliquity. Think is materialism in art but a kind cf
then, too, of the natural expression artistic atheism, the banishing of tbe
inherent to pictorial light and shade Greater from His work ; what hot tbe
— that light aod sunshine which come undue preponderance of tbe oater or
from heaven, the symbol of the inner objective world, the " non ego" of
light which lightens the soul — and the metaphysician silenctog tbe etiil
that shade and darkness which small voice of the artist's soul? Let
shroud things evil as with the obli- the student of art, then, given to
vious veil of night. Then come as metyphjsics, or desirous to build op
for a banquet to the sumptuous feast for himnelf somewhat of an art-philo-
of coloui ; tbe spiri^al school of art sophy, deliberately take his se^t io
clad in all the rainbow purity of front of any one of the many grett
the sky ; voluptuous materialism works in our National Gallery. Let
decked and bedizened in all the him say to himself. This picUire is a
dazzling glitter* and ostentatious tabular and pictorial ezpresioQ of
1859.] Tilt Haiional GaUery—its Purpose and Management. 723
the artists " conacionsness f aod ac- the imagiDation . and the passions to
cordiogly it may be resolved as con- ardour aod excess, and not leas the
scioasiiess itself— as that conscioas ice-bonnd domioioD of the north
thought and emotion which dwell nerving te energy and to enterprise,
within his own breast — to essential He should trace, we say, these powers
elements, analysed as the product of in their physical operation, and de-
fundaAnental faculties, criticised and derroine the relation between these
classified according to the dignity agencies and those schools of art
and worth of that thought or con- which have been fostered in sun-
sciouBness of which it is the visible shine or stunted by frost ; which have
manifestation. Those forms, lines, been planted by commerce, fed by
colour?, for example, all come from the riches of fertility, or starved in a
the artist's consciousness. But are sterile land of hardship or of penury,
they, it may be further asked, the In travelling through Europe to-
direct product and echo of the artist's wards the south, we have all come
conscious self? — do they thus reflect upon those Alpine barriers which
hues and harmonies from the spirit divide nations and races, confound y
worid ? — or are they, on the other hand, tongues, separate zones and climates ;
wholly foreign from the artist's soul, and in descending from those snowy
the mere attributes of physical objeo- heights into sunny Italy, we entered
tive matter, and nothing more? Thus on a new world, aod with the brighter
forms, lines, colours, may be but the light of day dawned a more dazzling
artist's consciousness of an outward genius. Let the stranger-traveller,
existence the most mean — the pie- walking through the rooms of our ^
beian form of a stool, for example, National Gallery, thus in imagination
lying ia the foreground of a Dutch pass the Alpine barriers which separ-
picture, the lines in an orchard to ate the England of his home and Ger-
nang clothes, the colour of a carpet many, his cognate fatherland, from the
on the floor of an ante-room, or, on sunny genius of artistic Italy. Let him
the other hand, they may be the revel an hour in the beatitude of the
notes and keys upon which the soul south — give loose to his imagination
rings its changes and its harmonies, in all the Ore-fly fiittings of an Ital-
the pulsations and the throbbiogs, ian summer, seating himself before
the heaving and the moaning of that the golden lustre of Titian's *^ Bac-
great heart which is, as it were, the chos aod Ariadne" — or sunning him-
soul of nature. Thus, as we have self in the sparkling sunshine of lus-
said, pictorial art is the revelation of trous Veronese. He has truly crossed
a consciousness rendered visible, and, the Alps, and walks in the florid fields
Bfl such is a corollary to mental pbilo- of Italy, fertile in corn and wine, and
Bophy. fervent in rapturous rites and ecsta-
As a contrast to jthis line of specu- tic orgies of Ceres and of Bacchus,
latioo, which is only one among The tongue of the peasant is florid
many others into which we might in the metaphor of words, the pencil
have entered, let us for a few mo- of the painter sports in the play of
ments indulge in a review some- fancy ; and Italy, in days of old rich
what more scenic Instead of a pic- in commerce and in wealth, surren-
torial mental philosophy, the National dered herself to luxury, and sought
Gallery may be taken as an illus- from art enjoyment. Even foreigners
trated physical geography, or as an felt her spell, and genius, cradled in
illuminated chart of national wealth northern cold, kindled into fire
and civilisation. In the study of the warmed by the sun of Italy. The
schools and the chronology of art, let serene and sunny landscapes of
the student follow the current of coo- Claude — the more tomaltuous moun-
temporary history, trace the conflux tain-lands of Gaspar Poossin — the
or the conflict of races, mark the bacchanals by Nicholas — even the
barriers which mountains raise to in- glowing glories of Rubens — all of
tercourse, track the hii^h-roads which whom rank by order of birth among
rivers and seas open to commerce, transalpine artiste — owe their poetry.
Let him feel the sovereignty of the their beauty, and their sunshine to
Bun in southern latitudes kindling the land of Italy. Claude, as may
724
The Nati^mal Gallery — its Purpou and ManagemenU [Det
be well eeen by pictures in oar Na- •
tioDal Gallery, eeems wholly forgetful
of bis parentage and birthplace in
Lorraine, and to have batned and
basked in the golden light of setting
suns, to have grown languid in the
fervent heat, and imaginative in the
dreamlike spell of Italian life and
clime. Gaspar Ponssin, by parentage
a Frenchman) in like manner shows
the innate sympathy between the
raptore and romance of artistic
genios and the glowing intensity of
a southern sun. His landscapes, of.
which oar Gallery may well boast
of its grand examples, are known to
V have been inspired by the Gampagna
of Rome, the fastnesses of the Apen-
nines, the rock-built towns of Etru-*
ria, or the ruined temples of TivolL
Nicholas Poossin, a Norman by birth,
joined in the same soathern migra*
tion, and foand for his genios in Italy
' ft fitting sphere. <'The Narsing of
Bacchas," *'A Bacchanalian Festi-
val" "A Bacchanalian Dance," and
•* Venus Asleep surprised by Satyrs,"
all in our National Gallery, belong to
that order of subjects which can only
be successfully painted in those clas-
sic lands and sunny climes where
ruined temples strew the land, where
marble gods and goddesses may still
be seen as once when worshipped —
where indeed the traveller even to
this present day may surprise Venus
as she sleeps, or Diana as she bathes.
Again, in the great pictures by Ti-
tian, Veronese, Correggio, and others,
all to be found on the walls of our
National Gallery, we may read as
in a mirror a consummated history
when the arts had no longer to
maintain in rigid abstemious virtue
ft hard and precarious struggle for
existence, but, clothed in purple and
decked in sumptuous splendour, they
began to minister to luxury, and even,
it may be, to pander to excess. Aj a
noble example of this resplendent art,
turn to " The Family of Darius at the
Feet of Alexander," by Paul Veronese,
the last great spoil which the wealth
of England has won from the down-
cast poverty of Italy. In the illumi-
nated splendour of the colour, in the
richness of princely robes, the flitter
of regal gems, think of the priceless
spoils poured in from the exhaustless
Kast, of the sumptuous feast whereof
monarchs partook — ^ihlnk, too, of ^
glories of sunset skies lighting enrr
cloud with burning fire, gilding od
wave with dazzling (rold-— and tka
look at this work bj Veronese as "^
illuminated banner of Venioe in k;
glory and her pride.
As a contrast^ let the stodeot-tov-
ist through our National Galleryn-
cross the Alps into Xorthem Esrofe.
The climate suffers change — Vbit ii»
ginative Italian k sapplanted by the
heavy prosaic German peasant— lie
liquid sounds of tie music - bfB|
south are transmated into the hae^
guttural of a rugged tongne, and, m
part of the same mutation, the art of
t^ people has suffered a revulHda
We are now in tiie land of Holbds,
and others of kindred school, lixk
at the heads, for they aasarediy airss
attention. The women are no frirj
sprites or emotional daagbten of to%
and devotion, but inveterate and coe-
firmed German fraus^ given to ds-
mestic duties and home comforti,
useful rather than ornamental, eoe-
scientious, truthful* and matter-tf
fact. The men, in like manner, an
not the imaginative, sensitive, »■&•
tional beings of the south, but hard,
practical, matter-of-fact, well -to do
mortals, with common sense and tk
rights of private judgment pUnted
in the brow, keen ahrewdness in tk
penetrating eye, a certain plebeaa
plodding in the nose, decision is fik
determined set of the month, with
hard lines cut^ng into featores, as if
the frost of many winfers anid tbe
corroding cares of the business- wodi
had plowed ,deep farrows sens
the front of youth. Contrast* we ssj,
this German school — some remark-
able examples of which, in its ctf-
lier stages, may be found in our Na-
tional Gallery — ^with the imaginatiTe,
subtle, and beauteous creaUoos of
the south, and then traoe back these
diverse manifestations to origination
causes in the contrast of race, of cha-
racter, of climate, and civilisatkio—
elements, in short, which constitote
the distinct individuality of a natioB.
Thus did we attempt to show hova
gallery of pictures may be studied as
an illustrated chart of mental phikh
Bophy; and now have we seen how
the great schools of art follow in tie
landmarks which divide climates aod
1859.] The Kaiional GaUery-"^ Purpose and Management,
725
races and langnage— how they reflect
the civilisation and the history of
which they are in tnm the canae
and the effect, and thus how they
are the epitome of man's progres-
BioD, the mirror of a people's life,
the chronide of a nation's deeds.
To enable the student to further ela-
I borate these conclusions, little more
18 needed than the admirable cata-
\ logne of the Gallery prepared by Mr.
Wornum, whose contributions to the
literatare of art sofficiently attest his
fitness for present dnties. In the
concise, yet comprehensive, sketch
I given of each painter, the dates will
^ supply the chronology of art; the
birthplace, the geographic distriba-
tion ; the parentage and master, the
associated school ; and thns, with
that general historic knowledge im-
' plied in a good edacation, may the
fitndent wander from room to room,
' bnild up, as we have shown, an art
' philosophy, or lay down a pictorial
chart of national history and progres-
^ eive civilisation.
' In conclasion, we fear that in dis-
* conrsing on the purposes and uses of
the National Gallei^, we have bat
' imperfectly accomplished the object
we had in view. Our remarks have
been perhaps at once too abstruse and
i too superficial ; too lengthened, and
Set assuredly but too curtailed. We
ave but vaguely and imperfectly
indicated certain broad truths and
I lines of thought, which would require
I much further elaboration for oom-
i pletion. We have wished, however,
to lay special stress upon this one
idea, that a national collection of
f pictures should embrace works ex-
I tending through all times, represent-
I ing all schools and countries. A pri-
vate gallery may exhibit the individual
and circumscribed tastes- of a private
collector; but a national collection
most be as wide and diversified as
tha tastes and the wants of the
nation at large. It must be for art
what the library of the British
Museum is for literature, complete in
all the departments of knowledge.
It must be for art what the British
Museum is for natural science, re- ^
^lete as an organic whole, where ihe
first rudimentary germs in animated
nature may be tra^ through all the
successive stages of development up
to their full and final maturity. Thus
have we attempted to show how art,
both in its mental and material re-
ktions, may be wrought into the
symmetry, if not into the accuracy
of a science. A gallery of art,
complete in all its departments, con-
stitutes, moreover, a court of final
appeal ,- is as a verdict handed in
from past ages ; is as the summing-
up of all evidence and past experience
into one collective judgment and de-
cision. We have seen that in such a
gallery the general public and the
casual student may find the recreation *
elevated by instructioa It is mani-
fest, again, that in such a gallery the
critic may determine most points of
controversy; that disputed questions
between schools naturalistic and
ideal, between art pagan and Chris-
tian, between epochs pre-Baphaelite
and post-Raphaelite, will here meet
with their authoritative decision.
Here, too, among the solemn teach-
ings and warnings ■ of the great de-
parted, may the artist of modern
times correct the partial bias of the
passing moment ; rise superior to the
fleeting fashion of the hour, and form
for himself a stvle not the result of
casual or locaal accident, but the
growth of a world-wide experience. A
national gallery thus formed is there-
fore an academy for the artist, a
school for the critic, a pleasing and
profitable exhibition for the general
public, and as such best secures a
wise instruction, a healthful art, and
for the people at large, the diflfosion of
a correct taste.
726 The Luek of Ladysfnede.-^Pai't X, [fe
THE LUCK OP LADYSMBDK — PAKT X.
CHAPTER XXVn. — ^TDB WATCHERS.
On the eveniog preceding the day vines, and listening* to the e^v
on which he was to answer Sir God- tones of a voice which had loo? &«:
frey*8 summons at Hnntiogdon, Ab- hashed in its last sileooe. He ?sf
bot Martin was closeted nntil late in again before iiim tliat face of ea!a ii-:
the night with the treasarer, in the gentle beauty in which the b!t^ Siz-
little stone chamber which that fane- on eye lighted with its soft r&d(&r:e
tionary occupied in right of his office, all the rich hoes of soatbem Wrr*
and where the records of the house ness ; and it seeoied to him bov. «
were kept. Once more he had the it had seemed beforCp that its ghzn
aocouuts of the brotherhood laid be- met his own with a half coq»:*'c
fore him, and spent more time and meaning. The intoxicatiiig dree
pains than he had hitherto done in which comes bat od<» in life was it.
endeavouring to master their coinpli- him — in memory — still. It sns
cated details, and to place in a clearer surely have been so ! he could u-:
point of view the present state of have been self- deceived ; tbongb ttt
their revenues and liabilities. . The jealous pride of the old GeDC'rgeis:-
employment was not a pleasant one, bility had taken alarm at the {Ht^e^
least of all to one of the abbot^s sioos of a foreign adventurer, v^
temperament; nor were its results had little besides his sword, acd b:
satisfactory. But he manfully went buried her from his sight a&J b
through his uogenial task ; and search— still, he felt in this kcr i
though at last he laid the rolls aside stronger assurance than ever thb*
with a heavy sigh, it was partly an GinliaGamaldoni loved, or would U*;
expression of relief, and he spoke a loved him.
cheerful word or two to his subordi- He had been so absorbed io ^
Date at parting. own meditations, that, still a^ t^
The night was bright and cold, and night was, he either did not bear. >r
feeling restless and heated with long did not notice, the cantioos m(^
sittioff and labour of an uoaccns- roent of oars upon the river. Ncr
tomed kind, the abbot, instead of did the closing of the postem-gis.
seeking his own chamber at once, which led down from the temcf t:
ascen(kd the broad flight of steps the river entrance in the outer viL
which led to the river - terrace, aud reach the abbot's ear, so no!sei«^7
paced Blowly along its extent, gazing was it effected, Bat he was startie^
thoughtfully into the moonlight that back into a sudden reeollectioa i
layed on the broad stream below, the present, when he saw, as be
'be thoughts which now crowded on turned in his walk, the figure of c:;:
his heart had little to do with the of the brethren appear sodiWj
fortunes of Bivelsby. He who from the postern steps, and cros the
walked there was no longer the grave terrace rapidly toward the broir^
Benedictine, the ruler of a peaceful flight which from a point nearlj (^
house of recluses. He lived again posite communicated with the cJoir-
amidst the stirring scenes of his ear- ter. The monk, whoever be n*
Her manhood, when the world had turned his head in the directioo ef
for him all its best to ofitnr. He the abbot as he passed across, ^tl^•
did not feel the cold breeze that ped for an instant and seemed t>
swept up over the marshy meadows nesitate, and then, drawing bbcoi'
of the Ouse, or see the dank mists over his head and qaickeniitg ^^
that rose below him. For him, the steps, disappeared into the qo)^
moon shone on the waters of the rangle below. The moonlight wis <^
Bisagno, and the night air came clear and strong, and shone so d^
load^ with the perfumes of the upon the face as it was toroed t>
south. He was walkinj^ once more, wards the abbot, that in spite of tbe
in^ spirit, under a trellis of Italian puzzling uniformity of the moosSik
t
1859]
Hie Luck of Ladysmede.-'Part X.
727
habit, he felt coDviDoed that he had
recognised the f?ait and the features
of the prior. Hia first natural im-
pulse was to stop and question him,
and his lips actually pronounced the
name. Not so loud, however, as to
make it certain that the other heard
hioi ; if he did, it had not the effect
of recalling him. The steps died
away in the distance before the ab-
bot had fully recovered himself; and
it was then for the first time that he
caught the sound of oars upon the
water. It was more distinct, in-
deed, than it had been at first, as if
the rowers, as they got further from
the abbey walls, oared less to betray
their movemeots. Looking from the
battlements, he saw distinctly a
small boat, containing two or three
persons, come out from the shadow
of the bank under which it bad
hitherto kept, and make its way
down the river. He turned, and de-
sceoded into the quadrangle ; there
all was still and calm, as became a
religious house within an hour of
midnight. Massive and solemn, some
hidden deep in shadow, some clothed
with light as with a frost-work of
silver, the fretted pinnacles and
stately arches reposed under the full
moon. So was it, perhaps, with the
souls that slept within ; on some, the
darkness of unrepented sin, the sha-
dow of evil passions, hung with a
heavier and deeper gloom because of
the holy beams around them ; others,
though weatherworn and tempest-
stricken, like those old towers, had
caught there] something of the bright-
ness of heaven.
Bat the abbot had no time now
for finch reflections. What he had jast
! seen filled his mind with a new source
of disquiet. It was evident that the
person, whoever it was, who had jost
'entered by the postern -gate, had
either been absent from the monas-
tery on some secret errand, or had
been holding rendezvous at that late
hour with some parties who wished
their visit to pass unobserved. He he-
sitated whether be should proceed at
once to the chamber where the prior
sleot at the end of the long dormitorv,
and ascertain, if possible, whether his
sospicions of the identity of the per-
son were correct ; and if so, whether
there might not still be some reason-
TOU LZXXVI,
able explanation to offer. On con-
sideration, however, he determined
to defer any inquiry of that nature,
at all events, until the morrow. He
glanced once more round the vast
range of buildings, where all was
dark and silent, and passed through
the archwav into the smaller court,
where lay bis own apartments. Be-
sides the little lamp which burnt
continually in hia own chamber, and
the dim ^leam from the quarter where
the sacrist lay, or rather watched,
ready to awaken the brethren for the
midnight office, he saw a light also
in the room now occupied by his
guest Waryn Foliot He had a long-
ing at that moment — though he
chided himself for it as a weakness—
for the tones of some kindly human
voice. He had missed, .beyond what
he himself could have thought pos-
sible but two months back, the daily
companionship of the little Giulio,
who was still under Gaston's faithful
charge at Morton Grange ; and
Waryn, who had been to him almost
as a son in his boyish days, still re-
tained a hold of the same nature on
his affectionsi It might have been a
weakness in his own character — it
might have been the freshness of a
simple heart — bat Abbot Martin al-
ways felt most happy and unrestrain-
ed In the company of the young. He
felt, too, that in Foliot, young as he
was, he could, if need were, repose a
confidence which he would hesitate
to risk in many of his own household.
Without any very definite purpose,
then, he bent his steps at once to-
wards Waryn's chamber.
Having knocked gently at the door,
the abbot entered, and found the oc-
cupant seated a( a table covered with
parchments and materials for writ-
ing. Waryn rose, and received his
visitor with a smile in which some
natural surpri^ was apparent.
«' What !" said the abbot, " at your
studies so late, young friend ! **
'*I am studying men rather than
books,, at present, father,'* replied
Waryn, answering with some little
embarrassment; "I have business
here which the lord legate has done
me the grace to put into my hands.
These letters which you see are of
some importance,— pardon me that I
borrow of the night for it."
47
728
The Luck qf Lady$med€.-^Fart X.
[Dr.
''William of Ely knows bow to
choose his friends/' said the abbot;
" I wish well that King Richard had
half his discretion in that point^*
<' I would he had a score of each
stoat friends in this realm as the
bishop of Ely/' said Foliot ; ''he were
a match for al^ his enemies then.
Bqt there is false dealing everywhere
—falsest of all are they of his own
blood. Have yoa any saBpicion, my
good lord, that the Earl of Morton has
any friendls in this house of Rivelsby ?^'
The abbot started, and hesitated
for a moment or two before he an-
swered. He bethought himself al-
most involnntarily, of what he had
jast witnessed on the river-terrace.
** No,'* said he at last, *' I have no
caase to think so.*' Bat ha spoke
with an etnbarrassment that conld
not escape Foliot's observation.
"Pardon me, my dear lord," said
he, " if I seem to wrong your vener-
able brotherhood [by suoh an inquiry.
But Prioce John will leave no stone
unturned to overthrow the bishop's
power by any means he may ; and he
has abettors in many quarters where
they should least be looked for. There
are those who think ouf^gallant Kiog
Richard will scarce return alive from
Palestine, and are ready to buy them
favour at any price with the king
that shall be. I know there • are
faults in the lord legate ; but no man
can gainsay him as a bold and up-
right governor, and loyal to the high
trust he bears. God forbid we should
fall under the hands of the Earl of
Morton I"
Certain ezpressions which the prior
had let fall in conversation touching
the rival claims to power on the part
of the king's brother and the bishop
of Ely, came into the abbot's mind
irresistibly; he tried to banish the
thought as an unworthy one, but still
it would return. And now, when he
was about to leave •his bouse — he
knew not for how long— under the
prior's absolute government, it seemed
to him like an imperative duty to
ascertain, if possible, how far he
might trust his loyalty to the king.
That he bore little good-will to him-
self, as his superior, Abbot Martin
was well aware ; but that was only
a personal matter, which he was too
honestly proud to resent; it made
him even more carefbl leei lie ibou
judge him harshly in tbe laoit ■•
portant question.
" I trust I am not wont to be soEp-
cious,** said he ; " St. Maty forgive n
if I wrong any man ! bat yei*'--be«s
uncertain even now whether he shoM
go on.
Waryn made no remark whea &
abbot stopped abmpUj, hat tber^
was a look of anxiooa intdlipaff
which made it evident that he U
not made the icqairy lightly. TkU-
ing partly to the oonvietion tint k
was acting wisely, and partly, pe-
haps, to his own confiding dispokooi
Abbot Martin told his listener hrefj
what he had seen that eveniDTt^i
that he stiU retained his belief tte
it was the prior who had passed bia
At, the same time he explained tltt!
he bad, until dow, conneded th.<
nocturnal visit in his own miod t;::
some of the emissaries of Sir Godfrfy.
Foliot only gravely smiled in repj;,
as from the parchments before !»
he selected one oontaining a Hit c:'
names, which he banded to the al>b>i
The name to which his finger poiBte^:
was that of the prior of Ri velebj.
"« And who are these ?'' asked ds
abbot with some astonidboieDt, ai k
glanced over the roll which be beU
and read some other names then
which were familiar to hino. "Too
will not surely tell me that Hbst
have any part in the plot yoa racks
oir
" There is but too good proof d
it, I fear,'* replied Foliot, grBTO>;
*' I have that here," he continued, hj-
ing his hand apon a folded docosKst
which he singled from the r«:.
" which some of them at leist tl.
find it hard to reooocile with tber
allegiance to the king.**
<' And the bishop," said the ahbot
*'what course will he take opm
this?'
** He waits bis time ; bot his mea-
sures are taken ; and if the men d
England have no mind to cfaaose
their king, these banters after po^
will find the chase a daageroos one "
*' It seems to me scarody prudest,*'
said Abbot Martin, ''if it beas vtn
say, to leave the guiding of the hvee
in such hands eyeo for a short ^paee;
albeit, as St. Mary knovrs, we qmi be
of little help to the bishop^s oaose or
859.]
The Luck cf Ladymei€.^Part X,
729
he Sari of Morton's. Tet it nrast
loeda be, accordiog to our rnle, that
Prior Hagh should supply my place
XX my absence*"
" liet it be so," said Foliot ; " better,
for the preeent, that these men think
themselves undetected; let the evil
come to a head, and the remedy is
easier."
** Xoa will remain here to await
the lord legate?'' said the abbot
*' I much mistrust the Knight of
liadysmede, Waryn« and I am not
over- confident that he may not make
a pretext to keep me as a hostage, as
it wercL for this child Ginlio. I would
gladly leave some one behind me here
whom I might safely trust to prevent
the lord-bishop's being deceived by
evil whisperers.*'
"You wiU give me leave, father,
to ride with you to Huntingdon to-
morrow ? You have good counsellors
in your own house, I know well, but
I might chance to do you some poor
service. It should have been my
father's office, if he were here, and X
must pray yon to look on me as his
substitute. Sir Godfrey must not
think that the abbot of Bivelsby
lacks honest friends."
*'I thank you, son Waryn, from
my heart," said the abbot, warmly ;
^'it is what I should have wished,
loth as I am to embroil others in my
quarrel. I accept yopr escort readily
— the more so becanse I propose to
take with me none of my house but
what are absolutely needful. — A good
night, then, for we set forth at day-
break."
OHAPTEB XXVni. — THE FILOBOC.
The slumbers of Bivelsby, scant
and brief at all times under the
strictness of the Benedictine rnle,
were fated to be unusually disturbed
that night. Scarcely had the abbot
shut himself in his chamber, and
thrown himself on his pallet-bed, to
think rather than to sleep, when
Peter the porter, who knew but few
cares, and was blessed with a very
quiet conscience, was roused from a
very comfortable slumber by a loud
and repeated summons at the gate.
Peter was exempted, by reason of his
age and office, from the harassing
duties of the midnight service ; and it
was seldom indeed that he was called
upon to open the abbey gates at such
an unreasonable hour. Be was sleep*
ing, too, even sounder than usual ;
for there had been a caritas^ or ex-
traordinary distribution of beer, that
evening, in commemoration of a de-
parted abbot; who had chosen that
mode of having his good deeds kept
in remembrance ; and two shares of
the legacy had found their way to the
porter's lodgings— one for Peter him-
self, and one for his deputy. Now it
chanced that the deputy was not at
his post that evening, having received
permission to pay a visit to his rela-
tions ; and Peter, having to perform
as it were a double duty in nis ab-
sence very iiurly considered this
double portion of the perquisites to
be included. The knocking at the
gate might even have continued
k>nger, had not the boy who lay
id ways in .his chamber, and acted as
his general servant (for Peter was an
official of some dignity), heard it at
last, though possessed of a strong
boyish capacity for sleep, and awak-
ened his master with some difficultv.
It was long before the old man could ,
shake off his memento of the hospit-
able abbot sufficiently to understand
that he was wanted at the gate ; and
when he did proceed there, it was in
no very intelligent or amiable mood.
The key at that time was deposited^
according to custom, with the cellarer
of the abbey, so that there was no
opening the gate without that offi-
cer's pnermission, even had Peter been
so iDclined. He flung open the little
wicket, through the bars of which a
visitor could be seen and questioned,
and saw two figures standmg in the
shadow. Peter had it in his heart to
abuse them roundly, but he could not
be sure what their rank or their busi-
ness might be. He put on, therefore,
a tone as little objurgatory as could
be expected of him under such cir-
cumstances.
^Now who are ye, friends, and
what may be your errand here at
this hour ?"
no
The Luck qf Ladysmede, — Fai^ X
A strong gleam of moooHght shot
upon tbe face of one of the figane,
as be moved oat a little from the
shadow, aod Peter shot the wicket
with a howl of terror. It was indeed
a remarkable object which his ejes
bad rested on. A black face it seem-
ed, with keen bright eyes, and white
locks streaming down ; and on its
head Peter's imagination filled np
the rest of the picture. There was
one very like it on the walls of the
ante-chapel of St. Michael. He stag-
gered backwards against the boy,
who had run out at the old man's
ory. A low sonnd of chuckling
laughter outside did not serve to re-
assure either of them ; the old monk
tried to say a Paternoster, but he
could not remember the words.
"Peter— uncle Peter T' said a voice
outside the gate, which he thought
he recognised. But he replied only
by a low groan.
" It is I am here, Peter ; open the
gate, in our Lady's name 1"
The boy, more conrageous or more
curious, opened the wicket again, and
looked out. Peter had covered his
eyes with his hand, but he listened
while the boy again . inquired the
visitors' business. Either he did not
see the fearful visage which had pre-
sented itself to the porter, or he had
stronger nerves. Again a laughing
voice without was heard in reply.
" Tis unconscionable to disturb ye,
ancle Peter, but I bring ye here one
of your own flock that ia in tribula-
tion."
"What I" said the porter, recover-
ing from his alarm a little, and letting
his suppressed wrath find vent now
on a safe object ; *^ is it thou, grace-
less varlet ? What fool's trick ishere ?
and who hast got with thee ? If that
shameless young Rupert hath been
brawling with Hob Miller again, let
him lie abroad all night, and do thou
keep him company: His a crying dis-
grace, and a scandal to the brother-
hood.
''Hold, holdl" said the other,
laughing ; ** do not waste a whole-
some chiding which may serve the
poor brother for another time. I
nave no brawler here, uncle; 'tis
but a poor monk from foreign parts,
if I guess rightly, who has more need
of pity than hard words."
** And how has he fallen uito Buch
worshipful compaoj, Miaste Tte'
said tne porter, who had a: m
recognised the familiar t&ol li
hunter had been often sest te i
abbey, in Sir Miles^s dme, with t:
sents of choice game and &k fs s.
abbot, and bad drunk maay s r:
from the abbey eeliars in the i::
chamber where Peter sat, wito pi--
kept him there to hear what k
was stirring io the neighbowbuc
So intimate had he been with tfe i:
man in those days, that he hid be
accustomed to address him hj %
familiar term '* nnole," tbo^ :
such relationship existed hetts
them. But Pioot had never be
sent to the abbey on sach fne^'
errands since the present lord fis
been in possession at Ladysmede.
** He might chance to iaH is*
worse company than mine, mk
said the hunter ; " and I would \s^
brought him to a better place ^ ^
could have found one ; but iie s v
to lie at your gates here like t«x
I suppose, when he gets half^ro«wi
in the river, because your b&
vender chooses to let the littk ft«
bridge lie out of repair — well i?
him that I chanced to be pasa^-
I was on the watch for a wdf id
by."
" What the plagne made hiis 9R£
to cross that way ?" said PHff
"the bridge has been down ibs
three years."
** How should I know? a^ bs
yourself," said Picot, testily— " asd )
wish you joy of the answer."
** Who are you, friend, and wk
has befallen you?"* inquired rU
porter, eyeing the s^anger cautioDsiT
as well as ha coold throogb the
wicket. He wore, as fiar as ooold be
discerned, something of a maDts&
costume, but bis face still seemed, ss
far as Peter's hasy eyes could fl»k«
it out, to have something stru^
about its features and oompleiici.
Peter could have fancied he looked
like a negra
" A^ him again," said Picot; ''k
did not hear you."
Peter repeated bis qu^stioD, bst
there came only a shake of the bad
from the stranger in reply. Bot be
made tlie sign of tbe cross open bs
breast (whereby Pet^ was mdk
comforted), and laid his finger od ba
lips.
18590
Jh0 Luck ^ Ladymede^-^Fart X
TO
'*Is he dambr aeked the porter
0 astonishment;
Ficot chnckled for an instant at
he old man's perplexity. '* I reckon
)0," said he, ** for that is all the con-
rersation we have bad on the road."
The stranger bad drawn from bis
breast a small parebment roll, wbicb
he handed to Peter throogh- the
wicket.
" Ay," said the banter, as he marked
the action ; ''he offered that to me,
poor soul, as we came ak)ng; but
that is a way of talking I never conld
master."
The official received the scroll,
and looked at it in the moonlight
as carefully as if he were readiog
every letter. The light was not
in fault, for that matter; the
broadest sunshine conld not have
taught old Peter the mysterious art,
of which he knew as little as the
hunter. He did not choose to con-
fess the fact, however, and rolled np
the parchment with a little grant,
i which might have been taken as an
expression either of doubt or satis-
faction, but in either case seemed to
1 imply that be had made himself per-
fectly master of its contents.
'' Wait there a while,'* said he to
Picot, *^I must with this to our
^ cellarer ; he will give orders for this
stranger's admission, if it is to be so."
The old man hobbled off to awaken
the custodian of the abbey k^s, not
much to that officer's gratification,
for be waa but newly appoiated to
bis office, and rejoicing m the im-
munity which it gave him from some
of the more rigid observances of the
rule, and had not calcalated upon
Buch interruptions as belongiog to
bis new dignity. He rose, however,
and spelt out the stranger's creden-
tials by the light which the porter
carried.
^' He Las a vow upon him/' said
the cellarer, when be had made out
the sense; "he hath bound himself
to make a pilgrimage to three shrines
in each of the lands of Christendom,
and to cover his face and speak no
word till it be accomplished. We
most give him shelter, brother Peter,
for here is the Abbot of Walsiogbam's
mark and seal attached — he hath
come last from thence. He is mar-
vellous Me u^on his road."
The porter explained the accident
which, by Picot's account, bad be-
fallen him.
** Humph I" said the cellarer, as he
gave the keys, and bestowed himself
to sleep again, '* a man should travel
by daylight
With this not very gracious order
for the traveller's admission, the old
porter returned to the gata He
started again, as he admitted him
inside, and observed bis appearance
more closely. In the long gown,
hmk and dripping as it was with the
waters of the Oase, and the girdle of
rope, there was nothing remarkable ;
but the upper part of his face, down
to the lips, was covered with a vizard
of black stuff, through which a pair
of keen dark eyes looked out with an
unnatural expression ; while a beard
of flowing white hair, by way of con-
trast, reached nearly to bis girdle.
If Peter had seen such an applicant
for admission at the gate alone, in
the moonlight, he would have bad a
strange tale for the brotherhood the
next morning. Even now be looked
with very considerable awe and mis-
trust at the strange gnest whom he
had admitted. Picot, after assuring
his old friend of the traveller's harm-
lessness, went his way from the gate
laughing heartily, and Peter, still
keeping as much as possible at a
respectful distance, led the pilgrim to
a lodging for the night
Long before daybreak, Abbot Mar-
tin had completed the preparations
for his journey. He baa determined
that none of the brethren should ac-
company him to Huntingdon, ex-
ceptmg bis chaplain Wolfert and the
treasurer of the house. Foliot was
to form one of the party, and the rest
of his escort were as few as might
serve for the decent maintenance of
his dignity. Early as it was, the
convent was all astir; and as be
descended into the court attended by
his chaplains, the cellarer came to
report to him the arrival of their
pilgrim-guest He listened to the an-
nouncement which the official brought
with some uneasioefls, thoogh he was
careful not to betray it by word or
look ; for the circumstance itself was
by no means so uncommon, except as
to the hour at which the stranger
made bis appearance, as to call for
732
The Ludt of Ladymede.^Part X.
P«*
Any speeisd remark or inquiry. For
a moment he hesitated whether he
should see and examine the new-comer
for himself; bat time was now pre-
cious, and as he looked at the scroll
which the cellarer put into his hands,
and recognised the well-known seal
of his friend the Abbot of Walsing-
ham, he felt that the occnrrences of
the past night were threatening to
make him OTer*suspiciou8. Merely
giying brief durections, therefore, for
the pilgrim's hospitable entertain-
ment so lonff as he should see fit to
remain, and for every furtherance to
be given him in the performance of
his vow, he moved towards the spot
where his escort and horses were
awaiting him.
The monks were gathered in the
courts and cloisters in little par-
ties, finding in the superior's jour-
ney to Huntingdon on such an
errand a topic of more than ordin-
ary excitement Most of them were
selfishly more concerned for the in-
terests of their house, which they
held to be imperilled by the un-
scrupulous enemy whom the abbot
had provoked, than for any personal
risk which he himself might be in-
curring. Some, however, saw his
departure with unfeigned regret, and
more than one felt a misgiving that
he was leaving enemies behind him
not less dangerooB thBn tliofle vks
he was going to meet. Tliere wst
flenerai move towards the gwiem
by which he was to pass, and wm
who pressed to the front feO oa t^
knees to ask his blessiDg, and to tit
him God-speed.
'*I thank you, my chikhea,*' set
the abbot, in a broken Toice — ^be «a
easily moved by any show of afetia
— *^ 1 thank yon all ; I trust to .re-
turn to you in peace, and speedily.''
^Stay with us, my good kri'
said the sacrist abruptly ; *' there i
evil before you — let ns meet it hsi
together."
'* Stay with year chfldren, &tkt.'
sdd one of the older monks ; " Het
is no trusting these men of vktes
—they hewed down St. Thomas fi
his own altar.**
<* And did not his blood cry agasK
the king from the groond? 6c:
fear not, my children," he cKmUBveL
smiling in his old cheery fiubk^
though it was but to hide a stroeeff
emotion which their honest alfectk
called forth — '^ I am no saint, to br
worthy of such a martyrdom. I ves
more fit to die in harness ; never fssz
struck me, altar or no altar, hot ^
might chance to get as good as k
gav& Farewell, and be of good
cheer ; Ckx) and St Mary have ne
in their holy keeping !'*
CHAFTEB XXIX. — JUSTICE AND HEB A6SBSS0BS.
The court was set in the county-
hall at Huntingdon. There, as. justi-
ciary for the king, sat Sir Hugh Bai^
dolph, who had little pretension in
his own person to represent justice,
except that he was nearly blind. He
was a sworn companion of the Knight
of Ladysmede, had fought by his side
in many a fray, and sat with him at
many a deep carousal. But sword
and wine-cop trembled alike now in
the half-palsied hand, though it was
the excesses of a •wild youth and
manhood, rather than the advances
of age, which had afiected those
strong nerves, and given him the as-
pect of an almost worn-out man. By
his side sat Sir Godfrey himself,
with a sterner countenance than his
wont, and a restless look that showed
he was under some strong excitement.
At a table in front sat scrivcDen sas
notaries, and others who held sast
inferior office under the great b»
jesty of law. A strong force of pifc-
men and halberdiers occupied tk
immediate space aronnd, and tbi
rest of the hall was thinly filled bt
the idler spirits amongst the dtwesL
Sir Nicholas le Hardi was preseet
there, but he was seated apart »:
some distance behind^ Sir Godfr^.
and took no part in the proceedicp.
Some two or three plaints of mis
importance had already been heani
and judgments given, which bad tk
angle recommendation of being np^
and decisive, though they were cm-
ed less by the rights of the case tkc
by the preconceived opinions or tk
supposed interests of Sir.Godfrey aad
his friend the Justiciary. The niofs-
1859.]
The Luck of Ladysmede. — Part X
733
iDg was fast wearing on, aod as yet
there was no appearance of the an-
swering party in the more important
cause for which the present court —
by an exercise of anthority somewhat
arbitrary even for the elastic justice
of those days— had heen parpoeely
snoimoDed. More than once, when
some stir aboat the open doors be-
tokened the entrance or the exit of
some of the careless audience, Sir
Godfrey had tnmed his eyes anxious-
ly in that direction, and addressed
some impatient remark to the jadge
at his side, who appeared inclined to
take advantage of his cushioned chair
to sleep off the exhaustion consequent
on hia official duties (following so
close upon certain convivialities of
the previous evening) ; for he merely
yawned and stretched himself in
reply to his friend, and seemed to
take no very lively interest in the
proceedings.
At last Sir Godfrey rose from his
seat, and leaning over the rail in front
of the raised dais, addressed his
chamberlain, Gundred, who had
found a place for himself amongst the
humbler officials below.
" The abbot took no objection . to
the summons, you say ?*'
" Nods," replied Gundred ; '' he did
but remark, as he read it, that the
time was short, but that he desired
neither favour nor delay."
'* He will not come 1 " said the
Knight ; " my life on it, we shall not
see him here to-day !*'
"We will proceed against him as
contumacious,^' said the iusticiary, who
seemed anxions to get his duties over
as soon as possible.
** By your pardon, worshipful
knights,*' .said Gundred, '^I incline to
think the lord abbot will be here
anon; he is one to make his words
good, as I have heard those who know
him say, and as I judge myself from
his bearing."
The Knight of Ladysmede resumed
his seat, and conferred for a few
moments, in a low voice, with the
jasticiary. There was whispering
throughout the hall as the news of
the expected issue between such
powerful disputants flew rapidly
from mouth to mouth ; for up to that
moment the real object of the sitting
of the court had been unknown, even
to the lower officials themselves.
But the hum of voices suddenly
ceased, as a rapid trampling of many
footsteps was heard without the
doors, and an eager throng of towns-
men crowded into the hall, filling it
in a very few moments, and jostling
each other in their eagerness to secure
a favourable position.
** There comes some one now,*'
said Sir Godfrey, scowling down upon
the crowd ; '^for here is all HuntiDg-
don broken loose upon us. How
now, knaves! will ye be still there?
or would ye have me drive ye back
to your shop-boards again ? Go for-
ward there towards the door, Bald-
win," he continued to the esquire
who stood behind him, " and clear a
passage; and clap me up two or
three of the most active of these new-
comers if they cumber the approach
to the court" '
All eyes were turned by this time
towards the great folding - doors,
which were swaying to and fro as
the halberdiers who were stationed
there tried to throw them back and
secure them. High over the heads
of those who still thronged the eu-
trance, and whom the guard were
vainly strugglicg to force aside, rose
the limbs of a tall gilded cross, giving
token of the approach of some high
officer of the Church.
« Room, there I *' shouted Sur God-
frey, rising with some dignity —
** Room for the lord abbot of Eivels-
by!"
The esquire made his way towards
the spot where the holy symbol was
displayed, and with some difficulty
formed a doable line of halberdiert*,
through which the abbot and h»
party slowly made their way up the
ball to the foot of the table. The
crowd of citizens, indeed, fell back
with loDg-accustomed awe and re-,
spect before the reverend procession,
but their closely-packed array made
such a movement easier in intention
than in act For no sooner had the
abbot's arrival in their town become
known, and some exaggerated rumour
of the coming trial been circulated,
than shops were dosed and streets
deserted, and half the population of
Huntingdon rushed on before the
Benedictines to the county-hall.
Preceded by his chaplain bearing
734
Vu Luck of Ladysmede,^Fart X
P^
the croes, and leaniag hia hand
lightly nnoD the shoulder of joang
Foliot, who walked by his side, Ab-
bot Martin passed through the bar-
rier which fenced off the crowd from
the officials of the court. A chair of
state had been placed for him near
the foot of the long table, and, in de-
ference to his acknowledged rank,
Sir Hugh Bardolph himself rose from
his seat as he approached, and re-
moved for a moment the cap of rich
fur which covered his head, as, with
what he intended for a graceful dig-
nity, he prayed the abbot to be seat-
ed. Sir Godfrey also courteously ac-
knowledged his opponent's presence,
aud greeted Waryn Foliot with a
somewhat haughty and careless nod.
'* You answer to the style and
title of Martin, abbot of Rivelsby T"
said the justiciary, after some formal
preliminaries had been gone through.
*'I hold that office— in most un-
worthy hands."
The registrar of the court then, at
the bidding of the Justiciary, read the
writ of summons, and the formal
charge made by Sir Godfrey against
the abbot for the abduction of the
child.
" And how say von then, my lord
abbot, touching this plaint of Sir
Godfrey de Burgh?"
«<I am clear of all wrong in this
matter, in the sight of God and man
— I have done nought herein against
the law of this realm, or against the
law of Heaven,'' said the abbot in a
firm voice.
'' Bay you so ? Here be nine
knights, or holders of knights* fees
within the county, good men and
true, who shall be sworn upon the
Gospels to a true finding. — Alan de
la Wyke, Richard Fitz-Alf, Walter
(le Hanneby, William de Zonche,
Geoffrey de la Mare, Pagan Fitz-
Urse "
**The three last are neither of
knightly rank nor holders of knichts*
fees," broke in Wolfert the chaplain,
who, standing by his superior's
side, had been scanning the jury of
knights as each rose in answer to
his name, and holding some brief
communication with Waryn Foliot
meanwhile-—" they may not lawfully
be sworn in the cause, nor will the
lord abbot be weU adTued to ^
before them."
Sir Godfrey de Bargh turaed ;^
pie with rage at the yoong diaf le<
interruption, and Bwore an ottli ..
him between his teeth, which vrl I
have intimidated maDy a wiser s:;
better man. Bat an overwetasr
conceit of one's self is new akie ;
moral courage than men are wcot t
give it credit for ; and Wolftrt— «■
fident in his legal knowfedge, xaioci
in defence of his superior's ri^i
and with nothing of the covtrtf k
his nature — met the knight'^ asry
glance with a calm Eelf-oompbcee^
which made Waryn Foliot bite ih
lip to conceal an involantarj sic£t
The chaplain was prepared to i&kc-
tain a point of law, or a point /
divinity, where he believed hii»-
to be in the right — and that wa? a.^
ways — against all the sheriffi i:^
royal justiciaries in the realm ; Bed
would have made, in any nam. i
highly conscientious and dissgr^
able martyr.
Sir Godfrey had half risen to spoi
in reply to the bold challenge of the
ecclesiastical lawyer, bnt had siocf^^
to confer for a momeDt with his
friend the justice, when Abbot Mir
tin, motioning to his chaplain to It
silent, rose to his feet and addrcERd
himself to Sir Hugh Bardolph ic i
calm clear voice, which was baii
distinctly through ,the crowded fail
which bushed itself into silence is U
spoke.
" I do not care, my lord justice,
to take exception to any of these
knights and gentlemen present ts bt
jurors, be they who they may," w^
be cast a look of dignified cootezffp*'
upon one or two of those neutA
him, whom he had already recogBb-
ed as inferior vassals of LadjFoede,
and men of no good report ; **I bin
not come here this day because I re-
cognise Sir Godfrey's Bummoos u
valid— for I might plead, and yoa io
your justice would admit, the too
short notice allowed me, and the
manifest abuse of his impleadiog w
here in his own court But I niiiif
wave all that I might urge for my
self on these points, because I »
willing to acknowledge that I bit
have done the knight some vroog.
1869.]
The Luck qf Ladysmede,-^Fart JL
735
and becanse I am ready bere to
answer it publicly. I have under my
safe keeping — but not at Rivelsby —
the boy of whom Sir Godfrey claims,
as I DOW learn, tbe wardship. That
I took bfm from Ladysmede by force
or fraud — that I used any art or de-
vice to carry or tempt him thence —
or that I received him knowingly in
contravention of any right that Sir
Godfrey hath, is not trae. Bat it is
trae that I have removed the lad to
a place of safety; known to none
others at Bivelsby — and for so doing,
if I have overstepped the law therein,
I munt abide the issue."
*^ ITou admit that you have him in
your keeping?*' exclaimed Sir God-
frey, eagerly — "render him up to
me at once, as to his lawful guard-
ian, Toy lord abbot, and I acquit you
here of all wrong intent So let ua
part friends; you have forced me
already upon that which I had no
mind to.''
•* It will be needed firstly," replied
the abbot, *' th^t I be nalisfied of your
claim to the disposal of him."
" I have those present who will
prove that, if it be required," said Sir
Godfrey, his brow clouding again.
" But I say onoe more, Ab£)t Mar-
tin, let us part friends. Let my
word suffice you in this matter, as
yours does me. You have been led
by evil counsellors herein against
your own better judgment — dve no
longer heed to them. Say that yoa
will send the boy back to Ladys-
mede, and I will only thank you for
bis gentle entreatntent in the cloister
of St. Mary.'»
" I have not said," replied the ab-
bot, firmly, ♦* that in any case I would
send him back to I^ysmede. I
said I was prepared to abide the
isBoe of what I had done, if in any-
wise it should prove to be in con-
tempt of your rights or of the Jaws
of England. But, saving your pre-
sence, my lord jaatice, I stand here
upon my privilege as abbot of St
Mary's. I may not, without offence
to the Knight of Ladysmede, question
tbe rights which he has here assert-
ed over this boy. But if I have done
any wrong in this matter, I will
answer for it only to my lord the
king. We produce here the charter-
granted to our house by the royal
martyr Edmund, in which he spe-
cially forbids the abbot of St Mary's
to answer upon trial before any one
but himself."
The treasurer of Rivelsby, at a sign
from his superior, took carefully from
its silken bag the precious parch-
ment, yellow with age, and handed
it into the registrar at the table. Sir
Godfrey looked in the justiciary's
face, as if for counsel in this new
stage of affairs ; but there was little
answer to be read in its helpless and
puzzled expression. Sir Hugh roused
himself, however, at last, to bid the
official read it Meanwhile he and
de Burgh conferred together in low
whispers.
" We do not question this, as a
matter of ancient privilege, lord ab-
bot," said Sir Hugh, when the read-
ing was concluded, and the registrar
hs^ handed up to him the document ;
'*but we hold all such exemptions
worthless under the common law of
this realm, as settled after the Con-
quest. These Saxon charters are
worth nought, as against a king's
writ"
"Here is the confirmation of St
Edmund's pnvUegium under the
sign-manual of the Conqueror him-
sdf," said the treasurer, producing a
second parchment instantly, as if pre-
pared for the difficulty.
Vbe registrar carefullv examined
the second document, and after read-
ing its brief contents aloud, pro-
nounced it good. The two knights,
while he was thus employed, again
conferred together, and it appeared as
if Sir Godfrey was urging some point
against the views of the justiciary.
^ His Majesty King Richard is not
within the realm at present," said
the latter, after a pause of hesitation ;
<* and justice would sufier if we were,
to permit such plea as has now been
made to stand in the way of Sir God-
frey's right. If it were any question
of the privileges of the house of St.
Mary, saints forbid that we should
meddle in it to the minishing of the
lord abbot's privilege, or to the dignity
of the king ; but here is an admitted
wrong maintained upon the person
of this good knight's ward, which
may hardly wait its remedy until the
king return from Palestine."
"It shall not, by heaven!" broke
T36
The Luck of Ladysmedc—Part X
[Det
in Sir Godfrey, do loD^r able to re-
Btrain his passion. " I were, thrice a
fool to suffer it. Ooce again, lord
abbot, will you deliyer up the boy?"
*' I will not, into your hands," re^
plied the abbot, with a flushing cheek
and a less calm tone than be had
used hitherto. "I have heard that
bis life were not safe with you — and
though I know not in what relation
he stands to you, or how he should
be so unhappy as to call forth your
malice, while l now look upon you, I
might well believe it I"
** Hear ye this, knights and gentle-
men ?•* said de Burgh ; ** this church-
man is not content with boasting
him of this bold meddling between
me and mine, but he dares me defi-
ance here in mine one court, and
flings murder in my face ! Charters
of privilege, forsooth I a charter from
heaven should not screen him I"
Bardolph would have interfered
to calm his friend's stormy outbreak ;
but de Bagh waved him aside, and
would not listen.
** He shall purge his contumacy, or
Bivelsby shall lack an abbot for a
while! Ho there, a guard I to the
castle with him 1"
There was great excitement through-
out the hall, and murmurs were heard
from the lower end unfavourable to
the violent course which the sheriff
seemed determined to pursue ; %t
the Benedictines were generally po-
pular amongst the citizens.
The abbot sat down again, calm
and collected, and the flush upon his
features faded into a stern paleness.
But Foliot stepped to the front,
trembling with suppressed excite-
ment and indignation, and with a
hoarse voice bespoke the attention of
the justiciary.
"Sir Hugh Bardolph,** said he,
when he could find an utterance —
and the murmuring cries amongst
the auditory sank gradually into
silence as he began to speak — '* most
worshipful lord Justice, you will not
suffer the law to be thus forced in
your court and in your presence ;
you will not refuse the lord abbot's
appeal to the king ? Sk Godfrey de
Burgh, I charge you have a care how
you overstep your office ; will ye lay
violent hands on a mitred servant of
Holy Church?"
<'Whoi8 this brawler tlat ibve
himself thus among ns ?'' cried Sr
Godfrey, with a farioos glacce «
Waryn, while his companioD on ik
seat of justice looked helptea^ fraa
one to the other, and still eodet-
voured by -whispered wonb aad
questions, to moderate the Koigfafe
violence. *<Take him hence, aoiDe cf
you knaves there, and bestow has
with the churchm^i, since the ood-
pany likes him so weU. Wliail ds
boys come hither to tea<di as how to
-acquit ourselves of the kind's cob-
mission ?"
Two or three of the balberdiere is
the immediate neighboorhood stq^
ped forward to lay hold on Warvs
Foliot — none had ventured ss yet tn
lift a hand upon the churchman.
"Holdr* said he leaping npoa
the table in front of him, before tk
men could make good their grasp;
"hear me yet, my lord jostioe. If
the reverend abbot will forego hk
demand to plead before his majesty
in person, will ye grani him* as is fas
undoubted right, wager of bat^e
upon this issue with the Knight of
Ladysmede ?"
His words reached to the &rther
extremity of the crowded boildio^,
and the alternative they convey^
was attractive to the popular taEt&
The half-suppressed marmors now
burst into enthusiastic ahonta.
'' Wager of battle! wager of bat-
tle T^ cried the men of Huntiogdoa-
<' A right bold defiance I God aascHl
the abbot I"
Sir Hugh Bardolph tamed pale
where he sat. Above the tumaU of
cries rose the tones of Sir QodStej'i
sounding voice.
" Clear me forth this rabble ! stand
to your pikes, men I and yoa, Bagot
le Noir'* — he spoke to the con-
stable of Huntingdon GasUe, who
sat behind him — ^"'I give yon cus-
tody of the abbot of St. Hary"^ ia
the king's name— look to yoorpria-
oner?''
Still Foliot maintained his ground,
and drawing his mailed glove from
his hand, waved it aloft aa be re-
newed his challenge on the abbocfs
behalf.
" Bear me witness, all ye that are
here present I I claim for the lord
abbot appeal of battle against Sir
1859.3
The Lutk cf Ladysmede.—'Fart X,
727
Godfrey de Burgh of Ladjsmede, and
here I claim to appear as his cham-
pioD ID this qQarrel— 00 heaven defend
the right P'
There was an aDSwering shont from
the lower end of the hall, where,
safely screened from the observation
of the sheriff and his party, the citi-
zens ventured to ^ve free voice to
their feelings. Even some of the
more reputable knights who formed
Sir Qodfrey's panel of friendly jnrors,
mnrmared their approval of Poliot's
challenge. Ganared, indeed, bad
sprung upon the table, and laid his
hand npon the challenger's shoulder,
as if to remove him by force, in obe-
dience to his lord's order ; but Warvn
grasped him by the throat, and forml
him backwards over the edge, amongst
the discomfited notaries ; and the low
cries of disapproval, which were beard
fronoi some even of Sir Godfrey's
party, did not encourage either him
or others to repeat the attempt. The
abbot, at the first moment of his
yoang champion's spirited appeal,
had listened with a gratified pride
and irresistible sympathy. The
Knigbt of Ladysmede might have
read, in his compressed lips and
flashing eye, a defiance as bold as
Waryn's own, which proved how
little the vows of the monk had tem-
pered the mettle of the soldier. But
now he rose, and as Waryn turned
his glowing face round, as if to see if
there were any amongst the specta-
tors who cheered him so readily, who
would have the spirit to support his
demand for justice, he met tne supe-
rior's deprecating glance and upraised
hand, and beard nim gently entreat-
ing him to forbear. But at that mo-
ment both he and Sir Godfrey had
caught sight of a movement amidst
the spectators below, which at once
arrested general attention.
Sir Godfrey's men, using the staves
of their halberts, were attempting, or
making show of attempt, in compli-
ance with his order, to clear the
lower end of the hall of some of the
most noisy of the partisans of the
abbot's cause, and were forcing them
towards the doorway, when loud
shouts were heard without, and a
counter-rush took place, which bore
th« halberdiers back, unprepared as
th«y were for any bat a passive re-
sistanca The first impression npon
the minds of all at the npper end
of the court was, that this was a
sudden outburst of popular feel-
ing, and that the men of Hunt-
ingdon had risen in defence of the
liberties of the Church, and were
bent on rescuing the Benedictines
from the officials of the law. In
another moment, however, a blare of
trumpets was heard at the doors, and
a knight in rich armour, preceded by
two marshalmen, before whose autho-
ritative movements even the men of
Ladysmede gave way, was seen ap-
proaching the seat of Justice ; whilst,
as the tumultuous cries of the towns-
men died away, there ran a subdued
murmur through the court, passed
on from man to man, until it reached
■the acute ears of Wolfert, who whis-
pered to his superior — ** the lord
legate — William of Ely — in good
time."
It was indeed the arrival of that
powerful prelate, which Sir Guy
Treherne, the tall and handsome
young knight who held the post of
lord-marshal in his retinue, now came
to announce to the assembled court.
It produqed very discordant effects
upon those who heard it Sir God-
frey, as he bowed low in acknowledg-
ment of the high dignity whom toe
youDg knight represented, played
restlessly with his sword-hilt, and
looked round and exchanged a glance
of startled intelligence with Le Hardi^
who now for the first time came for-
ward for an instant, and whispered a
few words in his friend's ear. The
justiciary shook himself in his robes,
and put on 'a new air of dignity,
which contrasted favourably with
his previous hesitating and uneasy
demeanour. The expression which
passed over his countenance was that
of a man delivered from an unpleas-
ant dilemma. Waryn Foliot leapt to
the floor, and grasped the abbot's
hand with a face of radiant congratu-
lation. The abbot replied only by a
quiet smile ; the other two Benedic-
tines still preserved, as they had
throughout, the calm and impassive
demeanour which proved how well
they had profited by their early
monastic traming.
There was little difficulty now in
clearing a passage, crowded as was
7d8
The Luek of Ladytnude. — Part X.
[Dee.
the hall Pikemen and men-at-arnu,
cbnrlish mechaDic and curioos citi-
zen, fell back alike before the tall
marshal men who asbered the vice-
roy of England. Followed by a small
but brilliant retinae of knighta
and gentlemen, William Longchamp
walked, with the hurried bat not
ungracefal step which was babitaal
to him, towards the raised tribanal
which the knights left vacant for him,
as they rose to do him honourable
welcome. Briefly but gracioualy re-
cognising the abbot as he passed, the
legate returned the salutions of Sir
Godfrey and his fellow-knights with
as brief and careless courtesy as if he
had been a prince born in the purple.
Many a man then present burned
with bate and jealousy as he noted
the prelate's supercilious bearin^,#
and longed to pluck from his pride
of place the peasant's son, who bore
himself haughtier than any Norman
king ; but there was scarce one of
bis bitterest opponents who did not
recognise in his heart, in that com-
manding glance and determined cast
of features, one of those who are
rulers of Nature's election, and who
make or mar high fortunes for them-
selves.
** You hold a court in eyre here to-
day, Sir Hugh Bardolph," said the
legate, when his brief salutations were
concluded ; '* and the lord abbot of
Eivelsby is impleaded here, — is it not
sor
The judiciary, with some little em-
barrassmenty replied in the affirma-
tive.
" So have I learned but just now,
on my journey hither. Our liege
King Bichard hath an active ser-
vant in ^ou, brother, who will suffer
no mischief to grow for lack of speedy
remedy. For this setting is o' the
sudden, as I take it ?''
" There were matters of emer-
gency, my lord, touching the peace
of the county, as it seemed to me,"
said Bardolph, bv no means at his
ease under the legate's questioning
eye.
" Well, — justice overtakes the
wicked, they say, even when she
limps. Woe be to them. Sir Hugh,
when she comes hot - foot upon their
track, as is the good fashion of
Huntingdon I But what makes my
lord abbot here before ye, as thovgii
he were a misdemeanant 7 We have
rumours, indeed, of some e?il coao-
sels in these parts against the king's
honour — but we have no traitors at
Bivelsby, I surely think ; how say
you. Sir Godfrey de Burgh ? I trast
vou would pledge yourself for the
loyalty of that hooa^ true friends and
neighbours that ye are, as readily as
for your own ?"
The justiciary was very willing to
leave to his friend the task of reply-
inflp to the legate's rapid attack of
half- bantering interrogation, which
was the more embarrassing, as he
had sufficient private reasops for
fearing that there might be an ear-
nett meanioff under oover of the
jest — a double reading, of which he
feared to betray his own conscioas-
Sir Godfrev was either less eoo-
scious or bolder -hearted. He ei-
plained to the bishop, as shortly as
ne might, and with an honesty of
tone which was natural to him, and
often stood him in good stead, the
wrong which he held himself to hvn
sustained at the hands of the abbot
His tale was plausible enough, with-
out any actual misrepresentatioD of
the facts ; and Longchamp listened
as if he heard it now for the fint
time.
" And what saith the abbot in an-
swer 7" he asked, when his informant
had concluded. *
** He stands upon an ancient eha^
ter, which entitles him to plead only
before the king in person. These
churchmen would set themselm
above all laws," said Sir Gkxlfrey,
either forgetting or disregarding the
presence in which he spoke.
*' We had something to do with
the making of them,'* said Loog-
champ, who was never angered by a
bold word ; " he who makes locks caq
make his own keys. If this charter
be valid, my lord abbot," he coo-
tinned, addressing himself to where
the churchmen sat below, " I see
nothmg for it but that Sir Godfrey
and yourself should both take the
cross, and go seek his majesty over
sea."
There was a suppressed kngh
amongst the bystanders at the le-
gate's suggestion. - But it died at
1859.]
The Luck of Ladysmede. — Part X,
739
once in a hxinh of eager atteniiOD,
when the abbot rose and spoke.
**I may not, without sin, forego
the ancient right of mine house/'
said he, addreseiog the legate ; *' but
I shall do no wrong^and, I trow
well, shall suffer none — if I submit
myself to the jadgment of your holi-
ness as the king's vioegerent I
am ready to answer for this before
you, my lord legate, when and wbere
you shall direct."
8ir Godfrey de Burgh djd not
seem pleasantly affected as he lis-
tened to Abbot Martin's speech.
The interposition of the bishop of
Ely was the last thing he would
have desired; but the proceediogs
of the day had been such a manifest
outrage upon all right and justice,
that ne did not venture to make
any attempt to uphold them before
liongchamp, and was content to ac-
cept for the moment anjr solution
which would obviate too strict an in-
quiry into what had already passed.
After a brief whispered consultation
with Bardolph, during which the
keen eye of Longchamp never left
his face, he professed bis readiness
to submit his complaint against the
abbot to the legate's decision.
'^Tliis claim of privilege on the
abbot's part has come upon me b^
surprise, said be, ''and I doubt if
it could be maintained ; but I am
well content to go for judgment to
your holiness, so please you to ap-
point time and place."
''No time or place so well as
the present,'^ answered Longchamp;
" bis dat q^i cito dat — the very soul
of justice 18 that it be speedy — ^bave
we not said so? So, by your good
leave, Sir Godfrey, we will sit even
here, and now. I shall have the
advantage here of Sir Hugh Bar-
dolpb's wisdom and longer experi-
ence, and if that were not enough,
there is my good lord and brother of
l^jirham within call. St. Martini
we have law enough amongst us to
hang every rogue in England I"
" Be it as ^our holiness will," said
de Burgh, with a surly impatience
which he could not repress ; " but it
grows late upon us who have sat
here since morning.^'
"That reminds me well," said
Longchamp, coolly, "that I have
ridden bard these four hours. Bid
them seek me a crust and cup of
wine — there is no dependence on jus-
tice when she is dry. Who is this
child, my lord abbot, whom you are
accused of harbouring to the sore
displeasure, as it seems, of the worthy
Knight of Ladysmede ?"
It was now the abbot's turn to
speak with some embarrassment
"He is, as I believe, the child of
one long dead — one who was well
known to me in other lands and
other days. It is true that I saw
the bov once, by chance, in Sir God-
frey's household ; except it were for
that, I know of no claim that Knight
bath either of blood or wardship : I
verily believe be bath none that will
bear inquiry.'*
'*Sir Godfrey will doubtless give
us satisfaction on this bead," said
the prelate, turning to.de Burgh;
" it is pleasant to see such a Chris-
tian rivalry for the care of the
orphan ; but it needs almost a Solo-
mon to sit in judgment here betwixt
ye. What say you. Sir Godfrey —
how came you the protector of the
fatherless?"
" He is not fatherless," replied de
Burgh ; "bis father is a stout knight,
who still lives to do the king good
service, and who gave him into my
charge abroad some four years since.
I did not learn his true parentage,
indeed, until of late, though I might
have shrewdly guefised it. I claim
the rightful wardship of bim while his
father is absent with the king."
** Speak me no riddles, in our Lady's
name," said Longchamp: "I have
short time or patience to read them
— what is this knight's name of
whom you speak ?"
" He is present here himself," re-
plied de Burgh — ** your holiness may
have bis own word, an it please
yon."
"Let him stand forth then, and
claim his own, if so it be," said the
legate — "so we may make an end of
this business."
De Burgh turned to where Sir
Nicholas sat behind him. Slowly,
and with seeming reluctance, the
Crusader rose to answer bis appeal,
and leaned forwards towards the
legate, over whose face there shot a
rapid glance of sudden intelligence
740
The Luck of Ladyifnede,^Part X.
[D*
as he tamed Yub eyes npon this new
party in the salt. Le Hardi epoke
as if with effort, in a low and harried
voice.
" He is my child, as I have fall
reason to believe" he said; ''the
Knight of Ladysmede says trae.''
liiere was a cry from a comer of
the hall, close behind the seat occu-
pied by those who had been sam-
moned as jarors; — a woman's cry, so
sharp and piercing that all eyes
and ears were turaei in the direction
from which it came. In another io-
stant, in spite of Giacomo's efiEbrts
to hold her back, Isola had sprang
forward into view, and throwing
back the veil in which she had
hitherto 80 closely wrapped, strug-
gled towards the foot of the tribonai
All gave way to her, .and Giacomo
finding all his attempts to calm her
impatiently rejected, and serving
only to draw npon himself an atten-
tion which he did not desire, let go
his hold, and fell back amongst the
crowd of astonished bystanders.
" My child 1" she exclaimed wildly
flashed, and panting with excitement
— '^my child !—Nicholaa le Hardi,
yoa said it was my child I — wheie is
her
Sir Nicholas staggered forwards,
and olatched Sir Gfoclfrey's shoulder
as though he would have fallen but
for such support. He gazed with
dilated eyeballs on the face and
figure before him, and moved his
lips as though he were speaking. No
words would come. He dashed his
hand across his eyes, as if to clear his
vision, while Sir Gk)dfrey gazed at his
straDge looks and gestures with un-
disguised astonishment.
"My child!" still cried Isola -^
"tell me" — she turned imploringly
from the Crusader to the abbot, and
clutched bis robe — "tell me — you
have hidden him — where is he 7"
The abbot was even more startled
than Sir Godfrey; but in the burn-
ing eyes and wild address he thought
he saw and heard the ravings of a
disordered mind. He laid his hand
kindly on her head, and tried to calm
her with gentle tones and words.
She threw herself from him im-
patiently, and renewed her agonised
appeal to Sur Nicholas. William
LoDgchamp looked from one to the
other, but even bis keen glance oodi
read no explanation.
«< Oh I" — continaed Isola. besee^
ingly, as she fell on her kiiees opGe
the floor, and looked into Le HsiSi
face, which was still turned opcKi ber
with a sort of fascination — ^mmr mt\
— I forgive all — yoa have done mt
no wrong — ^yoa did not mean evil b?
me— I Imow it! I wiU nnsaj a&—
all I only give me back my child !
You say he lives — cruel, croell ^bej
told me he had died. Only M me
see hita, and I will trouble yva no
more 1"
" We have a new claimant hen,
my lord abbot, if I nndesstamf
rightly," said Longchamp, addresezBS
the superior of Rivelsby ; " what saj
you to this?"
'' Poor soul r* said Abbot Martia
— '^Bome bitter wrong hath drina
her mad I"
Not for an instant did he coaatss.
her in his thoughts with Giiili&>
story ; but his ooontenance lai
gathered an indignant sternness as
he looked on Sir Nicholas's ghastly
face. Giacomo had been watohici;
it intently also, with one of his oM
evil smiles. Bot be had now moved
closer to the abbot's side, andwai
trying to raise Isola and draw ha
back.
"Peace, Isola, peace,** he gcntiy
whispered in her ear ; " yoa have do
child— will you not believe me r*
"Believe you?" she said, as ite
looked wildly in his face — ** no, no-
I have believed too long — ^yon heard
him say he was alive,"
" By my soul," said the l^ate, • we
have one here, at leasts I think, who
will speak the truth, if she be bst
permitted. How now, fellow ? — fcaw
her alone!" he continued, address-
ing Giacomo; **doet hear ine?>-4od
do thoa stand forward, woman, and
answer me, fearing the lace of no
inan, as you look for the king's jostioe,
and shall have it"— he tried to moll-
rate his rough voice into Bmnewhat
of a gentle tone — " is vonder knight,
whom they call Sur Nicholas le Hardi,
lover or leman of thine ?^'
"He is my wedded husband, sa
traly as Holy Church ooold make
him so," said Isola, with ind^naat
passion.
" I am not," said Le Haidi» who
1859.]
The Luck of Lad^ftmede.—Part X
741
bad by this time recovered some-
thing of his Belf-possesaion — " ehe
lies before you all."
The tone was yioleot, bnt it lacked
the firmness of truth. LoDgcbamp
lv>oked at him with ooe long gaze of
coutempt, and turned away to listen
to laola.
"What did I say?" she cried,
oladping her hands, and etretchiog
them imploringly towards Le Hardi
— "* God forgive me, I will unsay it
— I will humble myself as you will
— only give me back the child I "
"Ala»I she will go wild, poor
heart ! " said Giacomo aside to the
abbot — " her child died long ago. I
had not foreseen all that would come
of it, or 1 would surely have spared
her this 1 "
Sir Godfrey de Burgh had been re-
garding bis friend with a sort of stu-
pid amazement Tbe latter part of
the scene which was taking place was
as utterly incomprehensible to him
I as to any of the strangers present;
I for of IsoWs existence he had been up
I to that moment ignorant. But now,
when she last spoke, he appealed to
Le Hardi for some explanation. He
was answered by little more than a
muttered curse. For once, tbe ready
' tongue of the Crusader failed him.
' •* She is mad 1 *' were the only audible
words. Bot he felt, as he gathered
courage to look around the hall, and
' saw the questioning glances that were
bent on him— when he marked tbe
' derisive smile, and could almost
catch the ribald* jest that rose to the
lips of some of Sir Godfrey's com-
pany— that he was losing ground
^ even in their estimation. Above ail,
the stern contempt of Longchamp,
' which had cowed him for the mo-
' ment, now stirred all the best and
worst that was in him. He had been
shaken from his habitual cautious
' self-possession ; tbe dead hfid risen,
I as be thought, against htm, and the
horror bad scarce yet left him. But
that had been only an imaginary
phantasy — for tbe living he would be
a match even now. A bold stroke
should recover him yet ; and straight
he nerved himself to make it.
"Hear me, my lord legate I** he
said, in a determined, voice. Long-
champ half-turned hunself, and threw
npon him a look of inteoser scorn, if
it could be, for an instant
'^Hear you! I have heard yon,
and 1 know you I False to woman
as to man! Tear the crosk from
your shoulder, Sir Kicholas, lest it
burn into your flesh, and brand yon
for a felon and a traitor ! *'
" Now, by the Holy Sepulchre, Sir
Prelate,'* said Le Hardi, stung almost
into madness, "you shall rue those
words ! I fling back traitor in your
teeth — you have lorded it all too long
over this realm and people ; there is
a reckoning at hand — men can bear
such insolence no longer; I hurl de-
fiance at you, for myself and for the
liberties of England 1 "
He tossed his mailed gauntlet with
such force towards the legate, as he
spoke, that, had it not been arrested
by tbe hand of a knight who stood
between them, it would have struck
Longchamp on the breast The lat-
ter*8 eyes flashed fire, and he half-
rose with an oath; but he checked
himself in time, and sat down with a
scornful laugh. There was a broken
murmur of applause from some of
those who had accompanied Sir God-
frey, but as Longchamp looked round
upon them with a stern inquiring
gaze, either fear or curiosity kept
them silent More than one of the
legate's retinue sprang forward to
resent the Crusader's insult, but he
waved them back.
'*I am no knight Sir Nicholas
le Hardi," said he, ''to prove your
courage, and no hangman to do your
lust office fittingly ; but mark me —
when the day of reckoning comes, I
will find both I"
Some of the more prudent of Sir
Godfrey's party had closed round Le
Hardi, ana led him, almost by force
to the back of the hall. Sir Hugh
Bardolpb, especially, had listened to
his outburst with a face of eager
alarm, acd was the most active in
endeavouring to restrain him. There
were those present who were ready
to endorse every word of the knight s
defiance; but their plans were not
yet ripened, and such a premature
exposure threateoed ruin to them all.
None knew it better than the Cru-
sader himself; but for once his tem-
per, goaded almost to madness, had
T42
The Luch of Lady mede. — Part X.
Pte
betrayed his pradeDce. Yet he had
gained one point; he had succeeded
in diverting the interest of his firiends
there from his own personal matters
to considerations of overwhelming
importance to themselves.
"My ffood brother of Rivelsby,"
said the legate, when the distarbance
had sabeided, addressing Abbot Mar-
tin in his calmest voice ; " we are
all in some strange error here, I
think. There is more in this than
we shall nnravel at this moment;
and I will have this poor lady^s tale
from her own mouth, in your pre-
sence, somewhat more privately —
when she shall be better able to
speak. As for this boy— I would fain
see him for myself (he should be a
jewel of some price, so many seek to
have the setting of him) — he is not at
Rivelsby, yon said? Let him be
brought there at once. Sir Godfrey
de Burgh, our purpose is to visit St
Mary's to-morrow : if it will please
you to attend us there, you shall
have justice in full measure foryour-
pelf and for Sir Nicholas le Hardi.
Fare you welL .We lie at Hunting-
don to-night — if you be not better
provided of a lodging, my lord abbot,
to such hospitality as our poor quar-
ters here can afford I bid you hear-
tily welcome."
De Burgh scarcely waited for the
legate to finish speaking. " My
lord," said he, fiercely, " I will carry
my cause elsewhere. You churchmen
hold all together, and a plain man
may look long for justice at your
hands. The good prince the Earl of
Morton will do me right — let the
Abbot of Rivelsby look to it."
*• I care no jot for Prince John,"
said Longcharop, as he rose to leave
the hall. ^ Woe betide his gracious
majesty if he has no surer friends
than they of his own household 1 **
Giacomo had succeeded m ^-
tially calming Isola's agit«tioa, i&d
withdrawing her from the fros; a
the crowd ; but not annotieej of
Abbot Martin, who had watdK:d be
with an earnest atteDtion. At i
word from him, Foliot had qakLj
followed them in their retreat I^
marshalmen cleared a passage i^nk
for the legatees exif, and he proeecc-
ed, accompanied by the Benedictias,
towards his hostel in the town, letT-
ing behind him ample matertab fr
wonder and dispute amongst the g>
zens of Huntingdon, who, aa sooa u
he was out of bearing^, gathered isl:-
little knots, and relieved themselreg
by noisy discussion of the day's ^
oeedings. Some among them ecHcei
the cry, which was beginning tbea 9
rise in many quarters of England, tkt
to be drained of their mocej to
gratify one king's warlike fAods
abroad, and maintain a aeoood in
lavish state at borne, was more tba
peaceful traders like themselves c. ad
bear; and one or two strangt:*
might have been seen moviog froc
group to group, who were loodest ia
their protests against the Nc^idsc
prelate's grasping assumption. Bst
the majority of the townsmen ve?
not especially inclined to espouse a
cause of which Sir Godfrej* of Lidjy
mede, and the knights his frw^
presented themselves as the chss-
{)ions ; and, on the whole, the haogbtj
egate had left a favoarable impres-
sion upon many who had seen hia
that day for the first time. Too
much accustomed themselves to be
treated by their feudal lords wiiih
supercilious insolence, they secre'Jj
rejoiced to see them repaid ia ihsit
own coin ; and juatioe wore at ktst
an honester, if not a gentler look, to
the bishop of Ely than in Sir Had
Bardolph.
CHAPTER XXX. — ^THK BSQtJIBB S 6T0RT.
Sir Nicholas le Hardi spoke no
word to his esquire, as he mounted
at the gate of the Hall to return to
his own quarters. He broke impa-
tiently from the friends who sur-
rounded him, with brief promise to
be present at their council in the
eveaing — for he had come to Hnn>
tingdon on more important business
than Sir Godfrey's ; and without hi-
ther communication even with tbe
Knight of Ladysmede, who looked
after him with a questioning gaze of
astonishment, rode straight aw&j.
But when Dubois had followed him
to his chamber, and they were ilose
1869.]
The Ludk ef lMdysm0de.^I^art X,
74«
together, he torned round npon the
Gascon with a &oe of ominoas mean-
ing. The eaqnire confronted his mas-
ter with his nsaal qaiet aelf-poBses-
eion, though he knew well that the
atorm on that troubled eonntenanoe
had been gathering to fall upon him.
** Yoa have lied to me foully, Da-
boie," be eaid» elowlj.
'*I h«ye lied in yonr serrice, my
lord, for some yean past**
** Do yoa mock me, eirrah 1'* said
the knight ; ** will yon stand there to
brave out year treachery f*
'* Treachery 1" said the Gascon, with
a slight ironical emphasis ; *' I scarce-
ly tiuce your meaningi 8ir Nicholas,
I fear."
•*Tou told me,^^ said Le Hard!,
with suppressed passion, though his
eye wandered under Dubois's quiet
gase — ^*^ you told me she was dead."
** I spoke as I then believed," re-
plied the esquire. '*You offbred me
gold, if yon could be rid of one you
hated. I promised you it should be
done: I found it done to my hands,
as I thought— and I told you, yon
. were safe."
^'' Corse on your word - splitting/'
said the Orusader ; '* I say again, yon
have deceived me wilfully— you told
me she was dead."
^ I was deceived myself," said Du-
bois, quietly—*'! know it now. If
fou have patience enough to listen,
will tell you how. I followed her
back to Genoa, by your direction,
after you left her : there, for a while,
I lost all trace of her, though I was
certain she had not quitted the
place. The cloister folk knew me
too well, and would tell me nothing.
At last I followed one day by some
cbanoe a funeral procession to the
chapel of San Giorgio, where the 0am-
aldooi bury ; and as I stood there by
the open grave, I was told it was for
a young signora of that house, who
had fled from her convent with an
Englieh knight, and had died broken-
hearted. What need had I to ask
more ?"
"Fool and dupef ezdaimed the
knight, *' if nothing worse ! Was this,
tbeo, the tale you brought me? It
was scarce worth purchase at the
price, even if it had been true as gos-
pel—two hundred good gold beamts,
was it not r
" And an oath of everlasting grati-
VOL. ucxxvi.
tnde,*' said Dubois, with a perceptible
sneer. <' You were liberal, Sir Niche-
Um ; it was service well paid, I grant,
as it fell out ; but for that which you
would '>have put; me on, the price
would have been all too little."
<* But why not have told me this?
why leave me to think '^
*' I told you she was dead, and yon
were safe; I spoke honestly enough.
I believed myself discharged of what
I had undertaken — easily, I confess —
that was my own good fortune. I
had no commission from you, I tblnk,
to murder ?"
'* Murder I" repeated Sir Nicholas,
paling at the word ; **how dare yon
speak to me thus?" But there was
a quiet defiance in the esquire'to eye
which the knight inwardly confessed
and trembled at, disguise it as he
would by 'bold words. He threw
himself into a seat that stood at hand,
unable to control the storm of con-
flicting passions.
**Tou have been worse than false
te me,^' he said, in a hoarse voice
more of suflering than anger ; " why
not have told me all 7"
** It would have lowered the value
of my intelligence, I fear," replied
Dubois, composedly, "if I had told
more than was needful. You asked
me no questions, remember.".
*'Sor' said the Crusader, rising
again, and striding towards him with
such a sudden and flerce movement
that even the Gascon's stubborn
nerves were shaken, and for the first
time his own face changed for a
moment under the terrible exprea*
sion of his master's eye, and he
drew back a step as in preparation
for a personal struggle. But Sir
Nicholas only grasped the arm
which the esquire raised involun-
tarily by an instinct of self-defence,
and flung it from him — even those
iron muscles might have shown the
mark of his gripe— «• So !" he cried,
"for three long years, for vour own
base profit, you have left this heavy
burden on my soul, knowing that
by one word you could remove it!
Short - sighted, selfish fool ! could
you not guess that I would have
given twice tbe bribe for which you
would sell your salvation, to have
been assured that that blood lay not
at my door r'
" I thought my tord," said Dubois,
48
744
The Lutk<^ fjadymMd«.~Fart X,
[Det
reeoveriog bis self -command, and
FpeaWog in a tone of snrprise, either
real or admirably assamed ; '^ I surely
tboaght it bad been tbe lady's life,
and not ber death, that was tbe bur-
den?"
" Both r* said Sir NicholaP, flash-
ing upon him a bitter look. '^I have
to thank yon for inflicting both upon
me, I did believe," he continued,
with an evil laugh, *' the devil had
been a fairer paymaster ; I have done
much of his veork, it seems, without
the wages — ay, have borne all the
punishment, and been cheated even
of the sin, and have had the profit
snatched from me at the last ; whilst
thou — ^thou must be the fiend's espe-
cial favourite, Dubois— hast enjoyed
all tbe profit, and been excused the
work r
** You are pleased to.- jest, Sir
Nicholas ; but you wrong me." *
'' I doubt if that were possible, my
excellent friend," said the knight, who
was schooling himself into forbear-
ance; his prudence warned him to
avoid, if possible, an open rupture
with Dubois, who seemed on his part
to bear his master's anger, whether
deserved or not, with commendable
patience.'
" Tell me," said Le Hardi, looking
once more into his follower's imper-
turbable countenance, " can one buy
truth and honesty for a few moments,
and at what price 7^'
**They are scarce and dear," said
the Gascon, *'and I do not boast to
have a larger stock of them than my
betters. But I owe you a service.
Sir Enighr, having received payment
already under an error (for an error
it waSp I repeat, and how I was led
into it I have yet to learn) ; I have
Kune gratitude, too, for old kindness,
though you may haply doubt it — ^let
that pass. I will let you have tbe
truth cheap, for the nonce, Sir
Nicholas, without fee or reward —
even in thanks. I promise. You
will not believe me the more, if I
caH all the gods, heathen and Chris-
tian, to witness. You may not
always have so fiiir an offer — we poor
esquires cannot afford to trade on
such terms constantly as a rule of
our Kuild."
"^ You knew that Isola Gamaldoni
was alive, and here in England— and
you spoke of it to otlieis ? — B
all in that*'
*'I did not know it, azid I eodd
not speak of it. I bad beard t^
she was living, and tbat was aH I
never saw her face until to-day k
the haU."
^* I told you I had seen ber," tas^
Sir Nicholas. If tbe smile with whici
he accompanied tbe words was meaot
to show that be scorned tbe phas-
toms of his own imagioatioD, it was
very unsuccessful in its effect. *' I vat
right— the dead never come b»^^
"Perhaps not," said Dubois; ""at
least not at more inconvenieot sea-
sons than tbe living. I watched, at
all hours, at the IwBket-maker^ kct
you wot of; but I casnot &Dcy tht
was ever there. But I will teU yoa
honestly, I did suspect she was abtrh-
ered at Willan's Hope, for I heard
they had a foreign guest tbere. Bat
I could not get to see heat ; I did yoa
in that matter as honest serTice as I
could."
" Curses on such iU-fortane T said
the knight ; *' this should haTe oo&e
either earlier or later. Bat I v31
win that game yet. Now as to thia
child, Dubois — is she raviDg, or what
means it?"
'* Which child?" said tbe Gasooc,
with half a smile.
"^Her child," said Le Hardi, col-
ouring; **i8 he living too? what
does it mean ?"
^ Your child is dead« Sir Nicholas ;
you have the -evidence of otbers be-
sides mine. If you bad seen fit to
warn me that it suited yonr porpow
and Sir Godfrey's tbat be hboald
come to life again, I would have
honestly told yon there was a livbg
obstacle in the way. Yon deign me
but a half confidenoe, Sir Nieholas.
;et you expect from me an undivided
service."
*' Fool that I have been," said Le-
Hardi, replying rather to bis own
thoughts than to the esquire's re-
mark, "to mix myself with a hot-
headed blunderer like him of Lad^s-
mede I He is no match for the abboi,
far lees for William Longchainp. I
should have had more wit tbsa to
have shown myself in court to-day—
I might have sworn all would go
wrong. What brouffbt the kgtfe
there, I would like to Know ?**
186^.1
Th$ Emptror and the Empire,
74!^
" He IB on his way to Rivelsby,"
said Dabois.
*' I know it/' said the Cnisader,
shortly. »<Wbat following hath he
here with him, did I hear yon say ?*'
" Some eight haudred men in all/'
aaid the esqnire.
The kniffht's manner was as though
* he woold have liked to have asked
further qaestions, bat he did not.
''Enoagh" he said, with one of
his unpleasant smiles; "I have had
as fair measure of troth, I take it,
for one bargain, as I conld look fbr ;
it were nnreasonable of me to aak
more. Bemember, I snp this evening
with Sir Hagh Bardolph, in the
Nether-pite."
Dabois left the chamber with as
anmoved a face as he had entered it.
His master looked after him as he
withdrew, with a gloomy smila* "I
thonght," he muttered to himself,
''that man had been bound to me
by as strong a bond as hell conld
forge ; I am not altogether sorry, I
think, to find it snapped on the sud-
den—a mere web of horrible fancies.
It shaU be long, I promise me, be-
fore I trust any man so far again.*'
He repairea at the appointed hour
to the evening banquet at the housie
of the justiciary ; but it was not
Dubois who accompanied him to the
place of meeting. He had not loog
arrived, however, before the Gascon,
having taken a shorter cut thrdu^
the by-streets and lanes of Hunting-
don, mingled in the dusk amongst
the attendants there.
THB BMPEROB AKD THE EMPIBS.
If the Emperor of Prance is ac-
cessible to ordinarv sources of amuse-
ment, and reads the English journals
as their writers generally flatter
themselves that he does, we caq
fancy, as he sits alone in his cabinet,
a grim smile occasionally flitting
across his features, when he lights on
speculations as to his policy, motives,
and conduct, such as our plain-
speaking and much-speakinr coun-
trymen so abundantly indulge in.
If Olympus trembled at the nod of
Jupiter, the god may have been sup- '
posed indifferent to the great effect
of so small a cause ; but a mere man,
with the usual leaven of vanity in
his nature, cannot but * feel flattered
at seeing that a few words of his,
published fo an official paper, the
more unintdHgible the better, or some
dark innuendo in answer to an ad-
dress, can raise or depress the price
of stock — overwhelm with joy or
sorrow the bulls and the bears of the
Exchange— create a panic or a ju-
bilee throughout the length and
breadth of Europe. That the Third
Napoleon has obtained by his policy
a position in the councils of Europe
no less important than that which
his uncle guned by sheer force of
arms, is a patent fact, and one which
few, now that the eighth year of
his fall power verges on completion,
would be inclined to gainsay. It is,
we fear, no less true that the posi-
tion in which England stood at the
head of the nations after the last
great war, and which apparently was
maintained until the despotic reac-
tion from the revolutions of 1848,
has been gradually undermined, and
that at the present time France is
looked upon by the European com-
monwealth as its most powerful
member for good or evil. Undeni-
ably the moral position of England
is as high as ever relatively to the
rest of the nations ; though, speaking
absolutely, and in reference to her
former self, she has not gained in
this respect at all in proportion to
her intellectual and material pro-
gress, and this we can only attribute
to the long lease of her destinies
to an unpatriotic party. It is doubt-
less a subject for regret, though
scarcely for any deeper feeling, that
the hegemony of Europe (to borrow
an expression from Mr. Grote) should
have been transferred for a season
from the nation whose foreign po-
licy is, on the whole, conservative,
to the nation whose foreign policy
is revolutionary ; and such a change
is not likely to create general con-
fidence, or to assist the. happiness
748 27ie Emptrar and tha Empire. [Bk.
by duplicity, fearing to create agaiDst over wbich tbeir sway czlcaiei
itself, by a more open policy, the The Emperors of Rnsaiaiien mg^
irresistible oppoeition from abroad ed from the eeaeDtially mOitary natee
which was fajtal to the sway of of a barbario chieftaiBBhip. tka^
Napoleon I. more properly dutingaialied mer
It is common in France and else- the Tartar title of Tsara. Napoln
where to speak of the first empire L, as the commaDder- in -chief ef
and the second, as if their natures the forces of the French Bepohfe,
were separate and distinct— as if the and to flatter the conodt id ikt
first were a lion and the second a nation, which, aping the old Boibui,
Jamb ; and, this even in official quar- iiiir^„i^ u.«^ v«^«ir-^
ters: whife, with singular logical rn., "S,^ ^*J^!,^'?^
inconsistency, the ImperialisU dirive ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^ **^^ bis state m
the legal claims of the second empire y^^^^ ^^j ^j,^^ ^ ^^ .r
from the first, and its representative •"
potentate assumes the title, not of assumed the title of Emperor, nft-
the second, but of the third Napoleon, diating all claims to soT^^igaty bat
The man himself has said, giving ^oee of might and popular deetioa,
utterance, we think, rather to his which, as understood in the seoae ef
wish than to his belief, ^'L'empire universal sofTrage, is BothiDg msR
c'est la paiz." In the enthusiasm of than an ezpressioa of the bmtal v9
the moment he was probably un- of the masses. If Louis Napolesc
aware that the proposition contra- had honestly recognised the mmt
dieted itself. Empire in its ancient principle in assuming the porple, k
classic meanmg was simply and ab- would have been more consntent;
solately military command. The but Europe would probaMy have
emperors of Borne possessed that taken alarm, and aDanimooaly have
title in virtue of being commanders- refused to acknowledge him^ and he
incbief of all the forces of Borne, and might have hoped that hia poUtkal
the justification of their power on capacity, by taking adrantage d
moral grounds reslbd on the assump- circumstances, would enable hun ta
tion that the anaroliy into which the overrule the nature of hia poeitioB,
republic had fallen by the destruo- and realise his dictum^ by makiaK
tion of all hereditary distinctions, himself in process of time — if not k
demanded a continual i)romulgation name, at feast in fact — the lawfU
of martifiJ law, with an irresponsive oonstituMonal king of France. It k
general to enforce it That this state indeed probaUe, that had the Brnpenr
of things was looked upon at first been free to follow the bent of lus
as provisional, is shown by the fact aspirations, he wodd have been aatis-
that, on one or two occasions after fied with securinff and enjoying Im
the death of a tyrannical emperor, position by peaceful triampha» by it-
the senate made a feeble attempt to building and adorning Pari8» and
restore the republic, but the grow- making hen if at a lavish ezpeoae«
ing preponderance of the military the cynosuA of dties, by rectorocat-
caste now rendered all such attempts ing the free trade and indaatrial
worse than nugatory, until in process exhibitions of England, and thus
of time the utmost that patriots creating a new bond of harmony be-
dared hope for was to secure a liberal tween neighbors ; bat the m^tm of
and indulgent master, who was at things did not allow of aach a d»>
the same time firm and popular with sirame solution. The story of Peter
the soldiers. The title was assumed Schlemihl, who sokL his shadow fer
by Charlemagne, in medieval Europe, limitless wealth, is somewhat api^
from the analogy of its functions pas of the Emperor's position. I^er
with those of the older emperors, wished, after he had obtaiaed the
Even in modem times it has always wealth, to live virtnoudy upon it,
been indissolubly connected with but the nature of bis compact with
military supremacy. The Emperors evil forbade it, and involved the oe-
of Germaxiy were the commanders- cessary ' addition of nusery. Had
in-chief of the federal contingents, Louis Napoleon ascended the tfanne
rather than the kings of the country in a l^gal and coostitntiooal nanasr
1859.]
The Emperor ctnd the Empire.
749
be might bave been allowed to reign
in peace and tranqaiUity, and be-
c6me, as we give him fall credit
for wiabing to be, a benefkctor to
France and his kind. Bat divine
Nemeaiff, or rather Providence, for-
bids that power nnjnstly gained
ahoald be secarely enjoyed. The
FVench Bmpire was inangnrated, not
merely by the destrnction of a con-
atitutiOD, which, whatever may have
been its ahortlived merits, the Em-
peror bad solemnly sworn to observe,
but by the ootrage of natural equity
in a pretended appeal to the sense of
the nation. The coup d'kat may or
may not have been a crime in its
aatbor deserving utmost retribution,
bnt the appeal to universal snflfirage
was a crime in the eyes of a patriot
of a far deeper dve, since, while the
former only set aside existing powers
by overt violence, the latter inflicted
the death-blow on liberty, law, and
order in France. An appeal to uni-
versal suffrage is not an appeal to the
sense of the nation, but a call to iti
worst elements to revolt against its
better. To show the truth of this
position, we have only to look at the
application of the same principle in
another case—the administration of
justice. The murder of Oount An-
viti at Parma has just raised a cry
of horror in Italy and Europe, not
beoause the man appeared undeserv-
ing of punishment, but because he
was done to death by universal suf-
frage, or, in Transatlantic language,
" killed by Lynclj law." Uoiveraal
suffrage, as applied to the election of
an Emperor, is no more than Lynch
law applied to the most important
function of a state— the choice of its
governor. Its exercise in this wa^
is undoubtedly better than that uni-
versal suffrage should attempt to
govern by itself; and, indeed, it
shows some delicacy and modesty in
the French mob that it is conscious
of its own unfitness for government,
and possesses the organ of reverance
sufficiently to bow down before the
echo of a mighty name, instead of
lending its ears, as a matter of course,
to the loudest and vulgarest stump-
. orator of the day, which would un-
doubtedly be the case were Universal
suffrage ever to gain the upper hand
in England. Fortunately, even in the
wildest vagaries o( French sans-culot-
ism there is ever an eccentric ar-
riere pensie of good taste. And thus
in France universal suffrage has had
the good taste to choose a governor
inst^ of attempting to govern of
itself. Bnt that it has chosen Louis
Napoleon, a man of unquestionable
genius and ability, is due to accident
or Providence rather than to the
principle of election. The name was
elected, and not the man ; and sober
people were agreeably surprised after
the election by finding that the name
had a man appended. But, though
universal sumage, in choosing its
governor, has appeared to abdicate
Its own right to govern, or has in
reality done so, it has by no means
abdicated its right to interfere with
the functions of government, and
hamper its attempts to do good in
every possible direction. Thus, it
appears to us that the tyranny of
French Imperialism is not the tyranny
of the man, but of the mob. The
Emperor is a far less free agent than
is generally imagined in England,
where the superincumbent weight of
the constitution above the disturbing
elements, like a large stone placed
on a brood of snakes (to borrow a
comparison of General Napier), al-
lows them to wriggle their tails from
under it, bat cannot be moved by the
strength of their heads and bodies.
The same tyranny which in England
finds its utmost expression in build-
ers' strikes, injurious to individuals
but impotent against the State, is
in France a Manichean god of evil,
wrestling with good in the highest
places, and filling all society with
the terror of its shadow. All good
men in France know that the Bed
spectre, though apparently exorcised,
is still rampant, going about seeking
whom he may devour, and all good
men in France tremble accordingly,
The English press, in its leading
organs, has, we think, borne too hard
on the Emperor personally — ^has re-
presented France at large as groan-
ing under his sway, whereas his
sway is popular wth the majority
of Frenchmen; and it is only the
minority who suflfer— a minority, it
is true, oomprising nearly all the
honesty, intellect, and virtue of
France. It Is scarcely to be won.
750
I%e Emperor and the Empke.
[Dee:
dered at that the strictnres of the
En^liah pref b on the Emperor Bhoold
excite umbrage in France, for the
conscience of France knows that the
blame lies rather vitb the coantr^
at large than with him. Even if this
were not the case, a high-spirited
people do not like to be spoken of
and sympathised with as the slayes
of an irresponsible master, and con-
sider sach sympathy, as proceeding
from a foreign nation who are not
remarkable ^r cosmopolite feeling,
as a somewhat eqaivocal compliment
The fact that England has preserved
the conatitational freedom that France
has lost, would natarallv enhance the
bitterness of such a feeling. Bat,
supposing that the Empire represents
the preponderance of tnose classes in
French society which are most an-
tagonistic to British traditions and
principles, and which are now flashed
with complete saccess over the better
dements of their own nation, it k
natural enough that they should feel
indignant at those who show that
their despotism is bounded by their
frontier, and refuse to bow aown to
the golden image that they have set
up. We believe that such a view of
the Emperor*8 {position, as we have
assumed, a priori^ is corroborated
by a review of the facts of the case,
and the history, now stretching over
Rome years, of the Imperial policy of
France. It appears to throw fight
on much that woold be otherwise
contradictory and inexplicable. The
Emperor's acts and professions have
failed to correspond with each other,
not so much because he vaoillates or
capriciously chaoges his purposes, or
because he speaks deceit deliberately
-(-a course which must inevitably lead
to the world being undeceived in the
end — as because his intentions are
overruled or modified by the presence
of forces in the background which
prevent him from carrying out his
private aspirations, and which he can
only afford to despise at the imme-
diate sacrifice of his position. Be
it remembered, from first to last, that
the French Empire is the iocarna-
tion of universal suffrage. By the
notorious prosecution of M. de
Montalembert, the French govern-
ment proclaimed its absolute identi-
fication with that principle. 11 de
Montalembert was accused of blaa-
phemy» not against God and the king,
out agunst uoivenal 8ii£Brage 1 The
failure of the proeeeulioo, in deler-
ence, we believe, to the private wisto
of the Emperor, proves that there is
yet some hope for Franee, and that
the Emperor makes oocasiooal effort*
to free himself from the ahackka tbaa
bind htm.
In one view of the case, France
Is worse off than NapleB, eaffering
under the casual sway of a legiti-
mate tyrant ; in another view, ahe
may be coogratulated that she pfm-
senses a man in many respect eo
admirable as Loais Napoleon, as a
representative of the principle of evM
over good, of all that is worst and
vilest and moit anarchical in hanaa
society — over all that is purest, no-
blest, best— and, as it were» commia-
sioned by Heaven to take the lead io
it Hayd the Emperor perished bj
the hand of Orsini and his confede-
rates, his death might not impossibly
have led to a state of things in France^
to which the present regime might
appear one of great socisd happiness,
and the powers of mischief which
are now guided, if they cannot be
entirely controlled, by his able hands^
might have broken loose on the
world like a deluge, as they threat-
ened to do when they were early
suppressed in 18^ by a four days'
war in the streets of Paris. We
cannot but suspect that Louis Na-
pelon's promiseB, or rather political
propositions, often embody his aspir-
ations as a man ; his shorteomiof^
and deviations in action represent
the amount of modification they
suffer under the deep and dark
tyranny which is its sovereign's
taskmaster. It is a lamentable fact,
and one which must stagger the de-
vout believer in continuous human
progress, that the moral charaeter
of the French nation has for many
years past been . undergoing a palpsp
ble deterioration. In the fifst great
Bevolution, all the old historic land-
marks of society porished. The fiate
of royalty and aristocracy, as by law
established, was shared by the legi-
timate democracy of municipal free-
dom. The fosion, or rather confu-
sion, of all social elements in a oen-
trauBation without parallel in his-
ia59.]
The En^perar and the Mf^in.
751
tory— a filftte of tbingd for which the
ancioDt laognages do not possesB a
name, becaoae the ancienta had no
experieDce of the thing — having
supervened, liberty appeared to have
passed away with Astnea from the
earth. All the common bonds of
men^ whioh unite them in idea, but
still with marvellous strength, were
dissolved in the first Revolution ;
even the old territorial divisions,
lest they should suggest provincial
feelings, were changed, and the pro.-
vinces were cut up into departments.
If the Bevolution could have done
it, it would no doubt have annihilated
the geographical features of the com-
mon country, lest they should bring
back local associations ; it would
have destroyed all pre-ezistinff family
ties and records of consangumity, as
it did its beM to destroy those of ite
own time by nnllifvbg marriage.
The Restoration only succeeded in
restoring in a partial degree, and
most superficially, what the Revolu-
tion had destroyed ; the Revolution
of 1830 only adjourned the evil day;
and that of 1848 proved that France
bad grown no wiser from the sufier-
ingB of the Reign of Terror, by recog-
nising the same fatal principles of
which the tyranny of Robespierre
was only the consistent sequel. The
same power that set up Robespierre
haa set up Louis Napoleon ; if he is
a better man than Robespierre, no
credit is ^e to France in the blind-
ness of her selection. This power
that has thus gained the mastery
over one of the finest regions of
Europe or the world, was unknown
as we have observed, to the ancients.
The Greeks named a government bv
the mob an Ochlocracy. But this
ochlocracy does not represent the
extent of the evil. The slave ix>pu-
lation were excluded from the widest
democracy of the Greeks, as they
are from the democracy of America.
But in the French Revolution, the
element, which corresponds to a slave
population — the element of ignor-
ance and brute force and mere nnm*
bers— obtained the supremacy, and
has more or less influenced* the des*
tinies of. France up to the present
time, when not its common sense
bat its vanity, not its prudence but
its passion, was overrmed to the
choice of an irresponsible ruler, who
was really, as it has since appeared,
the fittest man for the position.
8uch a result — ^it is scarcely enough
considered in Eogland— was a poliU-
cal pis-aUer, Twice had the restora-
tion of constitutional royalty been
attempted, and twice failed : in 1830,
because Charles X. and bia ad-
visers ignored the Revolution, and
thought that the Kins might still
govern by divine right; in 1848,
because the new dynasty had not
taken sufficient root in the aSecUons
of the people, and, lacking the
energy to rule by force, it lacked the
age to rule by prescription. After
Louis Philippe's fall there was no
chance for royalty. A time may
come when the French people may
tire of military tyranny, as tne Eng-
lish people did in the days of Riehanl
Oromwell, and welcome back the
grandson of the Oitizen King; and
that time will be an European
jubilee ; but is far distant yet.
The life of the Empire, the very
breath of its existence, we may say,
depends on the necessity of con-
stantljr expressing^ the will of the
numerical majority, and endorsing
its supremacy over the virtue and in-
telligence of the country. In vain
did the first Napoleon, feeling his
weakness from want of the support
of the Past, endeavour to create a
new nobility of the sword. Such an
aristocracy had no root in history;
and its continued life depended
henceforward on its preserving the
purely military character which ic
nad at first We know as a truism,
that a constitution cannot be made
in a day, any more than a forest
of timbc^ tre^ can be extemporised.
The real trees of liberty whioh have
added new rings of growth to their
barks with every generation, once cut
down, no others can be planted in
their places which will stand, though,
as at the Revolution of 1848, cockades
are hung on their branches, and
wretched priests are borne k the
arms of the mob to bless them.
Municipal democracy, which was a
time-honoured institution in France,
was merged at the Revohxtion in a
network of petty official despotisms,
radiating from the Parisian centre,
a)id exaggerating its ooloun by re-
762 Tks Emperor and the Empire. Ift
fieetion. That local aelf-government gree take tbe meaaare of Ins frr
and provincial independoDOC, which morality and indiTidoal aspnri'
in England are kept np by an unpaid after good. Vie bentate, w^.
magistracy, whoee very errors point some do not, to brand tba Eapr
to their freedom from central infla- with the name of nnprineqM. ' •«
ence, has come to be represented in nerali^ speaking, an nnpnsdp-
France hj an organisation of officials, man » one who stands oat dmi i
who are in a <&cending series the age and nation on a bad emkeect-
slaves of slaves, and whose admi- one whose morality falls belov u
Distrative errors are all on one side, average of that of his times. Xctv
a miserable subiervience to the go- does it qdte amoant to a ddibes
vernment which pays them. Thus satanic preference of eTil to g»c
it is that one of the most tronbie- The unprincipled man, in tiie psp^
some officers of the central power is sense of the word, is below the 153
watching over the officious zeal of pathy of tbe society in which t
its sabordinates, to prevent their moves. French society, jndgiis 7
compromising it in the public opinion what immediately preceded ha t3».
of the world. It is very intelligible has certainly no right to call Ifv
how the liberty and well-being of Napoleon unprincipled. If it ks.
France is permanently jeopardised the eoup'd*etat woald have beei s^
by the infloences which are para- possible; the military antboritie&i:
mount within her; but she is also, stead of doing his bidding, voc:
in her present condition, emphatically have laughed him to scorn, ci
dangerous to all the rest of the civil- simply put him under aneBl,ast^
ised world, especially to her nearest did before at Etonlogne, when mste
neighbors, for much the same rea- were not quite so ripe. Nothiof br
sons. This is not because the helm a state of anarchv ooald have aSm
of state is in the hand of that one the* military authorities to act >
shrewd, taciturn, and inscrutable they did, and the fact that his «^
man, so much as because the forces were obeyed on the occasion, sr?
which he is obliged to respect are always furnish the £aipercr> ft^
anarchical, and resolve themselves fenders with a ground of jo8tifieiti£
into those two which are most ini- Finding France withont law, be af
mica! to human progress and human that some determined will must tib
happiness, sometimes acting in con- her by the hand, and he saw, at t^
cert, sometimes separately, some- same time, that his private object »
times at peace with each other, some- ambition coincided with hjs aasasia;
times antagonistic, but always ready the character of saviour of Fruet
t> conspire affainst Gcd, and good- Tbe means which he took as vtat
ness, and freedom— brute violence on sary to gain his ends, thoagh mssCf
the one hand, and brutal supersti- Unjustifiable, do not appear to hm
tion on the other. Accidentally, they par^oularly revolted the pul^ <»>
are more dangerous when cloaked sdence in France, however they ea;
in the purple robe of Imperialism, have been judged by a seleet bsb^
than when patent in their natural ritv of the French nation. Aad tk
ugliness ; for the expression of their vulgar conscience of France 00 tks
impulses, which would put the world points coincides with the consdoKe
on its guard by being boldly and of that €hurch of which the msjoritr
openly uttered, moulded into form of Frenchmen declare theonlTei
in the secresy of the Imperial bosom, members — a Ohnreh which eumo;
now surprises it by unexpected ac- recognise the immntable prindpla
tion, against which it has had no of Justice and honesty except tf
time to provide. In most of the subordinate to its own narrov aad
Emperor's deeds, up to the present exclusive religious system. To do
point of his career, we think we can evil that good may come, is jmt^
trace this twofold influence acting able according to Jesuit monlitf:
upon him behind the scenes: in and it being once sesomed tiiat to
most of what he has seemingly deliver France from anard^ va
intended to do, but was prevented good, Napoleon was iostified bj tk
from doing, we can to a certain de- moral sense of Oathohoisffl is breik-
1859-1
Ute Emperor and the Empire,
753
ing his oath to the ooDititatioD, over-
throwing by violence the establishtd
authorities, and enftctiog on the per-
aoDs of politioal Protestaota a politi-
cal Saint Bartholomew. With all the
faults of ProteetoDt oountrks, we maj
aafely eay that the pinblic oonscienee
would have rendered raoh a course
of proceeding in them impossible.
In Ireland a fimilar altramontane
Btandard has often reconciled cold-
blooded and cowardly murder to
the conscience of a peasantry who
are exemplary in their domestic re-
lations, and generally honest in pet-
ty dealings. The masses in France
are either soperstitioos or atheis-
tic. Imperial wrong-doing has been
■ promoted or supported by the per-
verted conscience of saperstition, or
the negative conscience of atheism.
Atheism and brate-violence find their
perfect embodiment in an army,
: whose constitntion is offensive rather
: than defensive ; in which the officers
are reused from toe ranks, and taoght
: to look for promotion to the prose-
. cation of finccesfifdl campaigns ; who
. are removed as far as possible from
' sympathy with the non-military po-
. pulation ; an army of whom it may
he said, as of th^ levies of Wallen-
Btein^ *^The service alone is house
t and home to them." * That this army
may he wrapt up in its own interests,
• . marriage is discouraged among its
membm, as it is forbidden to the
'; priesthood ; and as the priests are to
the Church, so is the army to the cen-
, ' tralised democratic Imperialism, the
J blind instrument of insensate violence
, and unintellectual will. Of course,
; in speaking of classes, there must be
, many exoepUonfr^and some bright
, exceptions will occur to many of our
I readers in their own experience of
I French military men— but nowhere
can we find a stronger contrast to the
high-born chevalier of ancient times,
, the soul of honour, gallantry, and
courtesy, than in the ignorant, in-
solent, vulgar, and narrow-minded
typical French colonel of the present
day, who has no ideas above the
routine of the parade-ground, no con-
versation but of the barrack, no re-
laxations but the coarse enjoyments
of a plebeian voluptuary, no hopes
or aspirations bat those of a fortu-
nate fSfeebooter, no courage or honour
but those common to all professional
gladiators. Compared with such a
character, in what bright relief stands
out,' in spite of all private errors and
military shortcomings, the average
British officer I He looks on war as
a public duty, not as a source of pri-
vate gain, or merely as furnishing a
career for the aatisraction of private
vanity : he comports himself becom-
ingly in his station, without direct
reference to promotion or distinction ;
though by no means insensible* to all
honourable advantages, because to do
less would be to forfeit the character
of a British gentleman ; and he is at
all times ready to lav aside the sword
and become a civilian, considering
Peace as the proper end of War, and
the normal condition of a civilised
creature. He is a soldier because,
and when, he is wanted; a country
gentleman, a sportsman, a &rmer, or
a politician, because he likes it. Thus
the Great Duke himself, after con-
quering the greatest Captain of mo-
dem times, retired to improve his
estate at Strathfieldsaye, and gave
his advice as a minister of the Crown
as quietly, naturally, and unostenta-
tiously as if he had never commanded
an arm;^, or even a company. What-
ever objections the ^tem of promo-
tion by purchase lies open to, it is
evident that the character of the
army gains by its being officered by
men to whom professional employ-
ment is not a necessary of life, and
when military qualities spring natur-
ally fi^m the feelings of a high-bred
{gentleman. Professional apatby and
mcapacity, those rocks upon which
we nave too often split^ may be
guarded against by the State requir-
ing a higher standard of competency,
of which zeal for the service will be
the natural product The British
officer, as he stands now, or soon will
stand, will give an example to those
under him of other estimable qualities
besides conduct in the field, where he
has hitherto .been unimpeachable, and
supply to the national aripy a lasting
leaven of cluvabous hi^h-mlndedness
and loyal obedience, which may be a
preservative against pedantry, and
* "Der Dienst allein ist ihnen Haua und Helma^/
7S4
Tks Empercr mul th$ Emfift,
[Dk.
prevent it from beooming the ready
iDstroment of the worst paeaioDS or
prejadkei of mankind. If we torn'
to the French army, it is rather in
the officers than the private soldiers
Uiat we find professional exaggera-
tion and the barbario complexion of
a porely military caste. The feelings
of the conscript probably represent
generally those of^the French lower
orders, and in the individual those of
the class from which he is drawn.
He may have entered the army
against his will, and be detained in
it* against his taste. His hearty in
spite of the laurels forced on his
brows, may remain trne to tiie rustic
homestead and the Jeanette that he
has left behind him. The officer is
difierently circnmstanced, even if
compelled to join at first : he is cer-
tainly not an officer on oompnbion,
after he has entered upon the career
as a matter of taste, received a purely
military education, and been brought
up from a child in a military atmos-
phere^ as completely as were the
janisaries who formed the body-guard
of the medieval sultans, and were at
last destroyed by Mahmoud as an in-
tolerable naisance. That the French
army, as best represented bv its
officers, was becoming unusually in-
solent and unmanageable before the
late Austrian war, was shown suffi-
ciently by that disgraceful dud in
which a number of swordsmen had
conspired, by successive challenges if
necessary, to kill or maim the un-
fortunate journalist who had dared to
insinuate a doebt of the perfect good-
breeding of the tom-lUutmanU of the
French army. Thus, as the Empire
finds its expression, on the one hand,
in the very embodiment of brute vio-
lence, a licentious democratic soidat"
esea ; so, on the other hand, we recog-
nise the second head of the hydra in
the Bomish priesthood, embodying
the ignorant prejudices of the small
peasant-proprietors of France. Hei«
it may be said that extremes meet,
and the Empire is the cdlective re-
sult of the anarchic and reactionary
principles. These acenoies pull its
policy in opposite directions, and its
outward actions represent the tem-
porary ascendancy of one or the other
prmciple. The Imperial head is in
the condition of a servant who tries
to serve two masteiB, and is ohfigid
to bear in his own person, in the e;a
ot the world, the ineoosistendu tad
vagaries of both. He represeDts ooi-
versal snfifhige, the oombined voice
of millions of unsavory breatha, ud
he must square his policy so ss to
please as well as he can two oootn-
diotory interests, taking eait, in
common phrase, not to fall betveen
two stools. The license of the tovv
represented in the military, aod the
ignorance of the country repreeeoiii
in the priesthood, have each their
separate views to be consulted ; lod
the present Government of Fnim
must try to coax each in tan, ssd
steer the middle passage betweea
the Scylla of ultra-democracy aod
the Charybdis of nltramontaoimi-
one threatening to wreck, and the
other to engulL The positioD of tk
Emperor would generally be ooosi-
dered by no means the most esviahle
in the world. A commonplace legiti-
mate crown has quite thmis esoBgd
interwoven with its jewete: bov
must it be with a crown won a
such a tenure? The incoosiBtnKies
and apparent perfidies of the Impe-
rial policy become, if not exconble,
at all events explainable, by a refer-
ence to these concealed sprtDgs of
action. To live in his peculiar p(»
tion for a single day, and sleep in te
bed at night after it, seems to a to.
prove him to possess a raach mon
than ordinary modicum of both pl?*
sical and psychical intrepidity. We
are inclined to think, on the vhok,
that more may be said for him ts a
man than has been sud by those
who have no interest in bmng Us
friends or his enemies ; while agaii^
France as a nation (and a satioD
must be accountable for its domiout
classes) much may be alleged whkk
has been kept in the backgrosiid b;
the English press, firom motiveB, «
think mistaken, of intematiooal aai-
ity, or because, perhaps, where blaoe
is to be laid, it is always the eaa^
and readier course to make ao ioili-
vidual the 8cap«goat As rogardi
oureelves, we thiu it may be v^
that although our reUCioiis vit&
France have been more preearios
than during the reign of Loeis Ho*
Kppe, the personal infloeaoe of the
ifmperor has been ooostaatly eoi-
1859.1
2Ju Empetw and tht Empire.
755
ployed to moderate anti-EDgliBh ex-
citement The political eitoation of
France is UDOomfortable within and
dangerons withoat ; bot that ia no
fault of his ; he foond it so ; and
the most sensible oonrse for the
neighboors of France is to gi^e him
eyery chance {for apparently there as
none besides him who can overcome
the difficulty), by a &ir and impartial
criticiBm of bis acts and intentions^
and perfect loyalty in dealing with
him ; bat at the same time " to keep
their powder dry." If the Emperor
had been personally disposed to pick
a quarrel with England, he conld not
have had a better opportunity . than
was given him by the Indian mutiny
— an opportunity not likely to occur
again, if he quarrels with us, he
- will be forced into the qiiarrel. On
the other hand, as long as the force
behiod him exists, we are never safe.
One of our special enemies, the nltra^
montane party, he has already shown
I a disposition to throw over by threat-
ening to withdraw his troops from
' Borne. If he has time he may feel
himself sufficiently 'strong in general
popularity to rid himself of the un-
due infloence of the army also. But
just for the present a new danger
arises from the incipient coolness be-
r tween the Government and the priest-
hood— namely, that it will find the
r support of the army, which is not
given for nothing, .more necessary
than ever. It is high time that we
should get over the idea of Louis
Napoleon's omnipotence within the
limits of France. It is of no use to
launch tirades against him, and put
CD our war - paint when he uses one
sort of expression, and then, when he
uses another, inclioe to disarm and lie
down to sleep in his lap The Emperor
18 not dangerous — the Empire is so.
If there is danger, as some think, to
England's supremacy^ her independ-
ence, even her political existence,
that danger is not in the character
of the ruler, but in the unalterable
nature of those anarchic elements
which, since the Bevolutionof 1848,
have been rampant in France. To
the Emperor himself, we verily be-
lieve tluit Europe could not do a
more friendly act than to band itself
in a defensive alliance as against
France, not allowing the army to
bfeak out agam as It did agausst
Austria, and forcing its superabun-
dant energies into some African or
Asiatie safety-valve. Most provok-
ing to French military cupidity is
that rich plunder - store of England,
never properly protected by its own
people, who, nevertheless, are as free
m their remarks on foreigners as if .
they bristled with bayonets. Louis
Napoleon knows well that England's
teeth meet when they do bite, and
he would vastly perfer any other en-
terprise to one against our shores.
It would be an act of kindness to
him personally if we would make
any such enterprise simply impos-
sible. Unfortunately, the English
people do not sufficientlf take the
measure of the danger ; guided them-
selves by practical consideration in
the main, they cannot understand
how another nation can be impelled
by motives almost entirely sentimen-
tal. Yet the fact is, that utterly
ruinous as a war with England would
be to France, even' were she victori-
ous, a great number of Frenchmen
besides the soldiers speak of it as an
event very likely to come o£ More
blest in climate and soil than almost
any European nation, abounding in
com and wine and oil, they envy us,
as the Roman did Garactaous, our
poor cottages in Britain. It is just
the propensity that the heir of ten
thousand a-vear has sometimes felt
to stake his aJl at the gambling^table.
No nation can be conceived with more
natural capacity for happiness than
the French. But the French are sen-
timental to an extent that other na-
tions can hardly imagine. The Rus-
sians, we believe, have already forgot-
ten and forgiven Sebastopol ; but the
French rake up against us old obso-
lete victories, and want their revenge,
or if not revenge, at least the satis-
faction of a gentleman^ forgetting
that there is an ec[ual chance, to
jadge by the histories tiiey quote,
that thejr may never get it if they
try. It » a great pity that we cannot
divine some pethod of according the
desired satis&ction without the ter-
rible sacrifices of war. If single com-
bats are out of date, each party might
try which could build the largest
steamer, and race together across the
Atlantic, and agree that the victori-
766
IhB Emperor and the Empire.
P*
008 nation shonld be accoiioted (M
Bnperior prowess to the other. We
do not believe that French mdic-
tiveness agaioBt England amonnts
to much more than this kind of
rivalry, except among a few old bar-
bariaos, who are the remnants of the
first Empire. In fact, the amour
propre of the French might have
found some . consolation in uie results
of the Crimean campaign, especially
M French writers try to perenade
their conntrrmen that the French did
all the work, and got all the glory,
while the Eoglish were rather in the
•way than otherwise. England has
every motive to keep on good terms
with France ; she knows that France
has very reasonable motives to be on
good terms with her ; she knows
that a war woold be minous to both
parties, and therefore she cannot
think a war with France possible.
Bat she forgets that a people who
are ready at any moment, lor sheer
love of a new sensation, to opset and
set np a government, with all its
complicated machinery, although
from habit the process seems to be-
come easier each time, like the set-
ting of a repeatedly dislocated limb—-
is ready at any time, with equal want
of forethought, to go to war, ** for an
idea" — she forgets that France is
not ashamed of the notipn, but glories
in it when proceeding from the mouth
of her Emperor ; and even when no
national antipathy intrudes, she for-
gets that there are hundreds of French
mUHaira who would think no more
of sacking the Bank of England than
a schoolboy would of robbing the
orchard of a tesl^ old gentleman, to
whom, except for his testiness, he had
no personal objection. Were the-
Eoglish people to consider all this,
and not to measure the feelings and
motives of their neighbours so much
as they do by their own, we should
then have perfect national security,
cast from us this disgraceful chronic
panic of invainon, and confer the
greatest possible boon on the Em-
peror of France, whether he loves
us or not Even now we are per-
suaded that he would deliberate very
long before giving way to a war-
mania directed against England.
The last business was evidently forced
upon him by the conditioD of the
army. They wanted work, and ve
getting as mis^ievous as m«t ^*
hands do under sech cireoiiBtes
He looked about to eee whse ^
could best fight with a monl <?
tainty of success. He fooiid Asn
without friendci, and with vefy ^
character or credit, and' he p«2^;
on Austria accordiogly. Bnt as soc-
as he found that the «ttrea of the w
was likely to extend itaelf, that t-
Qerroans were makiDg a natiaa.
affair of it, he huddled up the pe;^
of Vitlafranca. He had atrei^rlh^fKi
himself with the army bj a dl^-
which was always expected of kJ:
of nersonal ooarage, and of mSuri
skill, which was not so oertaioljfi*
pected ; he gained some large ras-
ries, and he wished to t^npt fociss
no longer. And we do not see v^
the Emperor should not have bes
perfectly sincere in his reaaom a
concluding the war. He may ps-
sibly have kept in the ha^gm:
the fear of losing his inflaefMe vei
the clergy if he tarew ovarboaid t»
Pope too suddenly^ by enlisticf b
revolted subjects in the Italiaa vr
Those critics of his conduct who ssj
that he knew all the reasons for t^<e
peace before he bi^gan the war, vt
doubtless correct as to the fact &
probably did know that the Qs-
mans would in time - lash tbeo-
selves to fury ; bnt he knew that tfccf
would take their time, and give Is
first time enough for Majeota ui
Solferino. If Uiese snooesKs «o@!^
satisfy the army, well ; if not, k
must go on. But the army, if &<:(
8atis6ed, was flattered. The iss-
nfer was unusually hot Aod we
reckon that^ although a vapiMint?
young officer is said to luive MBti
his sword over a table in a cafe ii
Milan when he heard of the Peaer,
the army which had been nodef
fire had nearly had enough of it, fir
the Austrians fouffht like battcid
bull -dogs, and, although uaifbrmij
beaten, inflicted with the same nci
formity nearly as much pnashoKet
as they received. All that the Ezs*
peror had to do was to satisfy tbe
army, and he did it Grand fetes it
Paris concluded the programiae, tf
usual. He is strong with the anD;-
strong enough to snub the ultnowD-
tane priests, in whidk worik we B17
1859.]
T%e Emperor and the Empire,
761
cry God speed him ! If Loou Na-
poleon oan only plnok up the moral
coarage to leave the Pope to his own
devices, he will be the greatest bene*
factor to his kind in this age. As
Burelj as Bwimming pigs cat their
own throats, will the Fope and Car-
dinal AntoDelli sink in the flood of
popular indignation when left to
float by themselves. The destmc-
tion of the spiritual power of Eome
ia almost too good to hope for, bat
the destruction of the temporal would
be something. But let not the Evan-
gelical Alliance jump to the conclu-
eion that Italy, or France either,
would become Frotestant. I^o south-
ern people will ever be Protestant,
in our sense of the word, on a large
scale ; they cannot understand ia re-
ligion of intellect and feeling without
its suggestive symbolism ; bat it is
not too much to hope that Catholic
Christendom will break up into in-
dependent national churches, per-
haps acknowledging, in the Empe-
ror's rather humoroos expression,
the honorary supremacy of the Pope
—that the more manly and spirited
of the clergy will add the sacrament
of Matrimony to that of Orders, and
then woe to the centralised despot-
ism of Home. The first Napoleon
was strong enough to oppress and
bully the Papacy. Louis Napo-
leon has hit npon the happy ex*
pedient of the honorary supremacy
i>f the Italian Confederation, and if
the leaven works, good may come of
it in many ways. But this is a busi-
ness from which, from the nature of
the case, we are entirely excluded for
the present The Emperor^s conduct
in the great Italian question will be
jadged by what has yet to come. He
has as yet done not mach more than
lift his hand to see which way the
wind was blowing. If the Italians
deserve freedom he will not hinder
them. In any case, he has done the
roQghest part of the work in cracking
the shell of Austrian rule, and they
may jastly be gratefoL As to his
naval armaments, the sooner we
place oorselves in a position to ask.
him what he means bv them 4be bet-
ter. It is the Empire, and not the
Emperor which i^ the mortal and
irreconcilable enemy of all the world.
The mind of the Emperor may ulti-
mately, if he is properly supported
and properly checked, be enabled to
triumph over the spirit of the Em-
pire. If he is shut out from foreign
war by a stem European combina-
tion of well-armed nations, he must
grant liberal institutions to France
to insure himself against the discon-
tent of an unemployed army, and
thos become, in fiokct, a constitational
king. If he cannot manage this, his
dynasty will not, in all probability,
outlast the present generation; and
then we ma^ well ask. What next?
Mere curiosity would be a sufficient
naotiveto his contemporaries for de-
siring to outlive him.
708
Fli$ts and yaviet^Bnglaind.*^Part UL
FLBSTS AND KATI1SS— EKOLAND.
P^
PART m.
Man is and most b6 ever tbe real
moacle of war, the motive force,
tbe aggressive and defending agent.
Mecbtnism may . have become a
great power; money has been, and
will be to the end of time, the feed-
ing Bonrce of war ; the national
spirit is the heart-system from which
its vitality flows ; but on the nature
and supply of men mast depend the
military standard of a people. A
country may possess the faculty of
raising madiines and accumulating
material of any kind and to any ex-
tent; it may nave coffers full and
flowing, resources ample and endur-
ingi yet, if it have not men, or, hav-
ing them, cannot command their use
or organise them for efficiency, its
might for war would be a nulli^.
Fleets without navies, armies with-
out soldiers, are the illusions which
have again and again, throughout the
history of the world, brought over-
throw and destruction on powers,
dynasties and nations. This mav
seem a truism, but it is one which
is forcing itself on England and her
people as a very unpleasant and dif-
ficult problem.
Boused to a trial of strength and
comparison, we flnd that we could
outbuild the world, could produce
material and find engines of war
faster and better than any or all of
the great maritime powers ; we find
that our resources are greater and
more elastic; we flnd also that we
have men, a body of citizens the
most numerous and best seamen in
the world ; yet we cannot apply or
utilise them for war service. We
decline to compel them; we fail to
lure them ; they are like the stream
of Tantalus, ever before us, ever be-
yond us. The wisdom of the past
and the experience of the present
have brought forward their sugges-
tions, have profifered the lures of
bounties, increased pay, increased
comfort, pensions, and promotions ;
and yet the seaman is not ha^c
if lured, is hardly retained. It wol:
seem that in all theae Rigg€gtiaE&-
and many of them are wke acd g>mt
— the seaman baa been considered «
being still the' reckless nnstabk &•
low of the old wars» who won u
money in toil and blood, and ips
it in dissipation ; who pat watch» »
frying-pans and ate five-poood ooe
between slices of bread-and-bat:?:
whose vices and after needs wa
him ever roving and changefol ; oe
that it has been tfaooght necesap
to legislate for him, as thougk a
these long years he had been a: i
standstill, and never progrcceod citir
in character or feeling with bis tias
Now, those who know him be&
know that the seamam of tadar i
no more like the tar of old tradftui
than our present English gesUeas
is like the squire of tbe last oeotEn.
No vocation has perhaps dtangcd »
much. He is no long^* now tiinft-
less and reckless. He has begso is
be calculating, almost provident, vk
ever in thonffht and project secb »
get some hold on the fatore. Wt
believe that his rejection of tbe lare
held out^ proceeds not from his isd?
valuation of them, bnt from his vi£t
of faith in those who proSfer tia
He suspects that the things proakd
to-day will be withdrawn to-raorrov,
keeps aloof and refuses to be tempted
by such fleeting good. Make hiia i
permanency—let him feel himself »
fixture, not removable by a fretfc cf
politics, a change of Mmistry, or a
scratch of tbe pen — ^let him be ts-
sured that for so many years he vil
have bread and service — that is
his old age be will have prorisici
against starvation or the union, ao^
we believe that b^ will come will-
ingly to the lure, and that it, will be
easy then to bind him Cut by his
own interests and his own faeirt-
strings. Man oan only be fixed b;
giving him a hornet The oomades
See art "Sleeta and Kavies— England," in our September Number.
L859.]
.Fk€t9€ind IfamM-'Enffhaid.'^Fari 111
759
>f old, wben tliey Irailt or fbaad
i^hemselTes booses ftod oities, beeame
settled peoples ; so with these bo-
mades of tbe seas^these men who
Btirol theiiuel?ee nnder aoy flag for
wage — give them homes — let them
take root— give hostages to fortone
— let them see ao assured present for
themselves and a fatare for their
ohildrea in a staodiog navy, aod we
believe that we shoald thereby estab-
lish a permanency of nian* power
Bufflcient for defence, equal to aoy
possible need, and which should, be-
sides, contain the elements of self-
ezpansion. The study of this qoes-
tion forces on us another instance of
the great fact that the crimes and
shoTtcooiiogs of nations ever come
back on them, like stones thrown up
to heaven. In our last great war,
for parpoees of expediency we made
the sailor reckless and vicious; to
make him more our own, we strove
to keep him poor ; to keep him poor,
to drive him back to his flog, we en^*
cooraged him in a recklessness and
rapidity of vice which should soonest
place him at the mercy of the crimp ;
we kept the thought or feeing of
home dark within him. And now
the greatest difficulties we meet with
in managing or retaining him are his
vice and unsettledness.
It is to be hoped that when we
try to remove the one, we shall also
strive to correct the other. Tbe one
is a national duty, the other a na-
tional necessity, and there is betwixt
them the link which ever binds the
duties of a people wiih their inte-
rests.
This mandifflculty has more than
once in this present century brought
Eogland to a crisis. More than
once from this difficulty her destiny
fls a nation, her naval supremacy,
have hung by a thread. Sir C. Na-
pier, in his evidence before the Com>
missioQ for Manning the Navy, gives
one instance. He states — ^and every
one who remembers that crisis must
feel how true the statement is —
*'that in 1841, when France and
England were on bad terms in con-
eeqoenoe of the Syrian affiur, the
French withdrew their fleet from
ours, and collected at Toulon about
20 sail of the lioa We had in the
Mediterranean 13 or 14 sail of the
VOL LXXXYls
line, and by great exertions we in-
creased our fleet to 16 sail of the
Hoe. The French ships wern full of
men. Ships of tbe same size as our
own had about 7(K) and 800 men;
we bad about 600. I looked npoo
that,*' he says, '* as a very dangerous
position in which we were. £xer*
tions were made in England to man
two or three line- of- battle ships
which were lyiog at Spithead, and
tiiey. remained from five to seven
months before they were manned }
*' 80 that we were, with a large French
fleet in the Mediterranean, on bad
terms with France, with a large
Turkish and Egyptian fleet of about
25 sail of the line, and a great poli-
tical question going on. Now, if the
French had sailed from Toulon with
their 20 sail of tbe line while we
were scattered over the Mediter«
raoean, aod had made a junction
with tbe Egyptian Beet of about 25
sail more, it is quite evident that we
could not have maintained our post
We must have collected our ships and
withdrawn from the coast of Syria.*'
^ Or had they sailed from Toulon
with evil intentions, they would have
arrived in this country five or six
weeks before we could have collected
onr fleet. I think the country was
never in greater danger than it was
then. We had no power of getting mea
The ships lay at Spithead for four or
five months ; and had the enemy ap-
peared off there, or in the Channel, or
nad come to Cherbourg, they would
have commanded the Channel, and
done what they thought proper."
Here was a real crisis — it was no
panic, no exaggeration of alarm, hot
a real positive danger threatening the
might of Eogland ; and the man-diffi-
culty had caused it.
The revelations of bureaux have
since disclosed that the question of
peace or war was poised in the balan-
ces. The caprice of a minister or the
will of a monarch might have turned
the scale, and England have been
put on a trial of life or death.
Our old naval prestige and the
peace-policy of a sovere^n saved us
then. * It was not the interest of the
existing dynasty to institute war as a
policy in France ; aod even then cabi-
nets hesitated to. challenge a naval
power which had proved so terrible.
49
as immioeDt, and our impotency to
meet it equally patent lu the year
1850, ID coDBeqoence of differences oo
the Greek qaestion, the cation was
brongbt to the verge of a war with
Frauce and BoFsia united, and at
that time **by no efforts could five
sail of the line, adequately manned,
have been collectt-d in the Gbannel
to protect the British shores from
invahion. On the other hand, the
Boseians had 25 sail of the line,
constantly manned and equipped, in
the Baltic, and 15 in the Euxine, and
France had 58,000 men ready to
nan 20 SHil of the line, and as many
fVigates and war-steamers, to join in
the crusade. And the danger was
averted by no other means but aban-
donment by Great Britain of the
pretensions she had in so heedless a
manner advanced."
There were other occasions when
the dignity and safety of the country
were imperilled by this same man-
difficulty ; but surely these should be
enotigh for waruing— enough to give
the past a meaning to the present.
Is this roan-difficulty less now than
it was then ? or is it possible to sup-
pose, that were the like danger to
arise now, it would be averted by any
hesitation in the policy of our enemy ;
or that if a design were once formed
against our supremacy, any submis-
sion could save us from the fate of
weakness and unpreparedneee f
It is not less, perhaps, in the fact
of getting men, but it is less in the
ikct that we are addressing ourselves
earnestly to solve it. It still re-
mains, however, the great problem
of our time — the great moot-point of
our naval destiny. Every man has
some pet theory for its solution.
Professional chiefs, mercantile men,
statesmen, demagogues, the great
Church bierarchs even are all per-
fectly convinced that they are able to
devise a plan for manning the navy.
And yet, strange to say, spite of the
multitude of council, the question is
still an open one. The designs and
plans are probably all clever and in'
genious — many seemingly feasible ;
but there is one objection to all : the
will not assent to them..
nmriner. i oe sisie msy pus tis oe-
crees and issue its plans, jet the koot
will remain as great a tangle aa em,
unless the seaman sees with the ejo,
and reasons with the reason, of the
State. Until he adopts and recog-
nises them, the decrees will remaio
a dead letter, the plans be oerer
more than abortions. The aSkr of
the State may be supposed to be best
embodied in the "Benort of tk
Commissioners appointed to ioqaire
into the best means of ManniDg the
Navy," as all the suggestions tbereo
advanced have been either directlj
or indirectly adopted. Tbeee Gflt-
missioners were chosen from dilfer-
ent classes, all juppo«ed, from d^
cnmstanoes or experience, to be u>
terested in and well acquainted with
the subject; and their recommeDda-
tions were based on the evidences of
the first men both in the naval aod
merchant service. Their recoa-
mendatioDS, therefore, as they bi«
been ratified by the State, may be
considered as representing the Tien
and ideas of the country in respect tu
the soIvh)g of the great qaettioosr-
How can we get men for our fieetit
How oan we ret^n them ? How cio
we provide reserves for emerges'
cies? How can we make the soppij
certain and permanent ? . By discus-
ing the principles and detalb of ti»
system proposed by the State to
overcome the man • difficalty. ve
shall see wherein it meets and wbef^
in it (ails to meet the great oatkHtfl
need, and thereby judge whether it
is sufficient as a final measore, or
what yet remains to attain the greit
end — manning the navy.
The Commia^oners divide tbai
inquiry, and their report of sog^
tions, into two parts. The first lo-
ci udes *' the mode in which h& ^
jesty's ships are manned in time of
peace ; the condition of the BcameDj
and whether any alterations coaid
be introduced by which the serrice
might be rendered more popoltf-
The second, the mode in which the
fleet has heretofore been maooed u
time of war ; the means which esJ^
for that purpose ; the character aod
extent of the reserves on which ^^
liance can be placed ; what measniQ
1859]
Fieet9 and Ifavk»--England.'-Part IlL
761
it la now desirable to adopt ; aod the
means by which the aervioes of the
merchant seamen and the seafaring
popnlatioQ of the United Kingdom
could be rendered more readily avail-
able."
Their deliberations were based
on the report of a former Commis-
fiioD, whioh bad sat in 18d2» and
bad already treated most of these
Bobjectd in extemo. Previous to
that period, ** the practice was
to^ enter volaoteers for particular
sbipa, nominally for five years, bat
practically for the period during
which the ship remained in commis-
sion.'* In fact, the seaman was a
perfectly free agent in the engage-
ment ; he enteral on board any ship
he choae, was bound to remain under
her pendant nntil she was paid off,
and then again became free. The
senrice had no farther hold upon
him ; he went whither he would ; re-
entered in our own ships, tried a
cmiae in the merchant service ; or, if
nnable to *' obtain readmission to the
service, sought employment under a
foreign flag;" and thus, ''men who
had been trained at great trouble and
expense, and had been brought to a
Btate of the highest efficiency, were
mddenly dismissed ; and when sought
for her Majesty's ships, were not to
be procured." To meet tbis stand-
ing evil and difficulty the 1852 Com-
mission proposed '^a continuous ser-
vice system, by which seamen were
induced for certain advantages to
engage themselves to serve continu-
ously for a period of ten years."
This was adopted, and, after a trial of
five or six years* operation, was found
to produce " the beneficial results of
securing to the country a body of
well -trained and efficient seamen,
whose attachment to the service is
the best security for the performance
of their duty."
The Commission of 1859, after
examining the results and working
of this system, arrived at the con-
clusion, *nhat it was sufficient to
maintain the ordinary peace estab-
lishment of the navy at whatever
constant force her Majesty aod the
Parliament might determine,'* and
recommended its extension. This
was a first reoognition of the organi-
sation of a permanent navy. Asa
second step, it was proposed that this
force of continuous service would be
best and most surely fed by the in-
troduction of boys ; and that, there-
fore, the 2000 boys who now entered
the service annually should all pass
through the Government trainings
ships, instead of the 500 who now
have that advantage.
To facilitate the manning of ships
for the relief of foreign stations, and
avoid the expense aod trouble in-
volved in the delay in completing the
crews of such ships, and to provide
for the exigency of a sudden arma-
ment, it was farther proposed by the
Commission that a reserve of 4000
seamen should be retained in the
home ports. They also advised that
the pay of seamen-gunners should be
increased by Id. per day; that five
years* service with them should count
as six towards a pension ; that the
pension should ool^ be payable to
them in the United Kingdom or
Channel Islands; and that "of the
4000 men retained in the home ports,
1000 should always be seameo-gun-
nera."
These formed the sum total of the
measures which, in the opinion of
the Commission, ^' were needed to
place the peace establishment of the
navy on a firm and satisfactory
basis.'* These expedients were
deemed sufficient to place the man-
power on a proper footing in point
of numbers during a peace. It re-
mained to consider the best means
by which it could be duly and regu-
larly fed and kept at the required
strength. Though the Commission
assert that there is no difficulty in
doing this, yet there is also a con-
fession that " her Majesty's service is
not so popular as it should be with
the great body of the mercantile
marine, and that there is a disin-
clination in the minds of a large por-
tion of the merchant seamen to enter
the navy, which is chiefly to be traced
to an ignorance of the usages of the
service, and of the advantages which
it offers to the seamen."
To remove these objections — to
make the service more popular — to
open the stream of the man-supply
into the Royal Navy, it was recom-
mended that certain arrangements
should be introduced in regard to
762 Fleets and Navie$—England.'^Part IlL [Dw.
improviDg the condition, and raising The plan of contaonoas Benke, if
the standing and character of the increased advantages in pereooal ftj.
seamen. comfort, and promotion, has mirnjr
These arrangements comprise an been offered on a smaller scale to tie
alteration " in the condition of the seaman, without making the serrkf
hnlits in which the men are lodged much more popular in bis eyes ; ak
whilst their ships are fitting oat, and it can scarcely l>e hoped that iti &■
improvements in their lighting, ven.- largement alone will at once ovenemg
tilation, warming, and other arrange- his disinclination, and give tbe Stalt
ments, npon which the health and the preference in tbe man-marlbet
' comfort of the men so mnch depend " The continnoos s^r^ice was tk
— an increase in the allowance of germ of a permanent orgaoiaatiaB—
provisions — the i^sne of bedding and was beginning to expand — was he-
mess utensils to the men on entering, ginning to be understood ,.«h] to faafc
by the Government, to enable them a popular action. In tbe BiaM
to commence their service free from war there were 24,000 serving imder
debt— a gratuitous supply of a suit its conditions ; and there can be
of clothes to every man on his first little doubt that an ezperieooe sf
entering for ten years* continuous its advantages, present and pnt^ee-
service — the payment of wages whilst tive, would have given it a wider aad
the ship was fitting out — an altera- more extended operation, nnUI iti
tion in the sjstem of allotments— effect would have been aImo6t tfcs:
the extension of the privilege of of a standing navy, and the State
badge-money, for good conduct, to would have found itself possessed
petty officers — the grant of a higher not only of a control over its so-
grade of rank to warrant-officers, and men, but of a power of eompkt-
of a pension' to their widows — the ing and even extending their wm-
promotion of warrant-ofi9cers, or any ber. The non - continnoos - snrici
seaman in her Majesty's navy, to the men would have seen its workas,
quarter-deck, in the case of very have witnessed the privileges ei>j^
signal and extraordinary services. by their comrades, and have gradmfir
Having framed these suggestions, comprehended that tbeee more thn
the Commission^. closes; this part of counterbalanced their own libertvaf
the subject with' the conclusion, that choice and action on leaving tiiar
their adoption " will render the ser- ships. The most popular cooditko
vice more popular, and tend to effect of the sjstem was its permaseacv,
the object in view, namely, the or, at any rate, the fact of its beeoa-
. speedy and efficient manning of her ing so was the only one which ootid
Majesty's ships." have much benefited the Btate, It
A good and sufficient conclusion, was the interest of the State that the
truly, if it be proven by results. seaman should see in it a oertais^
Thus we have before us the whole not only of present benefit, but of
plan of the State for manning the future and prospective good — that k
navy, and keeping it manned, in time might feel a vested right in the aer
of peace. There can be no objection vice — ^that he had a property in it
to any of the propositions ; they are If he had no security in its penn*
all good, all commendable, all preg- nency, it was nothing to him; the
nant with benefit to the seaman and present advantages were not saffidat
efficiency to the navy ; but the doubt to tempt or allure ; it was the aassr-
is, wiiether they are sufficient in ance that the engagement betwixt
themselves, without the operation of him and the State was binding— thit
some other principle which should his years of service were an invest-
give them due action, to fulfil the re- ment for afterlife, which could akoe
quired purpose. The principles on induce him to prefer it to his old
which tney are based 'have all been off-and-on custom of entering for a
partiall;^ tried already, and though commission only. Unfofiunataiy,
productive of certain good results, his confidence in this permaiieBC^
have never justified the conclusion, was broken by one of '
that their expansion and extension which have tended ever to pbee
alone would insure the one great endl mistmst betwixt the eeamaa aad the
1859. ] FUeU and N<nii»--England.'-Tart III 763
State, and wfaicli have muoly created been cheaper to have retained each
and aggravated the mao-difficalty. of these men at the cost of his weight
After the war there was a redaction, io gold, rather than have dismissed
•fid ooDtinnoos-service seamen were him. Nor did the evil end with
offered a free discharge ; 2200 were losing the man ; with him went ever
paid off, with the understanding that somewhat of the old spirit and the
on re-entry, their previons service old character he had inherited, of
wonld not cooot towards pension, the old traditions he had received.
and that they mast begin de novo. After the peace-policy panic, which
This was denied by officials to be a sent 2000 or 3000 men recklessly adrift
breach of faith ; bat it had, at any on their own resoarces in the years
rate, all the appearance and effeote of 1844-45, it was fonnd, when the crews
each, and most, and did, shake the were again embodied, that their gen-
tmst of the seaman in the perma* eral character and tone had very
nency of the benefits to himself which mach changed ; that the old man-of-
the system offored. These redootions war's man had disappeared, or re-
have been ever the corse of the navy ; mained only like a red Indian among
they have ever deteriorated its effi- the clearings; that the old iiabits
ciency, demoralised its character, were becoming obsolete ; that the
broken its organisation, and, worst dare-devilism, the reckless smartness
of all, have inspired the seaman with of the past, was yielding to a cautioos,
a distrost of the faith of hie rulers, calcolating consideration of how mach
Neither have they been sacoessfal as work shoald be done for so mach pay ;
economical schemes. They are ever that the old yarns and the old fore-
the most costly of political projects* bitters, the old sea-ditties, had been
Undertaken under some pressure of superseded by the slan^ of the cad-
opinion, of financial urgency, of de- ger's haunt and the songs of the cage
fimnoe to demagogical cries, they are and the prison ; and that even crime
necessarily carried oat hastily, and in had lost its dariog character, and do-
the manner which will teli most im- scended to the petty-larceny-speak-
mediately on the balance-sheets of iDg- style of the tramp and voga-
estimate?. There is no time for sav< bond. Had this lasted long, the old
ing by a judicious curtailment of ex- naval character of England might
peoses, by an investigation of extra* have been infected with a degeneracy
vagant expenditure in departments: which would have ended in death.
the sum moat be struck off at once ; Luckily there was leaven enough
therefore so many ships must be left, life enough left in the system, to
paid off, so many seamen discharged, modify the evil, though it will be
that the expenses of their main- long ere the service entirely recover
tenance may not appear in the com- from the effects of tills demoralisa-
ing budget Unfortunately for the tion. *' The evil that men do lives
projectors, fortunately for the nation, after them ; " and the evil which
these reductions have ever been fol- these statesmen did, who counselled
lowed by emergencies: men have such reductions, will live after their
been no sooner dispersed than they names and memories are extinct, to
have been required again ; but the trouble and perplex their nation,
same men were not to be found — the These reductions were like the old
trained, disciplioed men who had medical operation of letting out so
been so summarily dismissed, h^d many ounces of blood, instead of cor-
earried their skill and their experi- recting by gentler remedies the disease
ence to other markets, and their of the constitution,
places were to be filled by sweep- The act of 1857 doubtless gave a
ing from the highways and byways, shock to the continuous service sya-
by grass-combers, along-shore men, tem, and will retard its extension
coasters, raw material, who were to and diminish its ioflaence in popular-
be manufactured into seamen at the ising the service, unless there be
expense of the State, and perhaps given to it such a law of permanency
even enticed by high bounty. A due as shall restore confidence in its
inquiry into these reductions would operations, and give assurance to
show, we believe, that it would have those who accept it that the benefit^
1U
Fleets ani NavUB-^En gland.— Part IIL
[Dtt
deri?able from it shall be ioalieii-
able.
The CommiasioDera express their
ftiith ID its capacity to maiotaio, on
a proper footiog, the peace estab-
lish ment of the navy ; yet it would
appear by the evidence of competent
witnesises, that it does not possess
the power of expand iog the peace
establishment to a war one. Admi-
ral Milne states in his evidence, that
at that time, out of 32.500 seamen,
about 21,392 were continuous-service
men, and boys who were, we suppose,
to become such, and that be does
not consider the number, with a
parliamentary vote of 52,000 men,
should ever be allowed to exceed
from 27,000 to 28,000, in order to
allow for bandsmen, stewards, &c.,
and to give ships abroad the power
of entering men to fill up the vacan-
cies made by invalids, &c. And he
adds further, in answer to an inquiry
wlielher, if 5000 continuous-service
men were wanted to-morrow, it would
be possible to raise them ? ** that if
the vote were increaFed even by 2000
men, a difficulty arises, as there are
never 2000 men idle and doing no-
thing, waiting to come into the navy."
It would therefore seem that it is not
considered fit to be the sole system
of the navy, and must be mixed up
with that of voluntary recruitment
and others ; that it does not furnish
more than two-thirds of the adults
required to complete the comple-
ments of our ships at the home
ports and on foreign stations in
time of peace ; and that it could not
be relied on as a source of supply in
case of emergency. One end, how-
ever, it answers most fully— that of
retaining in and linking to the ser-
vice the best and most worthy men
— a great end indeed, and one
which proves that the principle is
good, and requires only expansion
and adaptation to give it an organ-
isation and development which shall
secure numbers as well as merit
Its success in this particular deter-
mines that it con tarns the elements
of that popularity so essential to the
manning of the navy, and that it
must be the basis of any future
scheme for. that purpose. Such a
system, however, to be adequate,
must either have within itself the
power of self-sappori, or have o»
tain channels of reinforoeiBeBt \k
which it can be fed aod maiotaini
It cannot be left depeodeoi m
voluntary reeraitmeDt, whidi bb^
often be diverted by eircomstaaoB^
emergencies, or better offers in otb?
quarters. The ComraiasioQ thiab
that one such chaoDel exists ia fte
entry of boys. For tbe last tveh«
rears, upwards of 2000 bojs IaiC
been annually entered* ''a namfacr
which would go Ikr, oo the ml
peace establishment of the oavy fir
that period, to replace tbe vacaocieB
caused by deaths, inralidiags, peh
sions, casnal discharges, A«." It ip-
pears, however, on erideoce, tfaiS
the casualties among 38,000 bei
(deducting boys) amoant to 2714
yearly ; whilst the adranoe of ,bo^
to men's ratings does not give •
supply of more than 1400 or 1500.
And as the 2000 boys would be
required to fill up the gmps in the
existing number of that class afeit
(5895), aa well as feed the draia es
tbe main body, it coold not be esi-
culated on as a snffieieDt sonree d
supply. The suggestioD, that tfce
whole of this number, instead of tk
moiety of 500, should pass thno^
the Government traioing-sbips £r
instruction, is another good aod ai-
vancing step towards the attach-
ment of tbe seamen to the StatP,
Tbe Committee of 1852 reported thit
experience had taught them, ^tfal
men who had been received into tke
service as boys, become, from esriy
habits and associations, mote at>
tached, and adhere more closdy to
the service than those entered at i
more advanced age, and that tb^
eventually constitute, from thor ss-
perior education and training, tte
most valuable part of the crews of
her Majesty's ships." In this reipeet
the experience of the French agnsi
with our own ; tiiey echo oar cos>
elusions, and achieve similar resoilB.
It seems, therefore, strange thai «e
do not strive to enlarge such a feed-
ing source. Why not qnadniple tin
number? — instead of 2000, why lot
have 8000? Tbe great dffioal^ U
non-popularity would sot meet m
here. Parents would he glad ts
send forth their children oo sadi
advantageous terms; there wonM be
1859.]
Flidi and Jirawe»—England.--Ptni III
766
no lack of candidates. It is the
made seamaD, the maoofactared ar^
tide, who will eeek and find his
own market, that it » so diffioalt to
obtaiti. An early and oertaia provi*
Bion, an edacation and a caMiDg
withont any demand on their re*
soorces or re0]>on8ibtlity, would be a
great temptation to parenta The
service woald be always popular to
boys. Here the State might pick
and chooee. It might not only get
as many as it reqaired, bat get the
best. It might nartore them after
its own mo<kl. Six, eight, ten thou-
sand boys thus entered, trained, and
fed, cultured morally and phyaically
DDder Government superintendence,
would suffice at least to keep up the
coDtinnoQS-seryioe men to the number
of 27 000, if each boy, in return for
the benefit he had received from the
State, were reqaired to insure his
services for a certain number of years
— nor would it be too much to ask in
retorn for education and training.
Thus would be secured the elements
of a healthy, taught body, self-sup-
porting and superior to any other in
efficiency. There would be expense
in Ibis, doubtless; but the expense
woald be repaid by eertainty and
efficiency ; in the £ 8, d, point of view
even would be compensated by there
being no need for bounties; by the
decrease in crime — a costly item in
military expenditure is crime, though
ecouomists seldom regard or calcu*
late on it; by the decrease in deser-
tions, in sickness, and invalidings ; by
having better men, healthier men,
more valuable men. Tbese are con-
siderations which seldom enter into
the calculations of financiers: that at
rogue or scamp oosts thrice as much
as a good man^a weakly, sickly one
twice as much as a healthy one. A
man is to them a man — an item —
representing so much expenditure ;
60 that he stands in due order and
makes up the figure, it matters little
what class he comes from; yet
it would show a dtffiirence which
would astonish their statistics were
they to compare the results, the
balances, of the career and service of
a man thus early taken by the Siate,
and one entered by haphazard, with-
out knowtedge of his antecedents, his
Btftffleo, or capacity. It would ap-
pear, we believe, that two good
healthy men could be kept and main-
tained at the oost of one bruken-
down, debauched, or irregular one;
so that this increase in the boya'
system would be not only the surest
source, but the cheapest in fiebcts, if not
in figures, for manning the oavy.
The next recommendation was the
reserve of 4000 seamen. This was
good, too, very good; yet why so
limited? Why depart from the ori-
ginal suggestion made by the Com-
mittee of 1652, *< that her Majesty's
Davy should be maintained at such
nunterical force in comtnission, as^
independently of the Ohannel squad-
ron, will admit of 10,000 seamen and
boys being retained in England for
the protection of the ports and coasts
of the United Kingdom"? Sorely
this was not more than enough for
the conservation of our supremacy,
not more than the country would
have willingly maintained; yet the
Oomtnissioners curtailed . this to 4000,
and substituted for a defensive reserve
one which was merely an expedient
fur the speedy and economical relief
of Fhips on stations.
Ten thousand seamen at home —
ten thousand continuous-service men,
able-bodied, skilled gunners, or-
ganised, ready I What a vision of
defence does this conjure upl How
calmly might we contemplate the
naval preparations of other countries,
had we at command such a force,
with which, in the moment of danger,
we might at once man a fleet suffi-
cient, in conjunction with tbe Cbao-
nel squadron, to meet the first blow
of a war, the first onset of a danger,
and yet leave a nucleus on which oar
reserves might form to man a se-
cond or a third which would ii^sae
forth from our harboars in reinforce
ment to assert tbe might, the inex-
haustible might, of England 1 And
why not? Is not England entitled
to such assurance of defence? Is
she not capable of affording and
maintaining it?
Such an assurance she mast have,
and will have, perhaps in a more
permanent and enlarged form; bat
defence has become a national will,
and must be accomplished. Accom-
plished thus in a permanently organ-
ised body, or a standing navy, we
766
lUeli and Nwm^Engltmd.^FaH III.
Pe
tlMlidve tbat it woald coet less, in*
floitely less, with infinitely larger
i^tom than the present system, shifi>-
bf? and thriftless, with its changes
and vidssitades, its redaetioiis and
angmeotations, its costly experimeots
and unsatisfactory resnlts.
The indacements which are to po-
pnlarise this plan have been ennmer^
ated, and they are all tinprovenieots
in the seaooan's wellbeing, to which
he is fkirly entitled. Am there are
still others, alterations and amend-
menta in the system of his discipline
and drill, though ootbiog ^kln evra
to severity or oppression is to be
complained of in either, which, wiUh
ont aflfecting the necessary order and
efficiency, might render his life in a
man-of-war less irksome, more plear
sant and happy. Bat the ezpenenoe
of the past will tell ns that added
personal comfort, better treatment,
nigher pay, the prospect of fatare
and lifelong advantages, have not
bad a comroenporate inflaence ota the
mind of the seaman— have not acted
as snch things nsnally do betwixt
employers and employed, in giving
the masters the selection of their
men, instead of leaving to the men
the selection of their masters. Those
who remember the old system, and
what the sailor's life was nnder it-*
those who saw the remnant, even
the retreating shadow, of the brutal-
ity and rofiSanism to which he had
been subjected — whoever . tenanted
the ships in which he lived, amid
damp, fonl air, closeness, darkness—
who saw him eating weevilled bi»-
dait, salt-borse, as he called the jank,
• and measly pork, with the sole con-
solation of good mm, and plenty of
it, and wearing bad clothes, parchas-
ed at a high price, and who knew
bow, when, with rheumatism in his
bones and scurvy in his blood, or
fever in his veins, sickness fell upon
him, he was treated, purged like a
horse, or bled like an ox, by the coarse,
ignorant men who represented the
medical profession in those days,
whose ignorance cloaked itself under
brutality, who had one treatment for
ftll diseases, and prescribed for each
man, as he passed out from inspec-
tion, according to the old tradition,
two pills and a d<»se of salts— bow,
when exhausted by violent remedies,
be was sent forth again to his work,
without rest) without
will wonder tbat the ^nmx t^bmm
which has taken place to hia ec44
tion, and which has been ^neuk^
and continually taking pbee k
years, has not RiTen popolaritf te i
service which oflBirs wach advast^
In respect of peraooal ooslart, ik
position of the Beaman is now h^
rior to (hat of liia claoa gRKn-t
Ships well ventilated — ao weU we>
lated that all fonlDeaB is driw o<
— large and roomy, deanaed to i
ibult, well lit bY day by the free li^
mission of Qod's lights well lit b
night for the preventioD of am
and the general cxMiTttnieBeey wSotii
home such as thoee who go do«a a
the sea in riiipe nerer eDj^oyed bikn:
provisiona of the beat kind, and «fi
more varied cbaraoter, oonactiTStt
meet the effecta of climate, Mp^J>
most sufficieat and healthy aiiarm:
a discipline ju^t and clenent ic Is
general operations effmeB order u
the community ; a jadiciooa oomito-
ation, aa a rule (aud the hard-hip i
tbat there shonld be sm exofptiQe>
regulates the work, and the rutaac
the recreation : last of all, if tbe
seaman be sick, or weakly, or te.
be comes under the care aod oofitni
at once of medical offioera of a vt
school, intelligent and oooskJent^
who are famished with all the nedi-
cines neoessarv for hia onr^ and vbc
are able to determine the timeia^
the means required for the m^
tion of health; and he oomca oadff
the operaUoa of a syatem which il-
lowa and furniahea every noaiiik-
meat and comfort for the icstorttiat
of his healtlL
• In all respects, the oooditioo of
the man-of-war's man is aoperior to
that of the generality of oiercbatf
Seamen. In pay, the mercantile serna
must ever be the highest bidder, bit
the advantage in this re8|ieet is our
than counterbalanced by (Kq<Kii
loss of tioie k>etwizt the To^a^
and by the absence of the gntt
contingent and |>roepeetive beatte
enjoyed by the Q<ieenV maa, ni
furlough with conuoned pay, d
hospital pensions, aod daiou £f
hi« ckildrpu. Of all boows a&Mi
the man-of-war presents the greitat
ncion of physical and aoral «di>
being. The ordrr, r^galarity, deia-
liness, all conduce to the comfort, are
1850.]
fiMb and Nanm-^EagUmd.^Paari III
W
all Teooff nked by the
ments of w«l}beiDg to a eommooity ;
Bor do we think that the drills, or
root foe, or the pQDisbmeots are ob-
ieotiofia which woald oatweigh them*
xet, atiange to aay^ the naval aerrioe
is not the popolar ooe with the
aeafariDg cbn; and it is doobtfal
-wbeiher the inproveaent proposed
In the seaman's oooditioD, great as it
10, will make it so ; at any rate, the
improTeoKDt was one dae to him,
and sboald have been granted rather
to joBtioe than expediency. It is the
[ knowledge that all sneh eoooessions
t are yielded at times and emergencies
I when he is in especial demand, and
I not as a recognition of his claims on
the oare and provision of the State,
which nnllifies their eftot on the
neaman, and implants in his mind a
{ anepicion of their reality and con-
I tiouanoe. We have made distrust a
priociple with him in his dealings
I with the State, and must reap the
I fraita thereof It is evident that,
1 until we confirm hia confidence in
, the offers made to him, by some aot
, which shall bear the stamp of sin*
cerity and earnestness, these offers can
, have only the conseqaences of half
f measnree, or, worse than that, of
2 measures intended as lures and
\ traps.
^ We believe, therefore, that this
^ scheme for mannii^ the navy in
peace, good as it is in theory, perfect
as it may seem on paper, cannot be
accepted as final or sufficient, unless
' it be based on some ulterior measure,
which shall give it- permanence of
operation* and impnss its dae valne
' on the mind of the seaman. Even
were it perfect, it is only a peace
measure; provides only for the needs
' of a peace establishuient, possesses
' no one element of expansion, and
^ eoold not answer the demand of the
' country for the power of defence—
'. the power of maintaining its naval
' supremacy.
The Commissioners than proceed
to determine the second part of their
inquiry, and enter on the great and
laiportM|t qneotion — *'the mode of
Diaunio^thefieet on an emergency."
The fK>wer now possessed by the
8tate for this purpose consists in an
embargo, prohibiting merchant-ships
from going to sea; the grant of a
boanty inviting seamen to enter her
Majestv^ servtoe; a proelsmation*
eompnlsorily requiring the servioe of
seafaring men in classes, according
to age, 01' generally. Impressment
however, in any shape, compulsory
service under any conaitioo, has been
abandoned as not only impracticable
hot inexpedient, under the altered
clrcnmstanoes of the times. It wonld
also be ineffective to the great end, as.
'* the improvements in gunnery have
effected a oomplete revolution in
naval wariare, and have rendered it
absolutely necessary that our vessels
should, iu any future war, be man*
ned not by a promiscuous collection
of antrained men, such as impress-
ment formerly provided, but by sea-
men who are practised gunners.'-'
This objeetion would apply equally
against any except standing reserves.
**The French ayistem, too, by which
every seafaring man is liable to serve
on board a ship of war during a term
of years, and is bound to come for-
ward when required, could not be
successfully applied to this country,
where the relative proportion be-
tween the merchant seamen and the
navy is so di£ferent." The pkn of
resorting to a ballot was also justlv
rejected as one which would be both
unfair and inefficient in its working,
and the Commissioners arrived at
the conclusion that force, directly or
indirectly applied— compulsion under
any phase of action — would be a false
principle, and inimical to the end in
view, and that the country must de-
pend on the reserves over which it
has a legal control, and those which
it can obtain on the voluntary prin-
cipla
The standing reserves, those which
are immediately available, are the
nmrines on shore, the Coast-Guard,
the Naval Coast Volunteers, and a
small body of shortpservice peneioi>-
er& ''The marines (days the Com-
mission) are a useful and efficient
body of men, second to none in the
service of the State ; they are excel-
lent troops, both as artillerymen and
in&ntry, and are at the same time
capable of performing many of the
deck duties of a ship of war. There
is ordinarily a reserve of 6000 mar
rines in the home ports, and we
think that this force might, with
great advantage to the State, and
without impairing its efficiency, be
VdS FUtU and Kai9iu^Bnglcmd.^PaH IIL [Be
increased by 5000 men. There if, period wbioh the propooBd woKm
bowever, a limit beyond which they would entail, a manoe who had ha
cannot be conveniently Increased, for some years afloat woald loae the »
it is neceraary to Uieir efficiency that bitude of sea life. Of iate» ma «it
they should .spend a large portion of had not been noore than four ar in
their time afloat.^' Here we have months on shore after flervioe ie xa
the first component of oor reserve — Crimea and in ChiosL, wen a|^«»
a body of soldiers well trained and barked ; and it has happcDed, mi i
able, many of them experienced in is to be supposed that it will ai«M
.the usages, daties, and discipline of a happen, that the variooB oalU <^ tk
man-ofwar, all ready at a few boars* service, and the Datiooal ex^esg^
notice to be transported on board will enrtail so nBa<^ the akore pa^
ships, and at once to enter on their tion of his career, that there wtC e
part in the organisation ; for the de- no danger of the aea expenecos
tach meets always contain a great being forgotten or obliterated.
proportion of old soldiers, who of The second objectioD ia one iF
themselves shape and order the re- spired in naval cbielis by a jomm
crnit element. Th^i is, of course, a fear for the intereste of their dia
certain resource. It was thought ex- All men naturally eling to their <m
pedient that this body should be in- class, and believe it to be the &»
creased by 5000, so that this, portion must and most fitting^ for all p»
of the reserve should furnish* 1 1 000. poses. Naval chiefs love their \^
This recommendation was partially jackets naturally, lean to them, trafi
carried out ; an addition of 2000 was in them ; they know them to be p»
voted, was raised in two or three eious and costly material, and knc
months, and many of the number have BU9pick>nsly on any meaame v^
been already thoroughly trained, and may reduce their sale. Tbey gmdfi
are serving afloat Thus, then, we have a single blue-jacket, even thoogh ih:
a corps always at hand, thoroughly blue>Jacket should repreaeot a poor
serviceable, readily trained, and easily wretch who is not worth his salt. T£^
raised. The man-difficulty meets us would be rights undoubtedly rifk;
not here. It would seem, therefore, if seamen - numbers meant scaeifi-
reasonable, if we cannot get seamen stren^ ; but it is well known to ai
and can get marines, that we ought who have bad experiences of a laifr
to seize on the material which we of-war, that there are always aasj
can command, and increase the pro- men on the ship's books, f^^ati U-
portions of the latter force in the merly as landsmen, now perhapi «
naval systenu There are two objeo- second-class ordinary, who ate qk
tioDS offered to this — that if the and never can be made seamen ; w^
strength of this body were raised be- merely swell the moater-books, caa
vend a certain limit, the intervals her the decks, conaame victiuk,
betwixt the terms of service afloat plague drill - instmotors, empby tte
would be so long that the men would police, and are of little or no db
lose much of the efficiency which they whatever. In fact, as we once haui
had attained through u«e and expe- an old salt say, they are noodescri^
rience of ship life and duties, — and — neither hog, dog, nor deviL Xuv,
that an increase of this body would such men might well be replaeed br
tend to a decrease of seamen. marines, without danger to the m-
The ffrst objection might readily be man-supply or aeameo^fficteocy. W«
evercome by increasing the strength are no advocates of the theory tiat
of detachments afloat; or by attach- the changes which steam and tk
ing a certain number to the gun- improvement in arms have made is
boats at the different ports in which naval warfare will make seanaashq)
they might be exercised during cei^ a dead letter, and that ahios ao^in
tain months, and the young hands for the future so be maon<r{^ cbkfij,
thus learned to get their sea legs, and if not entirely, by artillerymen. W«
the old ones to keep theirs. How- repudiate it altogether, fieamuslup
ever, usually, a man is seldom more must be ever the life^rineif»le of
than a year or at most two years on our navy ; it is that which give as
shore, and it is not likely that,du^ supremacy — it is that
hig that time, or even the longer maintain it
B59.3 . Eed8and2favie$-^3nffkmd.-^Partm. 769
It may be tnie tlmt, in fnlare rad foretold how tbe difference of
laval \>mtt1e8, one bioadBide will habits^ obaracter, and ezperieoces of
lecfde tbe iraae, bat it is seamMisbip tbe two services must ioeTitably
irhich V9\\\ determine wbo shall give dash, prodacing eoofasioQ and dis^
i\xat bi^oadside. The ship which shall aster, and how impossible it would
bave the most seamansbip, will, we be for the officers of one service to
believe, always gain the opportonity make dispositions for the other witb-
of Ibe first and most efEI»otive fire, oat ioBariog blunders and incarring
Manceavre will be a greater power failures. This warning has since been
than ever— and mauoeaTre demands stamped in the bloody characters of
aeamanehip snd seamen. Petropaalovski and the Peiba These
This seamanship, however, depends and many another failure should loug
on qaality, not numbers ; and we be- since have doomed the system. Even.
lleve that, though the great revolu* England, with all her fame and all
tioDS in naval wsr reqnire the same, her traditions, caunot afford to feed
\f not a greater amount of skill prejudices and class assumptions by
than before, the actual number of Jose, slaughter, and dt;feat. It has
Bailors — rated sailors, blue-jackets been found once and again tha^we
— need not, and should not, be in have held even savages too chel|l —
the same proportion as heretofore, that we have given them too lirtie
It will never be safe to reduce the credit for military science. The
complements of the ships, but it will New Zealand Pao» and the Peiho
be expedient that tbe crews shovld furts were melancholy evidences of
be composed entirely oi seamen, real this. The presence of a military
seamen, with boys of course, and sol* force in a fleet or squadron sufficient
diers or artillerymen. for all landings and coast-attacks,
The intermediate dass^ which is of which, though dispersed through the
Dp real use, and' never wss-— for tbe difierent ships, should be capable of
chiefs of the old war tell us that they perfect orgaoisation under its own
did their gallant deeds with a hand- chief, aided by a fitting staff, which
ful of men, and that the rest were should contain the proper proper-
mere dead - weights, which have lion of field artillery, and be pro*
been introdooed and fostered by the vided with all the fitting material
expediency plan of reducUons and of war, would obviate all these dif-
consequent increases, when a man ficnlties, would prevent confusion
was a man, so that he would make up and caeaalties, and would assign to
the numbers to be cited in a deba.te, each branch of the service its own
and when the numerical force of duties and its own fitting sphere of
our crews was a mockery of their action.
real seamen-etrength, — should be al* When the marines were ordered to
together exploded, and their places be landed in Syria, it was found that
filled by marines— the greatest pro- only one or two detachments were
portion of the complement being, of furnished with water-bottles, and tbe
course, seamen. There is another coopers of the fleet had to supply the
reason for the increase of detach- deficiency as they best could. On
ments of marines, and a weighty one many subsequent occasions, when
too. There would be thus in every marines had been knded (except
fleet or squadron a body of trained when brigaded with troops of the
BoldierB— equal In number to that line), it has always seemed enough if
which coald ever be well spared fronf each man had his musket, am muni-
ships for the purpose— available in tion, knapsack, and three days' grub ;
all cases of debarkation for warlike any further provision for contingen-
operations, whilst the seamen would cies was considered superfluous; the
be left to their proper sphere — necessity of staff-organisation was
tbe managing the ships, boats, and wholly ignored,
guns. We have stated that we believe
Geoeral Sir G. Napier long long that the crews of the ship should be
ago delivered a warning of tbe evil composed of real seamen and soldiers,
which would ensue from the mixture who are also artillerymen, and cup-
of the Builor-eleuQent with the 'mill- able of performing many seaman-
tary in land operations ; he foresaw duties ; that the increase of the sol
770
FImU and IfiiMm^EtigUnuL'^Pafi UL
dier elemeDt woald thrart oat and
abolish from the oaval syRtMB a dais
which is weakening to its eCBcienoy,
withoat in any way diminishing itB
real strength in seamanship ; and that
this soldier-force shoald ba adequate
to the sole condaot of any land opera-
tions which might be projected. To
carr^ oat snch an arrangement, the
marine corps should never be allowed
to fall below the strength of 20,000
men, as proposed by tlM Obmmtssioa ;
and until a system of obtaining and
retaining seamen, both for the peace
establishment and the reserve be de-
vised, it would be advisable to increase
the numbers by 3000 or more. How-
ev^ whatever may be their exact na-
mencal force, the marines on shore
mast be accepted as a real and valo-
able item in the reserve for national
defence.
The same may be said with equal
jostice of the next oomponent of the
reserve, the Ooast-Goard. This force
18 composed of experienoed and tried
seamen, chiefly men-of-war's men who
have served seven years at sea (and
this seven is to be increa«>ed to ten) ;
men matured in strength, adept in
exercises, inared to dibcipltoe, and
subject to a regular organisation.
The numbers voted for this force
were 9000 ; but of these the officer
in command of it states that there
are only about 6000, inclndin^ offioera
and boys who may be considered as
** fleet men" — men able and capable
of being transferred from the Coast-
Guard at once to a man-of-war.
These men are dispersed aloog the
coasts as required for the protection
of the revenue, bat are attached to
different ships stationed at the dif-
ferent ports in the districts, into
whose organisation they oonld be at
once admitted. It is caloalated that
eighteen hoars would be the longest
time required for the assemblage of
any portion of this force, fully armed
and equipped; so that in twenty-
four hours from the time a summons
was desimtched, 6000 men would be
assembkid on board their respective
didtriut - ships, ready for transfer,
dispersion, or service in their own
vec^ds: There are eleven such ships
— nine blookn*hip8, and two frigates
— none of which are considered ser-
viceable or efficient It was proposed
by the Comptroller of the Coast
Gaard tbat tbem maoh ^uiA «
replaoad by good and effidaat ite
complete in everj respeot of eqsf
meat and anBameot, ao tk«l^ wis
manned by the men attaehei lotfata
they would form a fiiset of eloa
ships of the line, whiob m%ht vst
dezvoos at Spit bend in tbree ^
This propoattioii aeemed ae vmA
and so jadiekNia, that it ia sina^ s
was not at onoe adoplad. It an
stated that the ships t^oa eBfbjs!
would not deteriorate eo mach ai ii
oidioary. Thos the Ohaand &a ii
the very shortest tame ia wte
danger ooald be appreheaded, aifts
be doubled by a reinlbroeiaeat e^a
to joimng it at oaee, if the twnpm
were argent If there W9e bbr
time for preparatioii, the crews mtjk
be divided, one- half beaog seel a
form the naeleaa of suiofther te.
whilst their plaoea were fiUed, aoeoii
iog to Sir Charks Napier^a pUB,kf
marines and ordioariee.
The r^ulations for the tmaatot
Uon of this force appear to be nn
perfect and the or^aaieatioQ of it M
be very good. The efficiencf of tk
men is ondoabted. Tb^ profaJ
themselves in the RoeataD wv:
about 100 were embarked la eaeb d
the linen io the B^iao fltset. ii
first, oommanding offioera barted a
their oomparative alowoeea aodvitf
of smarteess, and their oooiradi
laughed at their eoddltog habits, and
the oare they took to|raaql s^aH
ooldf catarrhs, and rkeaoiataea^ bf
swathing themaelf«8 in wwAs,
wrapping tiieir throats ia flaoaei,
and making freqoeot applicafcioaB M
the doctor; bat in time Uieir tns-
worthinesB and practice began tokfi.
They furnished crews for the bos^
no one of which ever ran, or got
drunk, and thus relieved 4hea of all
anxiety as to their oemiog aad goiag ;
thej^ had ever in their raaka an
of inteUigeQOS and ezperieoee. rcadj
and fit to be appoioted oa emergBaaa
to places of trust aod reepooubyity ;
and they seldom if ever appeared k
the roll of colprits, or appeared k
the punishnieat-lkta Dariag tvo
years of service, out of the hundred
Coast^Gaard meQ embarked ia aoe
ship, only one was ever brought ap
for pottishmeot
Ttiese &cta are strikioff. Wl^
was it thattbeae omo wefe sapenor
to tbe temptatioiM, the tioc, and the
crime which affected their brethren ?
Were they superior in education, in
moral caltore, in clanf They were
men of the same type and the sane
clac'S. The great caoM was the stake
they had in the homes which they
had left behind them* The fhtare
was worth too much to them to be
risked on a chano^throw of pleasure,
▼ice, or temper.
It is proposed to increase this
force to 12,000 men, and a valaable
reserve it woald be; bnt it mnst
be remembered that it is formed of
men who have served ten years in
tbe navy, and that therefore every
man gained to the reserve is one lost
to the effective serving body. And
it is hard to see how this increase
can be made withoat sabtracting
from the. seamen now afloat, and
thus aggravating the man-difficnlty.
In eonstitntion, however, it is vm-
donbledly practical, and in efifective-
ness nnezceptionable.
The next component deserves no
sach jodgment This to '* a bodv of
men eorolled nnder special conditions,
entitled the Naval Coast YoIanteersL"
** These are not seamen in the troe ac-
ceptation of the term^ hot boatmen,
&hermeo, and alongnshore men. They
are tolerable gunners, and wonld be
Qsefal for coast defence, or for ser-
vice in port ; bat they know Ht^ of
tbe daties of a seaman on deok,'«nd
many of them are not capable of go-
ing alofk. Bnt tbe most serious ob-
jection to them to the limit of dtotanoe
(namely 100 leagues) to which they
can be carried from the shore; so
that the operation of a fleet might
be serionsiy impeded by having a
few naval coast vokinteers on board
some of the ships composing it" Thto
contingent amonnts, according to tbe
evkieace, to nearly 7000 men, who
are enrdled for five years, and re-
ceive a bounty of £6 for tl»t period.
In return they are required to under-
S' annually a drill of twenty^ei^ht
ys in the dtotriet coastguard ships,
during which time they are treated,
in respect of pav and allowaoce^ as
able seamen, and **are liable to be
called upon, in case of war or emerg-
ency, to serve in the fleet" The ex-
penditure entailed to £22,000.
The result wonld seem a very com-
mensurate one for such a sum. The
command of so many able sei
men at such a price would be
enough. But, like all or most
other schemes, it to based on t
and unstable principle. The
blage of the men would not I
tain; when assembkd, they
not be fufficiently trained to
part in the active organifatioi
man-of-war, and could not be
more than 100 leagues from the
or compelled to serve for mon
two yearSb As a naval reserve,
thto force would seem to be a ni
and unless considerably modifie
snm expended on it would be
employed in maintaining so
more men in our standing foK
in any other branch of the reseri
Tms is another iufitance of th
key of our policy in ever tryii
meet the man*di£&culty by sh
schemes and expedients, iostes
facing it bravely and manfully
permanent and staodiogway.
The Naval Coast Volunteer
included in tbe organisation o
CoastGnard, and in case of
called upon would be incorpc
with them.
The last component to the i
service pensioners — eeamen who
retired after ten years' service oi i
pence srdav. It is not, howevc t
tioipated that thto reserve couU
be a large one ; nor is it des !
that it should be. It is though ,
that this system should inclod i
marines ; and '^ as the Act whi( I
tended the limited service to I
will commence this jear, it n
a great misfortune if those va i
men are allowed to separate w I
any measures been taken to c< i
them with the service of the co i
A corps of several thousands i
be formed in thto manner."
Now, a seaman or marine,
ten years* service, to at hto ver
— has readied hto highest sts :
efficiency. It would be the io i
certainly, of the State to retai
a man, rather than tempt bin
the reserve, and have to fill y \
Elace with raw material. This i
e cutting off a piece of the I: !
from one end and sewing it on <
other. Tbe true policy would I
preserve the manufactured arti >
every possible means, and se i
serves from other sonrq^. It i
men id tbe home ports, of a iwciw
force of 11,000 marines, of 12,000
Goast-Gkard meD, aod of the short-
aervice peDsioners aod the Naval
Coast Yolaoteers, amoanting alto-
gether to 30,000 men, allowing for
a certain proportion of tbe Coast-
Gnard who wonld be retained as a
staff and naclens *'to bring forward
with rapidity detachments of vol an-
teers as they arrived, to discipline
pensioners, enlist men for the navy,
and create new resenrea." Of these,
the seamen and marines woold be
available on the instant^ the Ooast
Guard in two or three days, tbe ^ort-
service pensioners in a few weeks.
This has the look of a formidable
reserve. It is, however, as yet, partly
a paper force. A great portion of it
does not exist, and another portion
might not be available to tbe extent
anticipated. Of the components,
there are only two (for the Coast
Yd on teers are given over as useless)
which could be increased or formed
withoQt subtracting from the vital
acting force of the navy; those are
the reserve seamen and tbe marines.
And this is the main objection of
the scheme, — that it opens few re-
sources which would not exhaust the
majn-springs of tbe system. The
men to .form tbe reserve must be
drawn from tbe best and worthiest
of those serving afloat; and the
question would be, in which position
they are the most valuable. In the
present stage of the man-difficulty,
there could be no doubt that the
policy would be to induce such men
to re-enter or re^nlist, and have their
full services; if tbey declined such
terms, of course it would be ex-
pedient to have some hold upon
them.
Sach is the standing reserve, and
it would go far to meet tbe first out-
break of a war; but the difficulty
would still remain, ^how to pro-
vide for the rapidly-growing demands
of a continued contest, bow to man
the ships whioh must be suooessively
put in commission, in order to main-
tain the navy at a war standard."
This is the in'eat question, the key
to the man diffioalty. ** The problem
to be solved is, how &r it may be
of tbe kingdom a volaoteer foite e!
seamen, all trained in gunnery, who
oould be relied upon to come fortinl
when their servioeB were reqoini"
It seemed, indeed, botli straa^ ud
bard that the country sboaM pons
such vast resoaroes of seaaes, ud
yet not be able to depend or kIjob
a sufficiency for national seed ud
national defence; bat tbe eztrMrii-
nary exigencies and the varied d»
mands of our oommeroe, its ntot
and its continuity, have bentofoR
rendered it diffioolt to eMAiA i
mtem whiek wonld give the Sttte
this advantage, and yet sot intedn
with the puranita or the pririkgn
of trade.
The Commknon, after woMof
a great variety of sobemei, deto^
mined on a plan which appeared ts
them best suited to attain tbst ob-
ject That plan, however, bM w
been matured into an Act, and ve
can study it best in tbe fonn is vliidi
it appears, as a part aod a lav of on
naval system. The Govemmeot bii
decided on oonstatuting a volimtMr
reserve foroe from the meraoiik
marine of 80,000 men.
•' These volunteers must be Briiiih
subjeetSy must be free from iofirokity,
be not more than tbirty-fifejetnof
age^ and within the ten jean pr«-
vious to their joining the Besvie
have been five years at sea, om yeir
of that time as an able seamao."
Tbeee are the qoalifieatiou n-
quired. The terms of service ut-
'• That each volunteer nnist atteod
drill for twenty-eight days daiin; tic
year, and he may do it, so £tf •> ^
convenienoe of the pubUo service viL
permit, at a ttaae and place aiotl
convenient to himself; but be ob-
not in any case take leas tbaa leno
days' drill at a time; that be M
not, without special ^ermiaBioo, pio-
ceed 'on a voyage which will oceapj
more than six months; thatbemut
appear before some shlppiog-n^
once in every six montbe^ volesi k
has leave to be abroad longer, an
most also report every change «
residence or employment; tW^
order to obtain a pension be b»
continue m the Reserve as long i* l^
Is physlcaUy oompetent to serve; «i»
i
1869.]
FUets and Kiwm^LngfanL^Part III.
178
be matt abo havo beea in the force
fifteen jeare if eogagcd above thirty,
or twenty yean if eogaged onder
thirty, the time of actaal service in
tbe fleet cooDliod^ donble ; that Tolao*
teers may be eaUed opoo for aetnal
service in the navy by Royal Procla-
matioD, ihoQgh it is iotended to ex-
ercise this power only wheo ao emer*
geocy requires a saddeo inerease in
the naval force of the coDotry ; that
a volanteer may» io the fint iostaoce,
he called oat for three years if there is
actual war ; and if he is then serviog
in one of her Majesty's ships, he may
he required to serve for two years
longer, bat for the additional two
years he will receive 2d. frday ad^
ditioaal pay; that volnateers, when
on drill or actaal service^ will be sub-
iect to naval discipline; that a v<^
onteer who fails to fulfil the obliga-
tions of tbe Reserve, will forfeit his
elaim to retainer and penuon; and
if he fails to join when called ont for
aetnal service, may be treated as a
Btraggler or deserter from the navy."
Saoh are the obligalioos of tbe
Reserve; and they are certainly not
oneroas, nor more than commensa-
rate with the advantages offered.
The advantages are — that a volan-
teer will at once receive an annoal
|>ayment or retainer of £6, payable
quarterly ; that he will, if he fulfils
the conditions and is in the Reserve
the reqaisite time, receive a pension
of not less than £X2 a*year, whenever
.he becomes incapacitated from earn-
ing a livelihood, or at sixty years of
age, if not previoasl^ incapacitated ;
that he may elect either to take the
whole pension himself, or to take a
smaller pension for himself daring
his life, and to allow his wife a pen-
sion after his death for the remain-
der of her life ; that he will not, on
accoont of bdongiog to the Reserve,
forfeit any interest in any friendly or
benefit society ; that his expenses to
and from the place of drill will, when
necessary, be provided; that be will
during drill receive, in addition to
tbe retaining fee, the same pay, vio-
toalliog, and allowance as a seaman
of the fleet; that he will, if called
cot on actaal service, receive the
same pay, allowances, and victnals,
and have the same prospeet of pro-
motion and pdz»iiiooey as a contin-
nons-eervice seaman of the fleet,
and he will, on joining, receive the
same dothing, bedding, and mese-
traps; that & will, if woanded or
injared in actpal servioe, receive the
same pension ' as a seaman of the
navy of tbe same rating; that he
will be eligible for Greenwich Hoe-
pital and the Ooast-Gaard service;
that he may quit the Reserve, if not
at the time called oat for actaal ser^
vice, at the end of every five years ;
that he may also qait it, when not
called eat, on paying back the re*
tainers he has received, or without
payment, if he passes an examina-
tion as master or master'^ mate, and
obtains honii fid^ employment as
master or mate.
This offer of the State is not only
just — it is generous. The retaioing*fee
is equal to one-fourth of a merchant
seaman*s annual pay, and Is the same
as a Naval Coast Volunteer will re-
ceive for five years; and the denuuid
made on him in return involves a
very trifling eacrifice of time or ser^
Tice, especially as he may perform
his drill in broken periods of seven
days. The pension, too, is granted
on the most liberal and advantage-
ous terns; and the voluntary prin-
ciple is BO thoroughly acknowledged,
that he may at any time free himself
from his obligationB on very reason-
able cooditfons.
Such a proposal ought— so fair and
80 advantaigeous is ifr— to meet with a
ready response; and we believe it
must and witt be appreciated. As to
the advantages it offers, we cannot
Object or demur; they are such as
are worthy of a great State, in mak-
ing a demand on the persods and
services of certain of its citizens for
national defence ; but we most ex-
press our doubts as to the results.
The fourth qualification would ap-
pear to raise a difficulty — the re-
quirement of five years' previous ser^
vice, one as A.R, will limit the
range of choice, and ooufioe it to
thoM who, from being certain of
advancement in their own service,
may be most indifferent. This, espe-
ciaUv as the Reserve must necessarily
be limited almost entirely to the
short voyage men, will probably
create a difficulty in obtaining the
necessary number. Tbe drill, too, is
774
Fleets and Kavw-^EnffiaruL-^Part IIL
[Dtt
too fihort to admit of that effici€Ooy
which a man called apon to serve
in these times of pfactised gannerj
sboatd possess, and which would be
BliH farther decreased by the system
of broken periods. It is supposed
that twenty-eight days will be as
mach time as oonld conveniently be
exacted from a merchant -seaaian,
without gpreat detriment to his iote^
ests; hot it is also snpposed that
every seaman is on sbor^ and oat of
employ for about three months in the
year. 'Why not, then, give him the
option of serving that time, or any
portion of it, in a tt^ioing-shlp or
man-ofwar? Many, instead of slop*
Ing and loafing abont the seaports,
casting about for a meal or a bed^
would be glad of soch a provision
and mainteoaoce, and would be
rendering themselves more efficient
members of the Reserve.
Allowing, however, that the re-
quired numbers are raised — that the
organisation is made, and the whole
system brought into fair working
order — we have still to ask how
those men, or how many of them,
will be available at a sudden sum*
mons? How many of the 30,000
would be forthcomiog, or could be
depended on at any instant? The
obligation that each volunteer shoold
report himself every six months, in-
80 res his not being long absent; but
it would be entirely a matter of aeci-
dent whether he would be present
when required. It might be that,
when the need arose, two- thirds of
the force would be in the home ports,
or it might also happen that thb
same proportion would be absent;
at any rate^ it could never 'be fairly
calculated that more than one-haLP
would be available Even thus we
believe that we overstate the actud
dependence.
However, even with these objec-
tions, it is the best plan for a volun-
teer force yet enacted ; it will at any
rate give us some hold on the mer-
chant seamen, and, by familiarisiog
them with the navy, will no doubt
popularise that service, and open a
wide field for recmitment ; and as it
is only the last reserve, we may ac-
cept it as a worthy addition to the
national defences. The Commission
farther provided for the future main-
(enanoe of t^ia force, and tbeir re-
oommendatian was one wbtdi weiii
have given it a certaio peraMiw&^.
They thought that^ though it moil
be first constituted of adalts esR^
selected froni the merchAot flprvi<&
it must be supplied and fed hj
boy& They acknowledge, thnogb
out, the principle, thmt every hnt
which is to be peRDBoeat and »
liable must have sb eertaia IMi^r
source; sad they wiaelj
in all instances, that tbia
should consist of boyselioeeD,
and educated for the parpose. Is
thia case they propose ** tbai ac^osl-
ships should be eatablidied in aQ the
priadpal commercial {KKrta, eapaUe
of accommodating from 100 to 2<i
boarders in each ahfp» lOO of wh«a
should be supported by tbe State; tbt
these boya shouVi be carefollj ofaoses;
and that they should reteive not coly
instruction for the merdiaoi eervicE^
but also certain iostmctioDa in gnfr
aery ; that the schools shoald be opa
to day Bcholari^ childroi leaidiag it
the ports ; and that, at the expiratkn
of the training, a certain Dooiher
(limited, however) sfaoaid have ifae
option of entering the R->yal Naiy,
the remainder being tak^ as •ip-
prentices by the ahipowoera, who, is
returo for the edikation giTen, wooU
be required to subscribe to a oertds
fund in favour of tiie boys tbus re-
ceived. It is thought that, at tk
close of the apprentioeahipi, tht
habits acquired, the iodaeMBCDts of.
pay, and promised penaioD. wcaid
draw the sailor at oooe into the body
of volunteera." Why not make it
compulsory, at any rate on tboee who
receive their education and maia-
tenaooe gratia from the State? It
wouhi net be any aevere ezacttoo froa
the others in letom for the advaa-
tages given, and would insure a oe^
taia feeding source.
This part of the piaii» like the
other, will have a great eflect »
cementing liie union betwixt the two
services, and in creating a kiadlj
feeling which, after some yean' work-
ing and trial, would no doubt pt^ai-
larise the naval aervioe and aooel the
man*difficulty.
The Oommissknera, in cktug
their labours, arrive at the eondoBiflB
that, by the means proposed^ than
1859.]
FUeU and Naioie»^England,—Part IIL
775
^wonld be placed at the disposal of
trlie country, inclusive of the standing
and the volunteer force, a body of
60^000 men available for defence.
Xliese are, however, paper figures, and
&£iy calculation which based a depen-
dence on much more than one-balf
that number, would be iUusory and
dangerous. It must be allowed, how-
e^er, that this Report contains sound
and valuable suggestions — has added
to our knowledge of the service — has
produced most profitable investiga-
tion— ^has already led to great and
vrorthy improvements ; but it shrinks
from the only real alternative left us
— a standing navy.
These plana and propositiona are
all good in themselves— good aa
auxiliaries; but they are all uncer-
tain, all dependent on casualties and
circumstances; and the safety, the
glory of England, cannot be trusted
to ropes of sand.
Suppose these propositions all car-
ried out — these plans successful — all
productive of the promised result.
An invasion is threatened; war is
imminent. We have our Channel
fleet, fullv manned, of ten or twelve
sail; and, according to the Comp-
troller of the Coast Guard, we could,
from that force and the Naval Coast
Volunteersu man ten or eleven more,
making allowance for the boys and
marines who would be sent to com-
plete the crews. Thus we should
have a fleet equal, but not more than
equal, to going forth to meet the first
burst of a war, and thus we have at
once used up almost all our standing
reserve; for the reserve of seamen
would be nearly absorbed in manning
I the additional frigates and gunboats
I required, and a great proportion of
the marines on shore would be also
disposed of. Then what have we
I left? The volunteer force ; but these
could not of themselves be trusted to
form a fleet; there must be a large
nucleus left of trained men to effect
their organisation. This would effect
large reductions in the fleet, and the
vacant places must be filled by in-
capables, or left void. Our standing
reserves are not more than enough —
not enough — to insuie the country a
fleet of twenty sail, inolusiye of the
Channel squadron, with the proper
proportion of frigates and gunboats,
to enter on the first onset, or meet
the first attack. Do- our naval annala
tell us that we could trust to less?
Supposing this first fleet started, we
have to form the second. There is a
certain number of reserve seamen, of
Coast-Guard men, retained for the
purpose ; some short-servioe men
join ; the volunteers are scattered in
all parts; they have to come from
distant stations ; in a week they may
be assembled, and this amalgamated
force is organised for the manning of
this second fleet This, however,
cannot be done at onoe, and yet tliis
is all we could depend upon, did the
first fleet meet with a reverse or dis-
aster. Were the Channel the scene
of action, the reinforcement would
be required in a day or two. Could
it with the present resources and ap-
pliances be ready ?
England must have fuller and
better assurance of defence than this.
She should have a standing body of
seamen, which would suffice at once,
and on the instant, to increase the
Channel fleet to the required strength,
without drawing on a single reserve,
and should also furnish a nucleus oa
which the reserves might form. Thus
a powerful fleet might go forth at
once to challenge the danger; a se-
cond, almost equally efiScient, man*
ned by the Coast-Guard, Coast Volun-
teers, and marines, would be ready
immediately to reinforce; and there
would remain the Yolnnteers, formed
and organised as trained seamen, to
constitute the third fleet, the last re-
serve, the last resource of naval might
and naval defence.
To trust the existence, the glory,
the defence of England, to less than
this, would be a national crime ; and
this security can only be attained by
the constitution of a standing navy,
which should not only suffice for a
peace establishment, but be capable
of supplving a force of seamen nume-
rous and efficient enough to satisfy
the nation that it held the power of
an instant and powerful war-develop-
ment On what principles this stand-
ing navy should be constituted, we
must discuss hereafter.
VOL. LXZXVL
51
INDEX TO VOL. LXXXVL
Absolate, the, Dr. Hansel on, 49 et teq.
^tna, ascent o( 469, 469.
Africa, sketches in interior of, by Gap-
tain Speke, 840 «t aeq. — the mountains
o^ 469— character of the agricultural
and pastoral tribes of, 666.
Aletsoh glaci^, passage of the, 467.
Alezandretta, sketches at, 266.
Alleleinhorn, ascent of the, 467.
AUJXD OpiCBATtOlIB IN GhINA, ON, 627.
Alpine Club, Peaks, Pabsbs, and
Glaoiebs, by the, reriewed, 466 — for-
mation, objects, (&a, of it, 467 et teg,
Alpine rose, the, 466.
Alps, range of the, 469.
Alva, the Duke of, his oharaeier, Ac, 708.
Ames, Mr., ascent of the Allelein and
Fletsch horns by, 467.
Anaxeh, sketches among the, 267 et uq.,
420 tf^ sea.
Angelioo, Fra, the paintings o^ 601.
Anglo-Saxons, settlement of the, in Eng-
land, 642.
AiroTHEK Pleasant French Book, 669.
Anselm, the contest with, 188.
Arab horses, the, 268 et «y.— character,
prices, <&c of, 480.
Arabs, sketches among the, 266 et eeq.
420 et aeq.--on the march, 426.
Argyll, the duke of, his speech against
the war, 116.
Armada, connection of the, with Queen
Mary, 627.
Armstrong gun, the, 886, 887.
Arno, the, Florence, 686.
Art, conflict between the schools of, 127
— ^modern Italian, 699 — historical de-
velopment o( 716 e^ teq.
Artists, Italian and EngUsb, 688.
Arthur, King, the legends of, 608.
Ashburton electiou petition, the, 868.
Atheism, progress ot, in France, 89.
Augustine, propagation of Christianity
in England by. 646. 647.
Austen, Misa, the Novels or, 99.
Austria, feeling in the country against,
116— conduct of the Derby ministry
regarding, 111 et eeq. — alienation ot,
from England, and policy of Napoleon
to, 246 — the navy of, 826-- conduct
of the Wlug ministry toward, 376.
Avalanches, effects of Ihe voice on, 462.
Aylesbury eleoUon petitioB, tba. ^l
Baalbec, the olain of; 268.
Bagnes, Yal ae, exploratioiis in, W^
Bain, A, The Emotwms and xbk ^=-
BT, reviewed, 295.
Baptistery of FloFence^ the, 593w
Babnet 0*Ca&boll, «hb LiBoxxi^ or. «.
Bedouins, sketchea among tl&€^ 266 e^«;
— character of the, 42d.
Bellieyre, M., misaion ol^ to BiiEab«th z
behalf of Queen Mary, 626.
Bernese Oberland, aceneiy of the, 41'
Beverley election petition, the; 8»S.
Beyrout, sketches at, 266.
Bible, Mansel on the, 50 et 9eq.
Breadalbane, the mmrquia o^ oaaveer
with the Highlaadera by, 2 — hi» sc
nection with the maaasiere of Glese*
4, 9 et eeq. pasnnu
Breton Ballads — King Ixma ^
Eleventh's page, 488 — the CmsAd?-
return, 490.
Bribery, the electioa petitio&s sfuar.
868 et seq.
Bright^ Mr., ax-gamenta o( agaiast &
Conservative miniatry, 116 — oa *^
Maidstone election, 870.
Bristenstock, ascent of the, 468.
Britons, the aboriginal, 640l
Bront^, Charlotte, on MIsb AjstUsii
novels, 107.
Brown, Dr. T., Sir W. HamOton on ^
Buchanan's History of Scotland, ob. Hi
Buckenham, Friar, and Latimer, ISi
Burnett^ bishop, lua accoontof tbeiov-
sacre of Glencoe, 12 et seq.
Burt's Account of the Highlands, ta^
Macaulay's use of it^ 169 ii teq.
Butler, bishop, on roTebUion, 52.
Calvin, Principal Talloeh's pieton d
178, et teq.
Camel, the, among the Arabs, 424.
Campagna, the Roman, its seeneiy, 471
Campanile, the, at Florence, S90 d te^
Campbell, captain, of Glanlyoo, and Ue
massacre of Qlencoe, 16 eiteq.
Canute, the rei^n of, 545.
Carlos, Don, projected marriage of Qiiea
Mary to, 523.
Camivalr4he, in Florence, 695.
Castellio, Sebastian, Oslvin's condcet to,
181.
Index.
777
asteloaii, French ambasaador to Soot-
land, notioeB of. 629.
atherine de Medici, notices of, 619,
528 ei seq.
favour, count, connection o( with the
Italian war, 121.
)HAirQX OF MnnsTET, the; What vkxt f
118.
iiJliarleniAgne, the legendaiy history of,
608.
3liarlee IX. of France, proposed mar^
ria^e between Elizabeth and, 680.
Charlea V., Motley's charaoter o( 698 — .
hia abdication, 699 et 9eo.
Ch^rueVa work on Queen Mary, review
of, 617.
China, on Allixd Opkeationb in, 627.
Chriatianity, the attack by Positivism
on, 89 — ^the introduction, Ac, o( into
England, 646.
Clarendon, Lord, and the Italian ques-
tion, 118 — his instmctiens to Lord
Elgin in China, 628.
Cleland, colonel, his account of the
Highland host, and Macaulay's use of
it, 168.
Cockneyism, London and Parisian, 88.
Cofirnition, Sir W. Hamilton on, 499.
Coligny, the admiral, supposed appfica-
tion to Hamilton of Botnwellhaugh to
assassinate, 620.
Combio, ascent of the, 46S.
Comparison, Sir W. Hamilton's views
on, 610.
Compi^gne, the meeting of Napoleon
III and Lord Palmerston at, 118.
Conservatives, strength of the, 116.
Cookery, domestic, Michelet on,
Italian, 477.
Comwidl, effect of intercourse with the
Phenieians, 640 — traditions regard-
ing King Arthur in, 608.
Corao of norenoe, the, 698.
Contin, Victor, Renan on, 678.
Cowley, lord, and the Italian qaestioiu
Uletuq. '
Cowper, lieutenant, peculiarities of mur-
der of, by the Sepoys, 686.
Cranmer, archbishop, as the leader of
the English Reformation, 176--cruel-
tie« of, 187.
Gkubadkb'b Return, thb— a Breton
baUad, 488.
Daily News, the, on the bribery con-
victions, 866.
DamaioQB, the approach to, and sketches
in, 629«<M9.
Danes, the inroada, Ac, of, in England,
644.
Dargand's Histoire de Marie Stuart, on,
617, 638.
Dartmouth election petition, the, 868.
Daviea, Mr., ascent of the Mischabel-
horner, by, 466.
Derby, lord, on the peace, 246.
Derbr ministry, the orerthrow of the,
118 ei s«^.— charges of bribery
brought against the, S64 et ieq.
Diablerets, ascent of the, 468.
Disarmament^ the propoeed, 876 ei aeq.
Douglas, Sir Edward, on the Russian
navy, 826.
Dream or thr Dead, a, 868.
Druidism, the, of the Britona, 640.
Drummond, captain, and the massacre
of Olencoe, 11.
Druses, sketches of the, 481.
Dumas' Marie Stuart, on, 617.
Dumbarton, Richard Frank's account
of, 166.
Dnncanson, major, and the massacre of
Olencoe, 16 et teq.
Duomo of Florence, the, 692 et eeq,
Ddtoo Repubuo, Motlrt's Histoet or
THR, 690.
Edgeworth, Miss, the novels of, 99.
Edward VI., Latimer^s preaching be-
fore, 186.
Egbert, subjugation of the Heptarchy
by, 644.
E^mont^ count, execution, <fec. o^ 706.
Elaboratire faculty, the, Hamilton's
views on, 610.
Eleotion PsnnoKs, the, Wbo dors the
BRIBRRT? 868.
Elections, gains of the Conservatives by
the, 116.
Elgin, lord, the instructions to, in
China, 626.
Elizabeth, conduct, Ac, of, on the eze-
cntion of Queen Mary, 626 — proposed
marriage of, to Charles IX., 630.
EmPRROR, THR, AMD THE EMPIRE, 746.
England, Sketches of the Reformation
in, 182 et eeq. — policy of Napoleon IlL
toward, 246 et atq. — present state, Ac,
of the fleet o( 824 et m^.— present posi-
tion of, with regard to France,S79 etaeq.
— passion for sporting, Ac , in, 466^the
aboriginal races o% 689 — ^importance
of the Chinese auestion to, and danger
of alliance witn France on it, 628^
effects of industrialism in, 67S-^iffi-
culty of manning the navy in,768 et $eq,
Enffliah Fox-hunter and Highland laira,
Burt's picture of the, 172.
Engubh Hmtort, VAroHAN'a Revolu-
tions IX, reviewed, 687.
Englishman, associationa of the, with
London, 87.
English school of painting, the, 127.
Ethdbert, murder of, 644.
Ethelred the Unready, reign of, 644.
Esneval, the baron d', mission of, to
Scotland, 630.
Europe, the mountain ranges of, 469.
European troops, necessity for, in In-
dia, 633.
Farel, the reformer, in Oeneva, 179. .
Fbilioita, Part 1 , 189 — conclusion, 278,
780
IndM»
Mary, queen of Eng^Und, niArtyrdom of
Xiatimer under, 186.
Msterialiflm, Renan on, 672.
Mathews Mr, explorations among the
Alps by, 468.
Matterhom, the, 468.
May, the month of, in Italy, 471.
Melbourne ministry, the, no-confidence
motion against the, 1 14.
Memory, ^milton*B riews on, 604.
Merj-Kotrani, horse-dealini? at, 419.
Metaphysics, Sir W. HamOton's system
of, 496 $t M^— distinction between,
and Psychology, 498.
Michael Angelo, the works, ^o. of^ in
Florehee, 688, 594.
MiOHKLBT, Dk l' Amour, review of) 87.
Mignet, M., his work on Queen Mary,
617.
Military police, dangers from system of
in India, 638.
MnnSTRT, THE CHANOK OF, 118.
Mischabel-horner, ascent of the, 486.
Misericordia, the, Florence, 600.
Mohammed Doukhy, an Arab chie^ 422,
423.
Motley's Dutch Rbpublto, 690.
Mountain scenery, Ac, effects of, 467.
Mountains of the Mood, the, in Africa,
841.
MoUNTAIHXBRDrO, THE AlPINX ClUB,
456. *
Msalala, district of, 406.
Murray, the regen^ his assassination by
Hamilton, 520.
Kapoleon III., feelingin England regard-
ing, 116—his policy on the Italian
question, 120 et $eq. — ^the probable
future policy of, 245— his Italian cam-
paign, its objects and results, t6. —
views, dEO. of, in the proposed disar-
mament, 875 tt Hq, — ^position of, in
relation to France, ^c, 745.
National costume, Italian, 480.
National Oallebt, thi^ its Puepose
AND Management, 711.
l^ative army, necessity for a^ in India,
688.
Naval architecture, present state ol) in
England, 331.
Navy, paramount importance of, to Eng-
land, 824— difficulty of manning it,
758.
Navy list, present state^ ^. o^ 880.
Negroes, Arab tradition of origin oi^ 570.
Nettuno, sketches at, 478 €t uq.
Nile, supposed souree of the^ Captain
Speke s discovery o^ 891.
Noah, the traditional tomb of, 259.
No-confidence motion, the, its policy, dca
114.
Norman Kings, the, their struggles
against the Pa^ power, 183.
Normans, the, th^ir conquest of England
and its effects, 547.
Northumbria,the Saxon kingdon sC Ml
Norwich election petition, Sie, 368.
Novels, effects of reading alood ob, 101
Offa, King of Northmnbria, 541
Oldenhom. ascent of thet, 468.
Ontology, definition of, 498.
Orange, the prince o^ hia character, At.
708 et teq,
Orkney, the Master of Sindaii's Attoost
of; 228.
Oude proclamation, the attaek od tk
ministry on the, 118.
Paget, Lord C, on the present sltU<f
British and foreign fleets, 885.
PalazEO Pitti, the, at Florence^ 599.
Palmenton, lord, the ministry <rf,ai^i&
proMMcts, 114 — ^hia speech on the »
confidence motion, 115— rapreKia
tions of, on the war, 117— bis co&dae
regarding it, 128 — ^fais former ]xiir
in Italy, Aa, 124— ehaiigeof bribr
brought against the Derby miok-
by, 865— policy, Ac of Napoleon I
to, 875, 876.
Pangani river, hippopotamus huntiar.
the, 569.
Papal see, the early struggle in Eoglo-
against the, 188.
Papal States, the Sba-sibe in tb^ €'
Paris, attachment of tiie FrenehmB^
87.
Parliament, Houses o( the fresco«»it
for, 134.
Patten*8 history of the Rebellion of ITli
212.
Peace the— What n rr f 245.
Peak of Darkness, aecent of the, 4^>
Peaks, Passes, and GLAcms, rerievct
456.
Peel, Sir R., his no-confidence nwtKt
against the Melbourne mioisby. I*^
Peibo, the Fioht on the, 647.
Perception, Sir W. Hamilton's rieioa
499.
Phenicians, early intereourse of, rA
Cornwall, 540.
PhiUp II., Motley's picture <fi, e94,m
700.
Philosophical history, increased fti»)5<^
587.
Pitti palace, gallery of the, 599.
Pollock, Sir Geoige, the evidence of, oc
the Indian army, 684.
Poltrot, the murder of Ouise by, Ki
Pomb^, an African drink, 898,^75.
Popery, position, Ac ot in France, 8^-
influence of, on Spain, 692.
Popular LmBRATuaE— Puek Smu
681.
Porto d'Anrio, sketches at, 48i
Positivism, claims of, 88.
Pre-Raphaelites, the works of tbe. !?•.
et »eq,
Prescott*8 Philip IL, Ac, renwifa w, w
698.
Indmt.
781
Preeentative theoxy of pereeption, the,
499, 500, 503.
lPT«aay roserre of the^ on the CSuda qoes-
tion, 627.
Priirato judgment^ yiewa of Luther on,
176, 177.
Prixe ISmtiy, canaee of fftilure o( d^,
681 et 9eg.
ProcopiuB, Kenan on, 679.
Pmaaia, eondnct of the Whigs tovarda^
876.
Paycbology, definition of, 498.
Quarterly Review, the, on Mies Austen,
lOO, 102, 103.
Kaee, rerolntions of, in England, Dr.
Vauffhan on, 588.
Radicals, the, ooalition of the Whigs
with, 118.
Reason, Mansel on, in regard to religion,
40 et aeq.
Rmbeluov of 1715, tHB Mmtib of Snr-
claie's Nabeatiyi of ths, 207.
Reed on the present state of the nayy,
881.
Reflex action, what, 297.
RXFORXATION, LeaDXBS OF IBI, 176
peculiar oharaoter of the, in EngUnd,
ISS et$0q.
Regicide^ neqnenoy of, in the 16th oen-
turv, 519.
Regulative faculty, the, Hamilton's
▼lews on, 510, 512.
Reid, the views o^ 601.
Relijgious Thoup^ht, Dr. Mansel on the
limits o( reviewed, 48.
RjENAN, Ebsaib dx Moeau^ dcc., roviewcd,
669.
Representation, Hamilton on, 504.
Representative theory of pereeption,
the, 499, 500, 503.
Reprodaetion, Hapulton on, 504.
Retention or Conservation, Hamilton
on, 504.
Reyi^ation, Dr. Mansel on, 49 et uq.
Revolution of 1688, features^ Ae., of the,
2ia
Ridley, martyrdom of, 186.
Riffel, ascent of, and view from the,
465.
' Rifled cannon, the Frenoh, 837, 386.
Roebuck, Mr., onthe Whigs, 116.
Romans, the, in England, 541.
Rosa, Monte, a Lady's Tour round, 469.
Royal Academy, the Exhibition of the,
128 €t teq,
Rusizi river, the, 891.
Ruskio, his criticisms on the Exhibi-
tions, 128— on Mr. Brett, 18L
^ Russia, the navy of, 325, 326— present
sUteofit,388.
Ruy Gomez, favourite of Philip IL,
character of, 700.
St Columbia, propagation of Christi-
anity in England by, 545.
Salame, sketches at, 570.
San Miniato, church, At.^ o( at Florence,
596, 697.
San Croce, church of, at Florence, 602
Santissima Annuniiata, ehurch of the,
Florence, 604 ei m^.
Sardinia, conduct o( m the Italian qaea-
tion, 121 — ^the cession of Lombardy
to, 250.
Saxons, the^ invasion and settlement o(
in England, 541.
Seheffer, Ary, the works of; 137.
Sohenley, Mr., unseating o( for bribery,
367.
Scotland, character of the reformation
in, 188— opposition to the Hanove-
rian settlement in, 211 — ^long connec-
tion, Ac, of, with Frwiee, 519.
Seoto-Freoch alliance, history of the,
528.
Scott; Sir W., on Miss Austen's novels,
99, 104, 107,— on the Master of Sin-
clair's Narrative, 207— on the failure
of the rebellion of 1715, 221.
SchwarxeThor, ascent of the, 464.
SxA-SiDB nr THX Papal Statbs, tbx, 471.
SXNTIMXNTAL PbTSXOLOGT, 87.
Sepoy mutiny, peculiarities of the, 685.
Servetus, the death, dec, of; 182.
ShawB, the murder of the^ by the Mas-
ter of Sinclair, 209.
Shavkh Snay, an Arab, 894.
Shells, new, fh)m the Victoria lake, 581.
Sheriffmuir, the battle of, 222.
Sidi Bombay, sketches o( 344, 397.
Sight, Reid, Hamilton, dtc, on, 502.
SmoLAn, THE Mastkk or, nn Nabbativx
OF THX Futken, 207— his character
and career, 208 et etq.
Sir William Hamilton, 492.
Soma], the, oharacterof, 566.
Sowahili, slave-hunting by the, 844.
Spain, position o^ in the time of Queen
Mary, and designs of the Guises re-
garmnff, 522 et eeq, — bequest of the
, crown by Mary to, 526 — ^former power
and decline of, audits oauses, 691 et teq.
Spxxx, Captain, Journal or a Cbuibx on
TBX Tangantika Laxk by, 889 — ^Part
IL, bib Diboovxst or thk Yiotobia
Ntakza Lakx, the supposed source of
the Nile, 591— Part III, Bstuxn ibom
THX Ntanka, 565,
Spenser's Faery <^een, on, in relation
to King Arthur, 608, 626.
Sporting, various forms of passion oi,
in England, 456.
Spring, season o( in Italy, 471.
Stair, the Master o^ his connection with
the massacre of Olenooe, 7 etuq, pan.
Steam ram, the proposed, 838 et tea,
Strathmore, the earl of, his deatli at
Sheriffmuir, 215.
Strickland, Miss, her life of Queen
Mary, 517, 519.
783
JndM.
Strozii Palauo^ the, 590.
Succession, the Act o( 211.
Swayne, G. C, Jersey to the Qaeen by,
874.
Sveyn, conquest of England by, 545.
Switzerland, the Alps of, 459.
Stria, Honai-DBALixo nr, 1854, 255*-
Part IL. 419.
Taku forts, the attaok on the, 646 $i Hf,
Tanga river, hippopotamas-hunting in
the, 568.
Tanoamtika Lakk, Journal of a Caunu
ON TBR, BT Captain Spekr, 889 — ^far-
ther researches on, 891.
Tknntson's Idtllb or thk Kino, 600.
Tenlet's Lettres de Marie Stuart^ re-
marks on, 517.
Theology, Mansel on the relations of
the reason in, 60 et $0q, -
Thierry on the Normans, 548.
Tientsin, the negotiations and treaty of,
629.
Times, the, on the conduct of the Derby
ministry on the ItaHan question, 120,
121.
Tom Jones, effects of reading aloud on,
101.
Trient, glaeier de, paasage of; 460.
Trift pass, aaeent of the, 464.
Tollocb's Lradkrs or trk Bbtormation,
review of, 175.
Turcomans, sketches and horse-dealing
among the, 419.
Tyndall, professor, asoent of the Col dn
Geant by, 462.
Uffizi, court of the, during the carnival
at Florence, 595--^allery of the, 600.
Ukerew^ Sea, Arab account of the, S94.
Union, the, the Master of Sinclair on, 214.
United States, the, the navy of, 825.
Uquccione, spoliation of the cathedral
of Florence by, 598.
Usoga river, Arab account of the, S95.
Uvira, sketches at, 891, 892.
Yaoohan'b RsvoLimoNs in Enolxbb Hm-
TOBY, review of; 587.
Yenetia, the retention of, by Austria,
250.
YioroRiA Ntanea Lake, Captain Span*!
DnoovxRT or nu, 891 — Part IIL, The
Return, 565.
Yillafranea, policy of Kapoleon IH., in
j>eace of, 246.
Yoice, effeets of the, on avalanches, 462.
YolvntArt avd Involdntart Actions,
295.
Yortigem, Dr. Yaughan on, MS.
Wabembe, the, an AfiiottB oaasibtJ
tribe, 842.
Wagogo, the, an Afriean tribe, 941—
eharacter of the, 566.
Wakefield election petition, tlic; 8CT.
Wallis, Mr. his ** Return from Mantc:
Moor,** 127, 182.
Wanyamuezi, the, 841.
Ward, Mr., painting by, 128 — lr<#«w
for the Houses of Paniament by, lU
— ^Marie Antoinette by, 185.
Warming-pan story, inflnenee of tb*.
210.
WaUtnra and Watuta, two A£».v
tribes, costume of, 167.
Water^olours, the ExhibitioD of parc*-
ings in, 189.
Water-colour painting; the peeuliaint
ot 189.
Watiris, the, an Aftiean tribo, 67 S.
Watt, Mr., IsabeUa by, 186.
Waiaramos, the, an Afriean tribe, I
Welchman, colonel, evidence of, oA
Indian army, 684.
Weme, F., his ascent of the Nile, m
Wessex, the kingdom o^ 544.
West, bishop, opposition oi; to Lstac
184.
Westmoreland, tradition regarding i^
thur in, 608.
Whately, archbishop, on Hiaa AvEtss
novels, 99.
Whig ministry, conduct of tk«^ tsvrl
.France and Austria, 276.
Whigs, the, their coalition witb m
Radicals, 118— fall of their ytrr
114 — their representatioos reganlbt
the ministry and the war, 117.
^Wildstrubel, ascent of the, 46&
Will, the, in relatioD to the so-ealM b
voluntary actions, 296 et seg.
William 111., share oi; in the msftaen
of Qlencoe, 1 et m^.— his instraeticei
regarding it, 18.
Wills, A., passage of the Fenetn^
Saleoa by, 46a
Wilson, Mr., charge of bribery brom^
by, 865.
Wouey, cardinal, Latimer sappcrtfi
by, 184.
Woman, Michelet, on the positioDoi >i-
Wordsworth, pictures of woosa tm,
98.
Wulad All, horse-dealing among th^m
Zachleh, Maronite village o( Silt
+ '-n of thi» hlij
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